The attendant glanced at the unconscious Imelline and Eric and asked, with a perfectly calm face,
“Where shall we take them? Though, the young lord…”
Imelline, still in her tattered wedding robes, was snoring softly. Meanwhile, Eric, true to his cultivation as a poison-resistant sword cultivator, still had his eyes open.
He looked at Ella and managed to rasp,
“What are you… doing…”
“Just rest. You rushed the dual-cultivation ceremony—you must be exhausted.”
Ella smiled softly as she spoke.
The attendant brought a vial of liquid to Eric’s nose. As the fumes hit, even he, seasoned against toxins, slumped unconscious.
“To the top floor of the western tower,” Ella ordered.
The attendant flinched.
“B-but that floor holds all the treasured—”
Indeed.
The western tower was filled with Ella’s most treasured,… let’s say…
intensely unique and unorthodox cultivation artifacts
.
That entire top floor was dedicated to her more, well, indulgent pursuits—so chaotic that even the regular cleaning attendants often ran out screaming.
Ella tilted her head at the servant’s reaction.
“They're newly bonded Dao partners. Am I not generous enough to lend them a night among my favorites? Take them.”
She winked.
At her signal, the knights entered, lifted the two unconscious cultivators, and departed.
If a man and woman spend one night together in the same room… perhaps this fake marriage could turn real?
Ella smiled in delight.
Her attendant, disturbed by that smile, hesitated before speaking.
“Uh… by the way, the Wedgwood family is searching for Lady Imelline.”
“The Wedgwoods?” Ella frowned, not recognizing the name.
“…That was her maiden name, before the cultivation union.”
“Oh really? Her surname’s Wedgwood? Who would’ve thought!”
You're just learning that now\...?
Then again, Ella had never been one to remember the names of lesser noble families.
“…Let them in.”
✵
✵
✵
“You’re saying I can’t see my sister?”
Ella glanced between the flustered Philip and Helena—who sat beside him with a look of grim expectation.
“Early-stage spiritual pregnancy leaves one very fatigued. Your sister seemed quite drained, so I gave her my personal quarters to rest. You and your mother wouldn’t know this, being of lower nobility, but in the royal palace it’s quite customary to offer staying guests proper accommodations.”
Ella said this without hesitation, casually implying their low status.
Philip’s face soured further at her words.
‘What an ill-tempered monarch…’
Phillip clicked his tongue inwardly, displeased. But Ella showed not the slightest awareness of his discomfort. Far from intending offense, she didn’t seem to care at all about his reaction—utterly unbothered, like a cultivator who had already severed mortal attachments.
Even a young heiress like Vivian Cavendish, with her venomous heart, would at least pretend to read the room. But this…
‘Weren’t the princesses in all those storybooks supposed to be beautiful, kind, self-sacrificing maidens? Well, not like I’ve seen a real one outside of fairytales anyway.’
Phillip cast a sideways glance at Helena, who stood beside him with a composed expression.
“Then, could we at least see Young Lord Eric for a moment...?”
“Oh-ho! I may be the foremost heir to this nation’s imperial qi, but even I cannot go barging into the bridal chamber of a newly bonded dao-companionship and drag the husband out!”
Phillip’s shoulders hunched even further.
He knew next to nothing about the situation—only that Imelline had stormed out of their estate the night before.
“Go into the temple and retrieve Imelline! Quickly!”
That had been his mother’s whisper in his ear as she fainted so theatrically before the temple’s gates.
“I’m not marrying the Duke, so you make sure this wedding goes through!”
“Wait—what? Is Imelline really with child?”
“As if!”
She wasn’t even pregnant! Then why go through all this trouble to assist a union that would surely displease the Duke?
Still, Phillip had always obeyed his mother. Almost like he'd been entranced, he’d stepped into the temple and pulled Imelline out.
“Honestly, it doesn’t matter much to us whether Mother marries the Duke or Imelline weds Eric...”
But when did those two even start... whatever
that
is?
Phillip clutched his head, trying to sort through the mess. He had no idea when Imelline had begun scheming this whole plan, nor what she intended from here on.
“I thought we agreed—no secrets within the clan...”
And yet, why was Mother so calm? Her own marriage had been crushed, Imelline had duped them all—and still, not even a word of anger?
In the end, they had been unceremoniously dismissed from the princess’s office.
As they walked the palace corridor, Phillip kept sneaking glances at his silent mother.
“Should I scold that brat? Hm? Give her a real talking-to?”
“……”
“I’ll call both Eric and Imelline and give each of them a whack on the head—how about that?”
Helena said nothing as her son chattered nervously beside her. Then, out of nowhere, she asked:
“What do you think of Eric?”
“Haughty. Cold. The exact opposite of Duke Orléans, basically.”
Helena quietly mulled over his answer.
“...Wait, what’s that look? What’s going on? Do you really think it’s right to help them get married like this? I mean, let’s be honest—Imelline’s probably going to be treated like an unwelcome outsider in the Duke’s manor for a while…”
“That’s not a bad outcome.”
“Huh? You’re saying it’s good for her to be treated like garbage?”
Phillip looked at her in disbelief. But Helena gave him no answer—just instructed him to return home.
“You go on ahead.”
“What about you?”
“There are still things I must settle. Matters of... compensation. Possibly coin. Possibly
very
coin-shaped things that require collection.”
Phillip nodded in understanding.
“Oh, right. That woman—Marina Coleone. She’s been looking for us, hasn’t she?”
Helena gave a small nod.
Marina Coleone.
She was known throughout the southern provinces as the “Witch”—a moneylender feared even by seasoned cultivators. She also happened to hold the lion’s share of Viscount Wedgwood’s debts.
“If that sorceress gets her hands on you, not even your spiritual core will remain intact. Best lie low for a while. Our names were plastered across every capital broadsheet—if any of her lackeys spotted us...”
Phillip gulped audibly.
“Then not even our ancestral manor is safe…”