Chapter 116 | Has the Empire's Sword Who Married to the Countryside Fallen Today?

When Klein withdrew his hand from under the hem of her clothes, Ophelia didn't move.

It wasn't that she didn't want to. She couldn't.

Every muscle from her lower back to her shoulder blades had been completely loosened.

The feeling was unfamiliar—she was used to being tense, used to maintaining a combat-ready state at all times, with every muscle fiber in her body trained like a bowstring.

Now, the bowstrings had been plucked loose one by one by warm fingertips. She lay limp on the bed, the weight of her limbs returning to the flesh itself.

Her mind was also a bit fuzzy.

The lingering warmth of the ointment still clung to her skin, the herbal scent filling her nose, mixed with the faint workshop scent on Klein—reagents and wood ash, with the occasional hint of ink.

The scent was so ordinary, so everyday, that it made it impossible for her to maintain her vigilance.

She blinked twice.

The wood grain on the ceiling was very clear.

—Wait.

When did she flip over?

Ophelia sat up abruptly.

She braced herself on the bed to steady her posture. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Klein sitting on the edge of the bed, wiping the residual ointment from his hands with a casual expression.

Too casual.

That casualness made her even more uncomfortable. Her face was burning intensely. It wasn't about the massage—the massage had indeed been comfortable, but what made her face flush wasn't the comfort itself, but the way she had just looked.

“How long has it been since you stopped?” she asked, trying her best to keep her voice steady.

“Not long.” Klein folded the handkerchief and set it aside. “Probably... while you were spacing out for a bit.”

Spacing out.

He had some nerve. Her state just now was less like spacing out and more like half her soul had been pulled from her body.

Ophelia took a deep breath, suppressing that trace of embarrassment inch by inch.

She pointed at Klein. “Lie down.”

“Hmm?”

“It’s your turn.”

Her tone was stiff, like she was giving an order to a subordinate. Klein glanced at her, unable to stop the corner of his mouth from curving upward.

“What are you laughing at?”

“I’m not laughing.”

“You are laughing.”

“I just think your mental state is very good right now.” Klein indeed didn't laugh out loud, but the tone of his voice betrayed him. “The effects of the massage are very obvious.”

Ophelia stared at him for two seconds.

But in the end, she just took the jar of ointment, unscrewed the lid, and scooped some out into her palm with a crisp movement.

“Lie flat. Don’t move.”

Klein obediently lay face down, his chin resting on his arms.

It was quiet behind him for a few seconds. He could hear Ophelia rubbing her hands together—likely spreading the ointment. She did it very seriously, back and forth several times, with a brief pause in the middle.

He guessed she was recalling the pressure and the movements from before. That pause probably corresponded to some detail she couldn't quite remember.

Then, her hands made contact.

The hem of his clothes was lifted, and her palms pressed directly onto the skin of his lower back.

The ointment was cold, but her hands were hot.

The two temperatures collided on the same patch of skin, and Klein's back instinctively tensed slightly.

The pressure—

“How is it?” she asked quickly, speaking almost the moment her hands touched him. Her tone was serious, carrying the same focus she had when holding a sword.

“It’s fine.” Klein's voice was muffled against his arms. “A little higher.”

She moved up an inch. The base of her palms tentatively pressed down, slowly pushing along the muscles beside his spine.

The movements were stiff. He could feel her trying hard to replicate the technique he had just used—memorizing the paths, the pressure, and the rhythm, then retracing them with her own hands.

“Good,” Klein gave his approval. “Just like that.”

Ophelia didn't respond. Her entire attention was focused beneath her hands. The ointment in her palms gradually warmed from her body heat, becoming smooth as it was spread, and her movements became more fluid as a result.

After pushing for a short while, Klein heard her murmur something behind him.

“Hmm?”

“I said—” Ophelia paused. “This is harder than swinging a sword.”

Klein laughed. This time, he actually let out a sound.

“That's normal. You've practiced swinging a sword for over a decade. This is your first time.”

Ophelia's hands paused for a beat.

The phrase “first time” had a subtle resonance in this bedroom. The quiet air caught it, then bounced it back from all directions.

She continued pushing with an expressionless face.

But her rate of improvement was absurdly fast.

The first few strokes were clumsy, the pressure uneven. But after a dozen repetitions, the entire sequence seemed to be memorized by her body—with every pass, the next was more precise and steady than the last.

Klein lay there, initially correcting her technique in his mind—the pressure could be a bit heavier here, the angle was off there—but he soon realized he was overthinking it. She was adjusting on her own.

The warmth of her palms seeped in through the ointment, spreading evenly along both sides of his spine, kneading away the sore knots one by one.

Talent was truly something that left one speechless sometimes.

Her hands moved back and forth over his lower back, her movements transitioning from stiff to steady, then from steady to composed. As her palms pressed against his skin, she could feel the texture and temperature of the muscles beneath.

Not firm enough.

She thought.

Otherwise, last night he wouldn't have...

Ophelia's fingers paused for a moment.

She had been too unrestrained last night, leaving him nearly unable to get out of bed today.

Maybe I should hold back a bit?

...No, it's clearly this guy who needs to exercise more.

While Ophelia thought this, the movements of her hands didn't slow down at all.

When her thumb passed over a knot, Klein let out a muffled groan.

“Does it hurt?”

“A little.”

She immediately lightened her pressure, her fingertips circling that spot several times to knead it out.

Klein buried his face in his arms. For a moment, he felt that the warmth of the hand on his lower back was doing more than just relaxing his muscles. The feeling of being treated so carefully was very tangible—warmer than the ointment, more delicate than the technique.

After a while longer, the entire area of stiffness from his lower back to his shoulder blades was completely loosened. His consciousness began to drift, his breathing slowed, and a long-awaited sense of relaxation surged up from his lumbar spine. His entire body felt as if it were soaking in warm water.

—As expected, the one who gave their all is the one who needs a massage more.

Ophelia withdrew her hands.

“Finished.”

She picked up the nearby handkerchief to wipe the residual ointment from her hands. Her movements were crisp, her head down, looking exactly like she was completing a mission and packing up to return to camp.

Klein gave a muffled “Mhm.”

Then he rolled over.

The movement itself was very natural—flipping from face down to face up was only logical.

But he didn't get up after rolling over.

The back of his head landed firmly on Ophelia's lap as she sat on her heels.

The distance between the two of them instantly turned into a face-to-face gaze.

“You—”

Ophelia said the word “you” twice, but she couldn't follow up with a complete sentence.

The temperature on her face rose at a speed she couldn't control. Her ears, her neck—everything was hot. That kind of heat was completely different from the adrenaline on a battlefield—it had no aggression, only a sense of utter chaos.

Klein, on the other hand, was quite relaxed. Resting the back of his head on her thighs was soft, much more comfortable than a pillow. He crossed his arms over his chest, looking very peaceful.

Then he looked up.

Unfortunately.

His field of vision was completely blocked.

To be precise, it was blocked by Ophelia's exceptionally magnificent feminine silhouette. Looming above, it blotted out the sky. He doubted she even knew how spectacular that angle was.

“Just what are you doing?” Ophelia's voice came down from above, cracking slightly.

“Lying down.”

“...I know that.”

“You asked, I answered.”

Ophelia's breathing was clearly erratic. It wasn't the erraticness of anger, but something else—her breaths were uneven, with a swallowed syllable in between.

Although Klein couldn't see her expression, he could piece together seventy or eighty percent of the picture just by listening to the rhythm of her breathing.

Her ears were bright red, her lips were pressed tight, and her golden pupils didn't know where to look—likely darting between the ceiling and his face, unable to land anywhere.