My name is Roland. I’m a twenty-year-old male Bard and a Sage-tier Mage. I own a coat that’s basically a treasure chest, packed with all kinds of magical artifacts.

I like beautiful women, telling dirty jokes in taverns, buttery foods… and yeah, I’ve got a soft spot for “adult games” too…

In the gilded palace hall, distinguished nobles gathered around a man bound tightly to a wooden chair, whispering among themselves.

Roland slumped in the chair, ropes digging into his arms, introducing himself in a listless, half-dead drawl.

“I also love singing by enemies’ graves and dancing on rivals’ tombstones. My life goal? Marry a few gorgeous women. Oh, and I’m actually a transmigrator…”

“Enough. Stop.” A man with a neat mustache cut him off, bowing deeply to a broad-shouldered man. “Your Majesty, the Truth Serum is confirmed active. Every word he speaks now is absolute truth.”

The man addressed as “Your Majesty” was Onid, Emperor of the Moshando Empire.

Beside him stood Silva, the empire’s First Princess—a vision of elegance. Jet-black hair cascaded like a waterfall over fair skin and a perfectly proportioned frame. Her lustrous eyes gleamed with quiet grace, her delicate nose and shy smiles radiating innate nobility. Simply put: the flawless, aristocratic young lady everyone adored. Many called her a goddess.

Onid nodded, then loomed over Roland, his massive frame filling Roland’s vision.

“How do I break the magical contract on my daughter?!” His voice boomed with imperial authority, each syllable heavy with command.

Roland sighed wearily. “I’ve said it twenty times—it was a magical mishap! An accident! Get it? *Accident!* Who the hell knows how to undo it? It’s just a contract. Replenish her magic periodically—that’s all. And hello? I *saved* her life! Is this how you treat a honored guest?”

Onid’s jaw tightened. He turned to the mustached man. “Why do I feel he’s lying?”

“Your Majesty,” the man bowed again, “the serum works on anyone—even a Sage-tier Mage. You could ask him the age he last wet the bed.”

Roland blurted without thinking: “Seven.”

A stunned silence. Then laughter rippled through the hall.

“The serum is working,” the man confirmed.

Onid’s face darkened. “So… he truly doesn’t know how to break it?”

“I’m afraid so…”

Onid fell silent, brow furrowed. Minutes passed. Finally, he exhaled slowly, resolve settling in his gaze.

“Days ago, dark mages cursed my daughter. She was dying—until you saved her. For that, I am grateful. But your forbidden magic mishap forged a contract between you… and awakened a hidden personality within her. Now she *must* draw magic from you regularly. Without it, she’ll lose control, shift into that other self… and risk her life. You *will* ensure her safety.”

Roland’s stomach dropped. “What do you mean?”

Onid glanced between Roland and Silva, then sighed heavily. “The two of you… get married.”

“What?!” Roland’s eyes widened. He thrashed against the ropes—useless. His magic was crushed under layered Forbidden Spell-tier arrays. The ropes? Premium enchanted dragon-tendon. The chair? Carved from a thousand-year-old sacred tree. He sat at the heart of the capital’s grand defensive array, where hundreds of intricate Forbidden Spell formations hummed endlessly. Unprecedented royal precautions… all to cage one Bard.

“Silva! Protest this!!!” Roland pleaded, turning to her. “You’re a person! Fight for your freedom! Your life—and who you marry—should be *your* choice!”

Silva stood poised, small hands nervously twisted. A faint blush dusted her flawless cheeks. She lowered her gaze, offering a shy, tender smile, eyes shimmering with quiet affection. No refusal. Roland’s heart sank.

She bowed to Onid, voice sweet as a songbird’s: “Yes, Father. I have no objections.”

Approaching Roland, she clutched her skirt hem, face flushed. “I… I don’t know how to love yet… but I’ll try. I’ll become a worthy wife—” Her eyes widened. “Eh?! What’s wrong?!”

Roland rolled his eyes back, foamed at the mouth, convulsed violently, and slumped unconscious.

…

Roland’s eyes snapped open. He bolted upright, scanning the room. Soft bed. Metal rings etched with suppression arrays clamped his wrists and ankles. *Onid’s insurance.*

A short-haired maid stood nearby—Yenoa, Silva’s personal attendant and head maid. A classic mature beauty, yet her expression was cold, her dark eyes dull and distant, radiating unapproachable indifference.

“You’re awake,” she said flatly. “I’ll fetch Her Highness.”

“Wait!” Roland called. “Your name… Yenoa, right?”

“Yenoa,” she replied, icy.

“Right~ Yenoa.” Roland flashed a hopeful grin. “You’re a maid… Ever feel angry when scolded? Ever wonder why you slave away while nobles lounge in luxury? Ever dream of flipping the script? Help me escape—I’ll grant your every wish.”

*Marriage? Screw that!* he screamed inwardly. *I’ll never marry! A man should live free as the wind!*

He’d transmigrated from a dull world to this legendary realm. Not living wildly for decades would insult that truck driver who “ended” him! He chose Bardhood for the romance, the tavern bragging rights, the dirty jokes, the flirting. Marriage meant no more travels, no more flirting, no admiring street beauties. Even if Silva was perfection incarnate—he’d *never* marry. Never!

“No.” Yenoa’s voice cut through his thoughts.

Roland: “…Damn. Plan B!”

“Ah! I’m dead.” He flopped back, motionless, breath stilled—corpse-perfect.

He’d faked death before. Routine.

Yenoa didn’t flinch. She stood statue-still, expressionless.

Hours passed. Until Silva arrived.

“What are you doing?” Silva asked, puzzled.

“Lord Roland is pretending to be dead. I am watching him,” Yenoa replied respectfully.

Silva dismissed her. After a hesitant pause, she lay beside Roland. As her delicate hand reached for his cheek—*whoosh!*—Roland shot upright, putting space between them.

“Why stop pretending?” Silva smiled triumphantly.

“We’re smart. Let’s be blunt,” Roland said. “Why marry *me*? If it’s the contract, I’ll find another way.”

*She’s scheming. This has to be a setup.*

“Because… you saved me…”

“The people I’ve saved line up from your palace to mine and back twice,” Roland scoffed. “Be real.”

“You also… saw my body…” she whispered, voice vanishing like a mosquito’s hum. Crimson flooded her cheeks.

“That was medical! Does a healer ‘count’?” Roland blinked. *Is she serious?*

“It *counts*!” Silva’s composure cracked. “You saw me *and* saved me—you *must* marry me! I don’t care! You *will*!”

Roland fell silent. *Her values are… elementary.*

“The four bracelets link you to the city array. You can’t run,” Silva murmured, face still flushed. “After marriage… the suppression lifts. We can honeymoon abroad…”

Roland snorted inwardly.

*Marry? Not happening.*

*I’m escaping tonight.*