CHAPTER 309: CHAPTER 309- THE WEDDING

Two days.

Two stupid, agonizing, soul-crushing days.

Sure, it didn’t sound like much, but when you were trapped in a haunted ex-concubine shack with no proper food, no bed, no light, and possibly the spirit of someone who hung themselves glaring at you from the ceiling beam, it felt like a lifetime.

Eric sat slouched on the dusty floor, cheeks puffed out in frustration, gnawing on what remained of the rock-like mantou.

His scowl deepened.

"Can’t they at least feed me properly before this so-called marriage?" he grumbled, tossing the remaining piece down with dramatic flair. "Ughh, my stomach can’t handle this dry rock anymore..."

The mantou landed on the floor with a thunk, bouncing once before settling near a rat hole.

After Ryan dropped off the stupid bag of stale food two days ago, no one came to check on him. No guards. No servants. Not even a peasant to drop off moldy tofu. Just him, the dust, and the dead silence.

Well, silence except for the occasional drip drip drip from the leaky ceiling in the corner—his only source of drinkable water.

But that wasn’t even the worst part.

No.

The worst part was his stomach.

Eric curled on his side, face twisted in misery as he hugged his abdomen.

"Ughhhhhhh," he groaned through gritted teeth. "Why won’t it come out?!"

The mantous. Those cursed mantous. They had blocked his entire digestive tract. Nothing had come out for two whole days. Two days.

He was, in every possible sense, constipated to hell.

"I just want to poop," he whimpered, eyes staring hollowly at the ceiling. "I’ve tried everything. Squats, pressure points, I even tried threatening my colon..."

But nope.

Still clogged. Still suffering. And still due to get married in less than an hour.

"Ryan, you asshole," he hissed under his breath. "This is all your fault. Giving me battlefield rations like I’m a horse. I swear to every ancestor in heaven and earth, I will make you regret marrying me."

As if summoned by his anger, the door behind him burst open with a loud BANG.

Two men entered in a rush, wearing servant robes and matching expressions of mild disgust.

"Is he dead?" one of them whispered.

"No, see? He’s looking at us. Tsk. I just want to pluck his eyes out and throw them somewhere."

Eric blinked at them slowly. "Well, good morning to you too, sunshine."

One of the men stepped closer, his disgust morphing into a leering grin. "No one told me the enemy prince was such a little beauty. Say... should we just have a feel?"

Eric’s entire body went still.

The second servant hissed, grabbing his arm. "Don’t be stupid. Even if he’s a hostage, he’s supposed to be the general’s main wife. Do you have a death wish?"

"Tsk, that’s why I want to sabotage him!" the first man snarled. "How dare this dusty thing marry our general?"

He kicked Eric hard in the stomach.

Eric gasped, folding in on himself, stars dancing across his vision.

"ACK—!! You asshole!!" he croaked, gripping his abused gut.

And then—he smiled.

A slow, dangerous, venom-laced grin.

"Oh, I’m going to enjoy spending time with your general," he hissed. "I’ll make him my pet. Make him moan my name loud enough for the heavens to hear."

The room went still.

And then another kick landed square in his stomach.

Eric collapsed with a groan, internally regretting every word. Why do I have to be this way? Why can’t I just shut up... just once?

"Enough," the second servant barked, pulling the angry one back. "It’s almost time for the wedding. We have to get him ready."

They didn’t give him a bath. Of course they didn’t.

They wiped his face with a slightly damp cloth, dunked a bowl of water on his hair, scrubbed it roughly, then pulled it up into a half-matted top knot. A simple crown—bent in one corner—was shoved on his head.

As for clothes?

Plain red silk. No embroidery. No layers. No jewelry. Just one dull robe that smelled faintly like mothballs and funeral incense.

The lecherous one took the chance to grope him here and there while pretending to adjust the fabric.

Eric didn’t flinch. Didn’t react.

He simply stared him down with a dead smile. You wait, young man. I’ll make sure you lose those hands one day. Slowly.

Once dressed, they yanked him out of the house.

No carriage. No procession. He was pulled like livestock across the stone paths, stumbling every few steps as the too-long robe caught under his feet.

They finally arrived at the temple.

It was bleak.

No red lanterns. No drummers. No musicians. No cheering crowd.

Just a windless sky and a bare temple. Even the monks looked confused.

Eric looked up, took a shaky breath, and shook off the men’s hands.

"I can walk on my own wedding," he muttered, snatching the red wedding veil from the servant and placing it over his head.

He walked forward alone.

Another pair of footsteps joined him halfway.

They were quiet. Firm. In sync with his own.

He could see the man’s shoes through the gap beneath the veil—stained red, not with dye. Blood.

Eric’s lips twitched. He didn’t even bother to change before coming here.

Why bother. This is a sham wedding anyway...

He looked ahead, seeing only red silk before his eyes. I have to finish the world soon...

Suddenly, a rough hand grabbed his.

He nearly tripped in shock.

The hand steadied him. Gently. Not forcefully. Just enough to keep him from falling over.

Eric blinked.

Was that... concern?

No. Probably just self-preservation. If he tripped, the whole wedding would’ve been delayed.

The ceremony progressed quietly. They bowed to the heavens. Then to the earth. Then finally, to each other.

No one clapped. No one cheered.

And when it was over, Eric lifted his veil before anyone could stop him.

Gasps rang out. Murmurs bubbled from the small gathering.

Ryan looked at him.

For the first time, his expression was not blank. Not stoic. There was something else there.

Something unreadable.

Eric didn’t care.

He leaned in with a grin sharp enough to cut steel.

"Oh, fucker," he whispered. "I will make you regret this day so much that you’ll wish you were dead."