My name is Phan Chí An, the son of a colonel of Nam Thịnh. I did not follow my father's career. Instead, he encouraged me to choose my own path, so I enrolled in a foreign university to study literature. In Nam Thịnh, there are only two academies: the Military Academy, which trains elite officers, and the Noble Academy, where the children of nobles learn how to manage their family fortunes.

My father sent me abroad to study when I was fifteen, after I told him I had no interest in the Military Academy. I wished to study Literature instead. When I returned at twenty-two, I stayed with him in the military district. My father, a celebrated war hero, had defended Nam Thịnh from invaders and traitors alike, winning victories that secured the nation's borders. Yet he never spoke to me of his campaigns. Out of curiosity, I often visited the barrack canteen to befriend the soldiers. At first, they kept their distance, but when they learned who my father was, their demeanor changed. They welcomed me, shared their own war stories—yet none would speak of my father's battles. When I asked, they would simply say, "The Colonel forbade us from speaking of them."

From the stories I heard in the barrack canteen, I began writing a series of books titled Heroes. I reshaped each account into new tales, telling of the wars and the heroes who had secured Nam Thịnh's victories—heroes who defended the nation, aided its people, and rescued them from peril. The series was warmly received by readers across the world, and in time, I became a well-known writer.

My name, Phan Chí An, was no longer spoken by people—including my friends among the soldiers. They called me the Hero Writer. My father seemed amused by my new career; at times, he too addressed me by that title, though more often he used my real name. Yet he often reminded me to write with a neutral mind, never swaying to any side.

My writing grew sharper with time, yet I still followed my father's advice. My books sold in ever greater numbers, and even the Emperor honored me with the title of Honorable Major, granting me a house in the Military District to befit the rank.

But I declined. I would rather stay with my father than live alone.

One day, while I was searching for a new idea for my next book, my father called me to his office. His tone was the same one he used with his officers—calm, but leaving no space for argument.

"You've grown up, son," he began. "It's time you found your own life instead of staying with me."

"Why, Dad? Did I do something wrong?" I asked.

He shook his head. "No. You've already built a career for yourself—that's all I ever wanted. You followed my advice, and you never let yourself get pulled to one side or the other. That's a rare thing in this country."

"So... I didn't do anything wrong. But why push me away?" I pressed.

"Because you've grown up. In this world, independence is not just a choice—it's a shield. The less you depend on anyone, the harder it is for others to pull your strings," he said.

I looked down. "But I still want to live with you, Dad."

He laughed. "I'm not asking you to leave my house. I'm asking you to stop living in my shadow."

I sighed with relief. But there was a question I had carried with me for years.
"Dad... since I've grown up now, can you answer the question—the one you promised to tell me when I was older?"

My father said, "the death of your mother, right?"
I nodded, waiting for the answer I had sought for years.

"Not the answer you seek from me, son. You will find it yourself. But I will give you this—your mother was a great woman. She fought for what she believed in, and she died for that belief. It took me a long time to accept her death, but when I did, I understood what, and why, she fought for. In time, you will understand too... but not from me."

I could see my father didn't want to speak about my mother's death—neither the pain nor the longing. His eyes shifted, searching for a different subject, so I pressed, "Dad, can you tell me about your campaigns? I've heard countless tales of heroism from others, but never from you. You're a great man—a hero—so why stay silent?"

He didn't answer right away. Instead, he looked past me, as if measuring the weight of my question against the cost of the truth. Finally, he shook his head. "Those aren't tales of heroism, son. They're stories of shame. War carries no honor—never."

My father's eyes dropped back to the documents on his desk. I understood—he didn't want to speak anymore. I asked to be excused and returned to my room. I didn't know then that it would be the last conversation I'd ever have with him.

Duty called, and my father led the army to war. I thought nothing of it; he had always returned victorious from his campaigns. But this time was different. The army returned draped in banners, the streets echoing with cheers of "victory"—yet their hero was missing.

They told me, "His squad was ambushed. All were lost, including the Colonel. His vice commander led the surviving troops to destroy the enemy in vengeance." And so, the nation celebrated another glorious triumph... while I buried what they called a casualty.

The Marshal who commanded the nation's army honored my father's death by allowing me to remain in my father's house until his funeral was complete. Afterward, I moved to another residence—smaller, more modest, and befitting the title of "Honorable Major" the Emperor had granted me.

The funeral was... grand, almost to the point of insult.
Banners of Nam Thịnh hung in perfect symmetry, gold threads catching the sun as if victory itself had been woven into them. The soldiers stood in neat rows, boots polished enough to see my own pale face reflected in them. The Marshal gave a speech — long, loud, and empty — about "sacrifice" and "honor." I stood beside the coffin, my father's coffin, wondering if any of those words had belonged to him... or if they were just property of the Empire now.

When it was my turn to bow, I caught the eyes of the Vice Commander — the man who came back alive from the ambush that killed my father. His gaze slid away like oil on water.
The crowd clapped politely after the last speech. Clapped. At a funeral.

Afterward, the Marshal, in all his polished medals, said I could remain in my father's house "until the necessary arrangements are made." Necessary arrangements — a fine phrase that meant I would be moved out as soon as the last wreath wilted. And so it was. A smaller house, "befitting my title," they said. A house for a Major who wrote books, not for the man who had won wars.

In the weeks that followed, I was rarely at home. Most of my time was spent in the barrack canteen, searching for stories about my father's final campaign. But it seemed I was not the only one burdened with sorrow. The soldiers who had taken part in that campaign would leave the moment they saw me, offering no reason.

One day, the campaign's vice commander—then a major, but now promoted to colonel thanks to his "trophy" from the war—approached me. He said he wished to tell me the story of the campaign, but his voice carried a strange weight when he added, "I have work left unfinished... and you deserve to know why."

Finally, I heard the "truth" about my father's death from the newly appointed colonel. I returned home and began working on my next story—"The Hero Was Slain." This time, my book chose a side: the side of the Empire. It caused an explosion among readers; many shed tears for the fallen hero, a hero I had shaped in my father's image. They cursed the "traitor" who had led the people to war, and despised those foolish enough to "believe" his words.

After that book, my career rose to a new height. I no longer visited the barrack canteen—there were no more stories there. Instead, I found myself in the offices of marshals, generals, and colonels. They invited me in, offered their stories, and lifted my name higher. Even the Emperor himself summoned me to his palace once.

One day, a letter arrived at my house — an invitation to attend the birthday of a high noble's daughter. Naturally, I accepted; after all, it was an "honor" befitting a "Honorable Major" like me. I had always known this day would come, though I had never imagined it would be from that high noble family — the one destined to become the next emperor.

The day mentioned in the letter finally arrived. I wore my finest, most formal suit and made my way to the party. With the invitation in hand, I passed the checkpoint with ease and arrived right on time.

The moment I stepped into the party, a noble man with mask approached and said, "Welcome to my party, Hero Writer—the greatest writer in the world. You know, I am your biggest fan."
I replied, "Your words flatter me, my lord. I never imagined I would be invited by you."
The nobleman smiled. "No, your presence is an honor to me. Come, come—many are waiting to meet you."

The nobleman took my hand and led me to the center of the party, where many nobles were enjoying a standing feast. Everyone wore masks, yet somehow they seemed to recognize one another despite hiding their faces. The nobleman guided me onto the stage, removed his own mask, and spoke into the microphone:
"Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for joining my celebration—but my greatest joy tonight is him, the Hero Writer. If you are his fan, please, take off your masks."
At once, many nobles removed their masks and tossed them aside. Behind them were broad smiles; they shouted and chanted, "Hero Writer! Hero Writer!" I was truly glad—I had never imagined that my pen name would be called out like that.

The host of the party raised his hand, signaling for everyone to settle down. Speaking into the microphone, he said, "Now that our honored guest has arrived, let us welcome the main character of tonight's celebration—she will join him on stage."
Then he leaned close and whispered in my ear, "She's your fan." He gestured toward the staircase with both hands.
A noblewoman in a beautiful mask descended the stairs gracefully. She approached the stage and stood beside me. The crowd went wild, chanting, "Take off the mask! Take off the mask!"
She smiled—a smile so radiant it seemed to silence the room for a moment—then removed her mask. Her beauty struck me motionless; I could do nothing but stare. Then she kissed my cheek. I felt my blood boil, my face flush hot, and yet I remained frozen in place.

The noble who owned the party raised his voice into the microphone. "This is my daughter's eighteenth birthday," he declared. "She is... good for nothing. I wonder what she will ever be capable of."
With an exaggerated gesture, he brushed away invisible tears, then continued, "I worry for her greatly. I must find her a mate—a suitable husband who can care for her, and walk beside her in life."
He paused, then stepped over and took his daughter's place beside me. Looking straight at me, he asked, "Can you care for her... for me?"

I looked at the noble woman. Her head was bowed slightly—maybe out of shyness, maybe not. A faint smile played on her lips, and in that moment, I saw a beauty so captivating I couldn't pull my eyes away.

"Can you care for her... Hero Writer?" The noble man repeated his question.

I startled, my words stumbling out like a cat choking on its tongue.
"Y...e...s, sir... b-but... I'm a-afraid I... am... n-not... w-worthy."

The noble woman lowered her head, her expression tinged with sadness, and my heart pounded harder than ever. I had never been so close to a noblewoman before—especially one like her. She was so beautiful, so elegant, and even in her sadness she seemed perfect to me.

The noble man asked again, his voice carrying across the hall, "So you don't like her?"

This time, my mind was clearer than before, and I managed to answer more steadily.
"No, sir... she's perfect. Too perfect for me. I think I am not worthy of her."

The noble man threw back his head and laughed, a rich, commanding sound that made several heads turn. He gestured toward the guests.
"He says he's not worthy of my daughter. Tell me—do you agree?"

A murmur rippled through the hall before it erupted into a chorus. Dozens of masked and unmasked voices rang out, overlapping in an almost ritual chant.
"No! He is worthy! He is worthy!"

The sound pressed against me like a wave, as if the walls themselves demanded my agreement.

The noble man leaned toward me with a confident smile.
"You see that? They approve of you."

Then his expression shifted, his eyes narrowing, voice turning sharp.
"Or... do you mean that she is not worthy of you?"

I stepped back instinctively, raising my hands in protest.
"No, my lord! I would never say that. If she agrees... I would gladly be with her."

The noble man's stern look softened. He turned toward his daughter.
"What about you, my dear daughter?"

The young noblewoman lifted her gaze to me. Gratitude shimmered in her eyes as her lips curved into the faintest smile. When she spoke, her voice was like music—clear, gentle, and flawless, just like her beauty.
"I agree, Father."

The noble man took his daughter's hand and placed it gently into mine once more.
"Now," he said with a warm smile, "let's leave them to their private space. They both need it... and we—we have a party to enjoy."

The crowd answered with cheerful laughter and applause. Music swelled through the hall once again, the strings and drums blending into a lively rhythm. Guests returned to their tables, their masks discarded but their spirits high. The room sparkled with candlelight and the clink of glasses, while laughter rippled through the air like a festive tide.

The hall's noise softened behind the closed doors as she and I stepped onto the balcony. Lantern light flickered against her dress, and the moonlight turned her hair into strands of silver. The night air carried the faint scent of jasmine, cool and calming.

For a moment, we just stood there, letting the silence stretch between us. She was the first to break it, her voice gentle yet clear.
"You're not like I imagined. I thought you would be like the generals and ministers who always speak of your books — full of polished words and pride."

I smiled awkwardly. "I'm afraid I'm not as polished as the stories make me sound."

Her lips curved into a small smile. "That's what makes you more interesting. Most people who come here try to impress my father. You... you seem more concerned with being honest."

I didn't know what to say to that, so I just nodded, watching the way the lantern light danced in her eyes. She spoke about books, about history, about how words could shape nations more than swords ever could. She even laughed — not the polite laugh of the court, but the warm kind that made me forget she was a noblewoman and I was just a soldier-turned-writer.

The longer we talked, the more I realized it wasn't only her beauty that held me — it was her mind, her grace, and the ease with which she closed the distance between us. Standing there, I no longer wondered if I was worthy of her... only if I could be the kind of man who deserved her trust.

After the party, the noble man approached me with a small, ornate token. Placing it in my hand, he said, "With this, you may pass through any checkpoint without question." His eyes gleamed with satisfaction. "Both of you make a beautiful couple — one is smart," he patted my shoulder, "and one is beauty," his fingers gently touched his daughter's hand. "I hope the two of you will one day be husband and wife."

Still filled with the warmth of our private conversation earlier, I straightened my back and answered with certainty, "I won't let you down, my lord."

The noble man's smile deepened. "Then I hope, someday, you will call me father." With that, he laughed, turned, and led his daughter back inside, leaving me alone in the night air — my face burning and my heart pounding.

Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months. I found myself visiting the noble mansion more often than my own home, each time welcomed with warm smiles. The noblewoman and I would walk in the gardens, share tea under the shade of old trees, and speak of books, travels, and dreams.

A year passed before I realized how deeply I had fallen for her. One quiet afternoon, with my heart pounding, I asked for her hand in marriage. She smiled — not the polite smile of a noblewoman, but a radiant, genuine one — and said, "Yes."

The noble man himself was our witness. His eyes glimmered with pride as he spoke, "Your marriage will be celebrated here, in this very hall." Then he leaned forward, almost teasing, "You will move here to live. Do you agree?"

Grateful beyond words, I bowed my head slightly. "That will be wonderful, my lord."

He chuckled, wagging a finger at me. "Father — not lord anymore." Then he laughed, and I laughed with him, the sound carrying through the great hall like a promise of the life ahead.

The weeks before the wedding passed in a rush of activity. Servants from the noble mansion arrived at my modest home with carriages, carefully packing my belongings. Watching them wrap my books, lift my desk, and carry away my cherished writing tools, I couldn't help but smile.

I was moving into the mansion — into her world. A world of polished marble floors, golden chandeliers, and corridors that whispered of centuries-old secrets. A world where the air itself seemed to smell of perfume and power.

As I walked through the grand gates with my things, I thought to myself: I am no longer just the Hero Writer. I am nearly a nobleman. The thought filled me with pride and, somewhere deep inside, a quiet fear.

The day of the wedding finally arrived.

The mansion's grand hall had been transformed into a vision of splendor. Drapes of crimson and gold hung from the high ceilings, and light from hundreds of candles danced across polished silverware and crystal glasses. Musicians played softly, their melodies weaving between the laughter and murmurs of guests.

But these were no ordinary guests. The noble man had summoned powerful figures from across the world — generals with glittering medals, ministers draped in fine silks, merchants whose fortunes could rival kingdoms. They had all come to witness his daughter's union with the man he called the most famous writer in the world.

When I entered the hall, all eyes turned toward me. I walked toward the altar, the sound of my boots echoing against the marble. Then she appeared — my bride — radiant in a gown that seemed woven from starlight itself. My heart raced as she approached, her eyes fixed on mine, a smile that belonged only to me.

The noble man stepped forward, his voice deep and clear, carrying across the room. "Today, my daughter becomes the wife of a man whose words have touched the hearts of millions. Today, I welcome him not only into this family... but into our world."

Applause thundered through the hall, and in that moment, with the most powerful men in the world looking on, I felt as though my pen had written me into a new life — one where even history might remember my name.

The music softened, the chatter faded, and the hall seemed to hold its breath.

The priest's voice rang gently, "You may now speak your vows."

I turned to face her fully. The noble woman's eyes glistened beneath the candlelight, her hands soft and steady in mine. I took a deep breath.

"My lady," I began, my voice trembling at first but growing steadier with each word, "when I first met you, I thought you were a vision — something so perfect that I dared not even dream of holding your hand. I believed I was unworthy. But you taught me that love is not about worth... it is about truth. And the truth is, I cannot imagine a single day without your smile, your kindness, and the grace you bring to this world. I vow to protect your heart as I would protect my own life. I vow to write every page of our story with joy, even in times of sorrow. And I vow... to be yours, until my final word is written."

Her lips curved into a soft smile, and she stepped closer.

"My hero," she replied, her voice clear, elegant, yet warm, "when I first read your words, I saw the soul of a man who felt deeply, who carried the pain of the world yet still found beauty in it. When I met you, I saw that soul in your eyes. I vow to stand beside you through every season, to be the first to celebrate your triumphs and the last to leave your side in hardship. I vow to share in your dreams, to guard your spirit, and to make a home in my heart where you will always belong. From this day forward, I am yours — not because I must, but because I choose you, again and again."

The priest smiled. "By your vows, before all witnesses present, I declare you husband and wife. You may seal your vows with a kiss."

As our lips met, the hall erupted into applause, music surged once more, and I felt as though the world itself had turned the page to a new chapter — one we would write together.

The applause still lingered in the hall as we stepped down from the altar. Guests cheered, clinking glasses and raising toasts, the chandeliers reflecting their excitement like captured stars. The banquet hall was filled with a rich scent of roasted meats, fresh pastries, and spiced wine, yet my senses barely noticed it — all I could see was her, radiant beside me.

The noble man, his eyes sparkling with pride, raised his own glass and called for silence. "Honored friends and distinguished guests from across the world," he began, his voice commanding yet warm, "today we celebrate not just a marriage, but the union of two hearts, and the promise of a new generation. My daughter has chosen a man whose words have moved millions — a man whose mind and courage are as strong as any soldier's. I give her to him freely, with my blessing, and welcome him into our world."

The hall erupted again in applause and cheers. From my vantage point, I saw generals, ministers, and merchants — some of the most powerful men on Earth — nodding, raising their goblets, or whispering their approval. The realization struck me: the life I had known as a writer, traveling through stories and words, had now brought me into this world of influence and power.

But I did not feel pride. I felt responsibility — responsibility toward her, toward the life we were about to build together, and toward the trust this noble man had placed in me.

The noblewoman reached for my hand, squeezing it gently, and whispered, "We'll face it together."

I nodded, feeling a warmth that no applause could match. Around us, the world celebrated, but in that moment, it was only her and me — and the life we would write together, one day at a time.

"The liar never tells the truth."
That's what I realized after one month of living in the noble mansion.

The title Honorable Major—my pride, my father's legacy—was stripped from me the moment I moved into the Noble District. My father-in-law was the one who took it away. At first, he claimed it was necessary: "If you wish to become a noble," he said, "you must give up your military title. That title belongs to soldiers, not to those born to rule."

I agreed in principle, thinking I would submit a request to the emperor myself. But instead of letting me resign with dignity, he used his influence to have my title revoked before the emperor could even read my petition.

I protested. I argued. But my father-in-law only waved my words away with a single command:

"You will go to the Noble Academy to learn how to be a noble. No more delays."

Following my father-in-law's orders, I enrolled in the Noble Academy to learn how to become a noble. At first, I thought I could rise quickly — I wanted to master the ways of the nobility as soon as possible — so I studied hard. But the lessons grew increasingly difficult, far more demanding than those of the other students. I focused only on what mattered to me: learning to manage my father-in-law's estates and affairs.

One day, after completing my tests earlier than expected, I returned home to the mansion, eager for a brief reprieve from the endless rules and lessons of the academy.

The moment I arrived home, something felt strange. The servants in the mansion seemed startled at my presence. I made my way toward my room, but one of them — the maid who cared for my wife — stepped in front of me, trying to stop me.

I shoved her gently aside and rushed down the corridor. Just before my room, the door swung open, and a man — a noble from another family — stepped out.

Instead of showing fear or shyness, he smirked at me, reached out, and patted my cheek in a mocking gesture before striding away.

Anger surged through me as I stormed into the room. My wife sat there calmly, barely glancing up at my flushed face. Only one of her eyes met mine, the other hidden as she adjusted a piece of her dress. The maid quietly entered behind her, preparing her for the evening, as if nothing had happened.

"Why... why would you do this?!" I shouted, my voice trembling with anger.

She looked at me calmly and tilted her head. "What do you mean? I was simply waiting for you to return home, dear." Then, a faint smirk curved her lips.

I clenched my fists, my patience fraying. "That man — what did he do to you?"

Her smile widened. "He only did the job of a husband, my dear," she said, laughing lightly.

That was the final straw. I lunged toward her, hand raised. But she stood her ground, a daring gleam in her eye. She turned her cheek toward me. "Slap me, do you dare?"

I froze, my anger crashing against reason. Slowly, I lowered my hand. But before I could think further, she slapped me across the face and shoved me back. Her finger jabbed toward me.

"You think you are high and mighty? You are just the son of a dead man, a soldier, a brute! Do you think you are worthy to touch me?"

She leaned closer, her voice sharp and cold. "Your kiss on our wedding night nearly made me vomit. Lucky for you, my father sent you away — or that night would have been your last alive."

"Stop playing with him, my dear."

My father-in-law appeared, his presence filling the room. The servants had already reported the commotion. He pointed a finger at me, his eyes sharp. "Now, if you want to live, you must let this pass... or else."

I snapped back, anger rising. "What's different now from before the wedding? If you didn't like me, why did you let your daughter marry me?"

A slow, cruel grin spread across his face. "Because I wanted your fame," he said, voice low and dangerous. "Many of your fans are powerful men. I wanted that connection. You think you are clever? No. I would never let my daughter be tainted by your hands."

I froze, stunned by my father-in-law's words. I could not step back. He had stripped me of all my titles. I could not return to the Military District. Every bit of my fortune was seized. I could not buy a house in the Merchant District. Everything I had — carefully built by my own efforts — had been taken in his meticulous plan.

He continued, his eyes sharp, scanning my face. "For now, your name still brings me connections, so I need you. Live normally, but don't let anyone know."

He saw the anger burning in my eyes and smirked. "You know, without you, I would have lost billions, lost countless connections. That hurts, doesn't it? But I haven't lost everything. I still have the old connections. You, however... you have lost everything. You will either become a beggar or work in one of my factories. Do you see that clearly?"

He patted my shoulder with a mocking gentleness. "Now calm yourself. When your fame fades, I will give you a house in the Merchant District, and you can start a new life. That acceptable, yes? And if you truly desire a noble woman, I know some widows — long untouched by any man. That would be good, wouldn't it? And I swear to you, my daughter will never be jealous. She is a good wife, isn't she?"

I stood frozen, my mind spinning. Every plan I had, every freedom I thought I owned, had been stripped from me. My titles, my fortune, my reputation — all taken, all controlled by him. The weight of his words pressed down like iron chains. I could feel the anger boiling, the instinct to resist screaming in my chest, but I also saw the truth: he was far too powerful, far too cunning, and every attempt to fight him would only leave me broken.

My hands clenched, then slowly relaxed. My breath came in shallow, steadying rhythms. I looked at my wife, who watched silently, calm and composed. I realized that resistance would only disturb the fragile peace I had left. Fame, wealth, pride — they were nothing if they brought endless conflict.

I swallowed hard, forcing the anger back down. "I will endure," I told myself, the words bitter but necessary. "I will live quietly, keep my life, and preserve what little peace I can."

Turning back to my father-in-law, I forced a calm smile. "As you wish," I said. The words felt like surrender, yet in that moment, they were also a shield. I would live. I would adapt. And perhaps, in time, I could reclaim my own path — carefully, quietly, without provoking his wrath.

In the silence that followed, I understood: sometimes, survival meant swallowing pride, and sometimes, peace was the greatest victory a man could claim.

The next morning, the reality hit me hard. My father-in-law had cast me out of the Noble Academy. No longer was I a student, no longer required to hide behind the façade of being a proper noble.

"I have no further use for you in my mansion," he said coldly. "You are free to go."

He handed me a thick envelope of cash, his eyes glinting with calculated amusement. "Spend it. Wine, women, amuse yourself. Keep busy. Keep your name in the mouths of the people. But remember this — every step you take, every indulgence, will be watched. You are to waste your fame on trivialities. Any attempt to write another story? Forget it. I will make sure no publisher dares to touch it."

I felt a surge of anger, humiliation, and disbelief. The man had not only stripped me of my titles and fortune, but now he wanted to ruin my reputation, reduce me to a figure of scandal and gossip.

Yet even as the shock settled, I felt the cold, hard truth: resistance was useless. His power, his cunning, was absolute. Survival meant playing his game, at least for now. I stuffed the cash into my pocket, my mind spinning with both fear and reluctant calculation.

So I left the mansion, a gilded exile, determined to endure. Wine, women, and idle scandal awaited, and perhaps, in time, I would find a way to reclaim both my name and my story. But for now... I would live.

With the envelope of cash in my pocket, I stepped into the city's glittering social scene. The streets and halls of the Noble District shone with wealth and grandeur, each gathering a performance of power and influence. I could feel the eyes of the nobles on me, whispers following my every step, yet no one dared openly challenge the "Hero Writer."

Wine flowed freely, and the finest dishes were laid before me. I took the offer, allowing myself to savor the flavors, the subtle joy of indulgence in food and drink. Yet every time a noblewoman passed close, every time a flirtatious smile reached me, I felt the sharp pull of restraint. My father-in-law's warning echoed relentlessly: a single scandal, a single misstep with a woman, and everything — my fame, my stories, my hard-won reputation — would vanish overnight.

It was a battle within me. Part of me longed to test the freedom of wealth, to enjoy the pleasures that were suddenly available. Another part, far stronger, reminded me that I was now a family man. "My wife" — the noblewoman I had married — "deserved my loyalty". My stories, my career, my name demanded vigilance.

I clutched the envelope tighter at times, a reminder of both my indulgence and my restraint. Wine and food I could enjoy — safe, harmless pleasures. Women I could not. To yield would be to gamble everything.

So I walked among the nobles, laughing at their jokes, nodding at their boasts, sipping only the finest wine, tasting only the richest delicacies, and all the while my eyes scanned, measured, and recorded. Each glance, each gesture, each whispered conversation was a lesson, a secret to hold. I would survive here. I would endure. And I would not let temptation or scandal destroy the world I had fought so hard to create.

In the gilded cage of wealth, luxury, and observation, I found a bitter peace. The game had changed, but I would play it — carefully, silently, and always watching.

The pain within me continued to grow — a gnawing, insistent desire. My wife, perfect, elegant, and married to me, was admired by every young nobleman. The glances, the whispers, the envy in their eyes stirred a burning greed and longing in me that I could not satisfy.

Some days, the servants no longer showed me respect. They were bold, even cruel, striking me if I appeared at the wrong moment. Humiliation piled on humiliation, and I realized the only way to survive was to vanish into the shadows of the mansion I lived in.

I withdrew from the world of nobles, letting myself become invisible. Wine and fine food became my only indulgence, the sole comforts I allowed myself. The desire for women — though burning within — became a force I suppressed. I let myself grow dirty and unkempt, stinking of neglect, so that no noblewoman would dare approach me.

In this self-imposed exile, I became a shadow — a cautionary tale, a laughingstock to some, but a survivor nonetheless. My fame remained intact, my stories untarnished, and my mind, though restless and tormented, remained my own. In the quiet misery of indulgence and obscurity, I found a bitter, necessary peace.

Although I had accepted my situation, the fight within me did not end. I refused to let myself be dragged into scandal — no wandering with women, no betrayal of my wife. This was a battle I had to fight every day, a constant test of discipline and restraint.

I could indulge in wine, savor fine meals, even endure humiliation, but I would not allow my fame or my honor to be tarnished. Every step, every decision, was measured against the trap my father-in-law had set.

This was more than survival; it was a war of will. I fought to remain untouchable in reputation, loyal in marriage, and clear-headed in the midst of temptation and intrigue. To yield even once would be to lose everything I had worked for — my stories, my name, and the fragile freedom I still possessed.

In this struggle, I discovered the quietstrength that no titles, no fortune, and no power could take from me.