Chapter 1

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Translator: Harry Potta

Chapter: 1

Chapter Title: How to Survive as the Wife of the Monster Duke

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In Biplten, where the brutal winter claimed more lives among the territory's people from the cold than from monsters...

Aden de Biplten, the duke of that land, was the worst possible match despite his vast domain.

Aden had spent more time facing monsters than women.

He always carried the stench of blood, and his face was unknown even in the Atenbl Empire's high society.

As he rarely showed himself, rumors spread that he was ugly.

Then, when a noble who had grown curious about his appearance was found dead with his body frozen stiff, whispers erupted that he was someone you shouldn't cross paths with.

No woman wanted to marry the Duke of Biplten, shrouded in such ominous rumors.

But the young head of House Biplten paid no mind to heirs or the chasing gossip.

His elders were frantic as a result.

[There are no issues with House Biplten's lord.]

The elders spread counter-rumors, but in a place like Biplten with no social circles, they never truly reached anyone.

When no one believed them, they finally resorted to posting a call for the monster Aden de Biplten's bride.

[Divorce possible if desired.]

The unprecedented announcement for a duchess came with an even more shocking condition.

It promised to invite her discreetly to Biplten Castle if she wished, and let her decide upon arrival.

[No need to ever see his face.]

Trimming the long-winded noble phrasing boiled it down to that.

But this backfired spectacularly.

In Biplten lands teeming with monsters, spend your wedding night alone in a pitch-black room without even a candle, with the duke said to be an even greater monster?

[Aden de Biplten rarely stays at the mansion.]

So, live alone?

The elders' foolish attempts to dodge the duke's foul reputation only amplified the backlash.

It was around the time the bride search had failed for a full year.

It was a vivid dream.

Dreams that lingered upon waking always bore a mark.

In the dream, Ilrin gazed up at the mobile spinning lazily from the ceiling.

A mobile hung above the bed, though it wasn't one suited for a baby.

Precognitive Dream.

Since childhood, dreams with a mobile had always shown her the future.

She watched her dream-self.

The dream-Ilrin scanned the bright room carefully, as if searching for someone unseen.

Then, the bedroom lights suddenly went out.

In the pitch darkness, a voice echoed.

"Ilrin de Biplten."

Ilrin's eyes widened.

My name?

No—her surname had changed.

Not Ilrin de Arlen, but Ilrin de Biplten?

A dull ache like a hammer blow throbbed at the back of her skull.

"Ilrin."

A low voice reverberated in her ears.

In total blackness, with only the voice ringing out, the sensation felt amplified tenfold.

The bed shook.

As if something had touched her body—vividly real.

Knowing it was a Precognitive Dream, she understood.

The Duke of Biplten had climbed onto the bed.

Aden de Biplten.

Hands that seemed cold were passionately hot.

The fingers brushing her lips, grazing the hem of her clothes—they were gentler than expected.

Delicate, like handling fragile glasswork.

"Ha..."

Her dream-self exhaled deeply.

Large, sturdy hands carefully parted her garments.

Was it the rustle of fabric or bedsheets? She couldn't tell.

The sound of cloth rubbing together pierced her ears more sharply than usual.

"Mm..."

Her hips lifted.

The feel of clutching the bedsheets was crystal clear.

The night stretched on long.

Ilrin opened her eyes.

In her hand was a letter from House Biplten calling for a bride.

With disbelief etched on her face, she unfolded the letter again to confirm the name.

'Ilrin de Biplten.'

Her surname had changed.

Bearing House Biplten's name meant she would marry the Duke of Biplten.

Ilrin bolted upright in bed.

A tattered old mobile dangled low, brushing her forehead.

Rumors about Biplten abounded.

Blizzards hid even the castle walls unless it was midsummer.

In winter, the cold made approaching the castle—or the territory—near impossible.

Only House Biplten's people could guide outsiders there.

They alone knew the paths people could traverse.

Yet that harsh winter ended precisely at Biplten Territory's border.

Beyond it, as if painted a different color, warm sunlight bathed the land deceptively.

"The land forsaken by the gods..."

Ilrin murmured Biplten's moniker.

That cold birthed monsters unlike those elsewhere.

A place swarming with beasts.

And what of the Duke of Biplten?

Rumors called him ugly.

That hardly mattered.

They said meeting his eyes froze you solid.

His sword struck before words.

If wills clashed, he severed necks without a word.

The mad duke of the north.

That was the verdict on the current Duke of Biplten, Aden de Biplten.

"Aden de Biplten."

She gazed down at the bride announcement from House Biplten.

[Seeking the Lady of House Biplten.]

Below followed conditions that chilled the spines of empire's noble ladies.

Long-winded, but summing it up:

The Duke of Biplten was fine, contrary to rumors.

But if the gossip bothered her, she'd never have to see his face.

Moreover, the duke rarely even entered the mansion.

Heartless lines that seemed intent on letting a distant bride wither alone.

Ilrin's eyes drifted lower.

[If it's uncomfortable, you may leave at once. We will escort you wherever and whenever you desire.]

Unlike the dry script above, this felt different.

Rough in stroke, yet soft in intent.

The empire might scoff, but Ilrin knew.

This was Aden de Biplten's own handwriting.

It was one reason she wasn't as afraid of the journey to Biplten as she might have been.

The wedding night was already foreseen.

She would arrive safely at the Biplten mansion.

And that man might differ from the rumors.

'Ah...'

That wedding night had been tender and sweet.

"Ilrin de Biplten."

The dream had clearly foretold her first night with the Duke of Biplten.

She would marry him.

"Fate can't be escaped."

Her Precognitive Dreams had never been wrong since childhood.

Even when she tried to avoid them, they found her.

Ilrin folded the letter and placed it on the table.

If escape was impossible, she wouldn't be dragged.

Only the wedding night was foreseen.

How she lived in Biplten was up to her.

To seize her destiny, she rose.

"Did you call for me?"

Tugging the servant's cord, a maid knocked after a long delay.

"Where is the person who delivered this letter?"

A letter from Biplten could only be hand-carried by someone from Biplten.

Even if they'd used a local courier, that courier would know how to reach the Biplten envoy.

It was time to send her reply.

I will become your bride.

Ilrin felt a twinge of dismay.

Until yesterday, when she'd received the letter, marriage to the Duke of Biplten had been the furthest thing from her mind.

Her change of heart was, naturally, due to the dream.

Thus, she hadn't sent immediate acceptance via the courier.

That was reasonable.

The problem: the courier had delivered the letter and promptly left the mansion.

"No idea who they were with?"

"No, Lady."

The maid answered curtly.

Ilrin dismissed her with a wave.

No point pressing a disloyal maid further.

But she had other ways.

"Father, it's Ilrin."

Ilrin sought Viscount Arlen, her father.

"What do you want?"

Viscount Arlen recoiled at the sight of her face.

Despite sharing a mansion, it had been over a decade since they'd truly spoken.

Yet he showed no desire to even glance at her longer.

His eyes said one thing.

Abomination.

"May I borrow some of the household staff?"

Viscount Arlen's face twisted.

He knew of her Precognitive Dreams.

At seven, her first had foretold her brother Syd's death—no forgetting that.

When the dream proved true, Syd died, and Viscountess Arlen descended into madness, Viscount Arlen had treated her as something horrific ever since.

"Another dream?"

Yes.

But Ilrin lied.

"No."

She'd prepared her answer.

"I think it's time I sought a match."

"I see..."

Maddened after Syd's death, Viscountess Arlen couldn't debut Ilrin in society.

Thus, Ilrin had no path to meet empire nobles her age.

"Planning to attend a ball?"

Viscount Arlen asked reluctantly.

Not quite, but Ilrin nodded briefly.

"Looking for a merchant group first."

Her real errand differed, but no need to say.

He'd just pry about dreams again.

There was reason she'd gone years without speaking to her father.

Viscount Arlen always suspected her.

He assumed every action stemmed from a Precognitive Dream and dismissed her.

"Don't speak of dreams outside."

Marriage seemed an exception, though.

Ilrin swallowed a bitter laugh.

Right—he wants no more abominations in the house.

"Go, then. Use the staff as needed."

Dismissed, Ilrin withdrew silently.

She'd gotten what she came for.

No need for more talk with someone who saw her as a monster.

A monster-treated girl marrying the Monster Duke—what pair could suit better?

Chuckling wryly, Ilrin summoned a knight of the viscount's house.

"Find me a list of merchant groups heading north, and their capital branch locations."

The knight knew what the viscount's daughter meant to his lord.

Snorting, he replied.

"Plenty of them, Lady."

Sneer plain on his face.

Lady in name only—like a reluctant placeholder. No real deference.

Treated as sheltered, world-naive.

The reception she'd known for nearly twenty years.

She was used to such looks and words.

"Narrow it to groups making regular bulk shipments north. Goods mostly long-lasting rations and warm-climate produce."

That should limit it nicely.

Few northern territories near Biplten guzzled mass food supplies.

Who'd want to live near monster-infested lands?

"But why seek them, Lady?"

The knight probed insolently despite orders.

"For a match."

A scoff at "match" reached her ears faintly.

He assumes no one would marry me.

Ilrin thought.

Rumors of Ilrin de Arlen had likely spread through society by now.

A lady in her mid-twenties, not even debuted.

Something must be wrong with her, they'd say.

They'd imagined, chewed over, and bloated that flaw into something monstrous.

"Out."

The knight turned and left without reply.

Rudeness incarnate.

"..."

Ilrin endured.

She was human, after all.

Anger boiled.

But it was fine.

Always had been.

Fine.

She'd never return to this mansion.

So, fine.

As always, she quelled herself.