When I realized I’d been reincarnated into the world of that novel, I was stunned. The idea of possibly meeting the protagonist made me so excited I couldn’t sleep that night.
For a while, I thought every promising young person I met might be him, even confusing a young man who merely came to report to my father. I still cringe at the memory.
Fortunately, I was born into a prestigious family in the very country where the protagonist was destined to rise. My parents were kind and provided me with an excellent education, unrestricted by my gender or age. Intrigued by how this world paralleled and surpassed the novel’s setting, I immersed myself in studying it, hiring numerous tutors to learn about our country and its neighbors.
By then, I must have gained a reputation as an odd young lady. Even in this society where marriages happen early, I remained unengaged into my mid-teens and enjoyed my freedom.
At 17, a major war broke out. My father, earning military merit, was granted a new title. It was then I realized I was destined to marry the protagonist.
However, the character I was to become—the protagonist's wife—was so minor that she barely had any presence in the story. No appearance, no detailed description, just a name. It never crossed my mind until my family name changed.
The protagonist's wife, as described in the novel, was a political bride—someone he married to gain status. In the rare moments she was mentioned, it was during lighthearted scenes, where rumors labeled her as a “wicked wife.”
Eventually, my father arranged for me to marry the hero of his army—a man who had achieved legendary feats on the battlefield. The marriage was clearly a political maneuver, granting the protagonist a noble standing to lead troops in the next war.
It made sense.
Satisfied with the reasoning, I went along with it. My family’s name would enable the protagonist to stand tall against political rivals and represent the nation in diplomacy.
As part of the deal, a significant reward was included alongside the marriage, presumably because sending only a young bride would seem stingy.
Without ever meeting the groom—who went straight from one battlefield to another—I completed the ceremony and accepted the reward as his wife. Predictably, I entrusted its management to my father. While it annoyed me, I lacked the expertise or experience to handle it myself.
In my husband’s absence, I learned the responsibilities of being a noble wife from my mother, while my father taught me how to fulfill tasks on behalf of my absent spouse. I awaited his return, confident of our side's eventual victory.
And as expected, within a year, news of victory arrived. The protagonist was granted the territory of Orwe, where he was made its governor—a stepping stone in his rise to power.
Reading the reports from the frontlines, I thought, “Ah, this must be the ending of the first arc.”
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