Roland lay in bed with his back to Silva. No matter how she cooed and acted cute, he didn’t glance back—not even once—pretending to be fast asleep.

Magic bracelets were once again fastened around his wrists and ankles.

After relentless verbal pressure, Silva had forced him to wear them again. Poor Roland hadn’t taken three steps out of the main palace before being dragged right back.

This time, Silva meant business. She’d already given the order: the wedding would happen tonight.

The servants were stunned. A flash wedding this sudden? A royal princess of her stature, marrying with zero preparation—and holding the ceremony the very same day? Was such haste even necessary?

Yet no one dared delay. This was the First Princess’s wedding. Before dawn, Savierola Palace buzzed with frantic activity.

“Please don’t be mad anymore~” Silva snuggled close, whispering sweetly into his ear, her voice dripping with coquetry.

“Take off the bracelets, and I won’t be angry,” Roland stated firmly.

“Then apologize sincerely and swear to call me ‘wife’ forever—as punishment for hurting me,” Silva retorted without flinching.

“…” Roland instantly wilted. “Forget it. I’ll keep wearing them.”

Silva pouted. *Why won’t he take the bait?* “Look how inconvenient they are! How about this—I skip the apology. Just call me ‘wife.’ Deal?”

“No thanks. These bracelets suit me. Makes me look rich,” Roland said dryly. He knew exactly what trick she was pulling.

“Big bro~ Just say it once?”

“Nope.”

“Roland~”

“Don’t.”

“Husband~”

“…”

Roland sighed impatiently. “Let me be alone. I need… Jingjing.”

“Hm?” A sly glint flashed in Silva’s eyes. “Jingjing? Which wife is she? And where do *I* rank?”

“Heavens…” Roland felt utterly helpless. Ever since Silva learned of his “life goal”—to marry several beautiful women—she’d pestered him endlessly about her number.

“Mmph…” Silva let out a choked sob, voice trembling on the verge of tears.

“You’re the first! Absolutely the first!” Roland blurted, refusing to look back—terrified of seeing her tear-streaked face.

“Then who *is* Jingjing?”

Roland was speechless. *They say love lowers a girl’s IQ… but Silva? A royal princess? Falling for such a cliché?*

Somehow, a saying surfaced in his mind: *The deeper the love, the steeper the IQ drop.*

He gave up explaining. She’d figure it out eventually.

Silence settled again. Roland was nearly dozing off when Silva suddenly wrapped her arms around him from behind.

“You’re such a fool,” she murmured. “Marry me, and you become Prince—and future Emperor. How can an emperor rule with just one consort?”

“You’re the bigger fool,” Roland replied quietly. “If I become Prince, nobles will shove beauties at me to curry favor. Even foreign emperors might offer daughters. I’d have no choice but to accept.”

“Isn’t that perfect? Your dream comes true,” Silva said, voice tinged with resentment.

“Like hell. Those women marry for power, not love. Impure motives. One wrong move, and they’ll stab you in the back. I want *true* love.”

Roland knew from bitter experience. Fresh in this world, dazzled by its beauty, he’d naively sought love.

His first girlfriend—delicate and lovely—was a scammer. She stole every coin he had, mocked him cruelly, and vanished. Her end? Scammed a noble’s son; he had her sold to a brothel as star courtesan.

His second: a voluptuous martial artist, third-tier prodigy. A snob. Ditched him for a noble heir, sneering as she left. When her patron’s clan fell to mortal enemies, she was cleaved apart by a fifth-tier warrior.

Third: an elf adventurer, stunning and curvaceous—but two-faced. He broke up just in time. She was later devoured by a sixth-tier beast while sneaking around with another man.

Fourth: a demonic entity disguised as a beauty. Tried to consume him. He turned the tables and reduced her to ashes.

Fifth…

Years of travel across nations and races. Countless girlfriends. Enough exes to fill a mahjong table.

*Note: mahjong.*

All parted ways for one reason or another. Those failures taught him the treachery of hearts. He vowed: no more relationships until true love found him.

*(And he’d never tell Silva his exes could fill a table. He’d never leave the palace again.)*

“True love? What’s that?” Silva asked, genuinely puzzled. Love was foreign to her.

“Simplest terms… um, just an example! True love means I genuinely like you, you genuinely like me. We understand, trust, rely on each other. Feel completely at ease. Years pass—we’re still each other’s person. No matter how hard life gets, we stay. Cheer each other on.”

Roland paused. *That’s the dream.* Reality was harsh. Finding someone who liked him *and* whom he liked felt like winning the lottery. His “life goal”? Barely a hope anymore.

Wait…

He suddenly realized—the beautiful girl lying right beside him…

“That sounds like a rare love,” Silva murmured, a hint of envy in her voice. “But it feels unreal. Like a bard’s fantasy. Do bards really imagine such things?”

Roland smirked. “No imagination, no stories. This is how I eat.”

Silence returned—but the air grew intimate.

Silva hugged him tighter, her soft body pressed against his back as if fusing them together. A charming blush colored her cheeks; her rosy lips parted slightly.

“So… do you like me?”

“You already know,” Roland shifted uncomfortably, avoiding the question.

“I want to hear you say it again.” A mischievous, beautiful smile played on her lips.

“No.”

“Say it at the wedding tonight?” she asked, eyes sparkling.

“…” Roland shrank under the covers.

Silva’s smile widened. Blushing, she pressed a light kiss to his cheek. “Tsundere.”

Roland yanked a pillow over his head.

“Hehe.” Silva chuckled fondly, eyes brimming with tender affection.

She rested her forehead against his back, a blissful smile on her lips.

As quiet settled, Silva drifted into sleep.

Though she’d “slept” earlier, the Nightmare Curse had drained her vitality within the dream. Now, utterly exhausted, she needed real rest. Roland and Yenoa felt the same.

…

Four hours had passed since the Cultist attack. The night’s chaos was largely contained.

Mobilizing the intelligence network exposed every Cultist in the capital. The Royal Guard eradicated them root and branch.

Yet even the empire-wide network found no clue to the Cultists’ true goal—only alarming sleeper agents across nations, who feared Onid was plotting something major.

News jolted every Human Empire leader from sleep. The Racial Alliance, Imperial Coalition, Arcane Order, Martial Guild—all convened emergency meetings to decipher Onid’s intent.

Such was the weight of Moshando Empire, a top-three superpower: every move sent ripples of alarm.

(Onid was simply searching for Cultist clues. Nothing more.)

Onid and the Imperial Archmage now sorted through thousands of tomes in the Royal Library, hunting the stolen ancient text—a near-impossible task requiring at least a week.

Meanwhile, monumental news raced across the Human Empire via intelligence channels:

*Princess Silva would wed tonight—a bard named Roland.*

Few believed it.

Silva? The continent’s brightest prodigy. Crowned with glory. Beloved goddess of the people. First Princess of the Moshando Empire.

Men worthy of her numbered under ten across the continent. Even crown princes of great nations fell short. A mere bard? And “Roland” was unknown to most.

If she truly married, announcements would’ve come weeks prior. A same-day wedding? Impossible.

No one believed it.

…Though a few, hearing “bard Roland,” recalled long-buried secrets.

Dawn broke.

As the first sunbeam touched the earth, explosive news blazed across the Arcanet, shaking the Human Empire to its core.

An official decree from the Savierola Royal Family:

—*Genesis Era, Year 8102, July 16: Tonight, His Highness Roland and Her Highness Silva will hold a grand wedding ceremony at Savierola Palace.*

One sentence.

The empire erupted.

The world trembled.