I Got Married to a Yandere Queen

The next morning, mist still hung low over the grounds of the Valderacht Estate when Riven arrived. Dew soaked the earth and grass, the cold seeping slowly into the soles of his feet. But he didn't complain. If anything, the chill morning air cleared his thoughts more than usual.

Crysthalis rested lightly in his right hand—

not for battle, but for something deeper: self-discovery.

He stood at the center of the field, recalling Ashtoria's movements from the day before. The way she positioned her body, controlled her breath, and shifted her stance with each demonstrated style. Every motion seemed to carry its own philosophy. And today… Riven intended to explore them one by one.

First: the heavy and powerful style.

He steadied his breath, then lowered his stance. Knees bent, shoulders slightly raised, center of gravity dropped. He pulled Crysthalis back, then swung forward as if trying to break a boulder in front of him.

WHUUM!

The strike pulled his whole body with it. His chest shuddered, arms tensed, feet rooted firmly in the ground. He repeated the motion. Once. Twice. Three times. Each slash felt like a crashing wave, sweeping everything in its path.

But his body rejected it.

Each movement felt like a burden, forcibly imposed. He had to wrench his waist to follow through, had to grip the hilt so tightly his fingers cramped.

"This isn't me," he muttered under his breath.

A style like this demanded a solid frame, muscles like stone, and the stamina of a giant. Riven could mimic it, but he couldn't become one with it. He exhaled and moved on.

Second: the soft and flowing style.

He relaxed his shoulders. Let the tension slip from his knees, allowed his body to sway like a willow branch. He began to move—not to slash, but to flow. His steps circled, body tilting into each motion. It was like a dance, but not for beauty, but for efficiency.

He dodged an imaginary strike from the left, twisted his hips, and swung Crysthalis as though the wind had moved it, not his muscles.

His body welcomed it. No tension. Only rhythm.

But every time he tried to channel power into the swing… the blow lacked weight. He could imagine dodging. But retaliating? Killing? He hesitated. Not because the style was wrong, but because he couldn't fully merge with it.

He stopped. Took a deep breath. It was beautiful, but not his path.

Third: the swift and agile style.

He shifted. Breath quickened. His feet tapped rapid, light steps from one side of the arena to the other. He didn't wait. His body moved on instinct.

Swoosh! Swoosh!

Short slashes. Quick thrusts. Explosive movement, like an arrow loosed from its bow. He jumped from point to point. Attacking from the right, dodging left, then slashing upward in a flash of motion.

Sweat began to run, but he smiled. His mind moved in sync with his body. Reflexes sharpened. Small muscles in his legs—barely used in the other styles—now worked in perfect harmony.

Fast. Agile. Wild. But in control.

"This… feels natural."

But he wasn't done yet.

Fourth: the straight and precise style.

He stopped. Stood still at the center of the field.

This wasn't about speed. Nor about strength. It was about absolute precision.

He lowered his stance slightly. Looked forward. There was no target—just empty space, thinning mist, and morning light slipping between the trees.

He raised Crysthalis slowly, blade leveled with the ground. He imagined a single point. Not a wide swing. Not wild movement. Just a line.

One intent. One line. One cut.

ZSSHHT.

He stepped lightly. Not fast—but with certainty. In one motion, Crysthalis swept through the air like lightning—straight, sharp, nearly silent. After the strike, his body stopped—no extra movement. No waste.

Riven stood still.

He closed his eyes and felt his pulse. It was… calm. Focused. He wasn't showing off strength, or crafting a style. He was simply executing intent.

And when he opened his eyes, he knew the answer.

Ashtoria had been right. His body thrived on speed—on light, nimble movements that let him flow without being tied to heavy form. But his mind—the deepest part of him, sharp, quiet, and rational—resonated with precision.

Not strength. Not flexibility. But…

Speed and precision.

He sat slowly on the damp ground, letting the cold sweat drip from his temple. The morning air was warming, sunlight kissing the grass, and the last of the mist slowly lifted from the sky.

His sword wasn't perfect yet. But the path had become clear.

Footsteps crossed the dew-soaked training yard. Calm, deliberate, but not hesitant. Like someone who knew they belonged wherever they walked.

Riven didn't turn. He still stood in the center of the arena, breath steady after the long training. But his body stiffened for a brief moment when an unfamiliar voice—cool, clipped, and overly polite—called out behind him.

"Morning practice, huh?"

The tone sounded friendly. But it was too smooth, too void of genuine goodwill.

"A proper attitude… for a servant."

Riven lowered Crysthalis slowly. Only then did he turn, facing the intruder.

A young man stood at the edge of the yard, wearing a black velvet coat embroidered with gold, a little too flamboyant even under the dim morning light. His face was smooth, his chin high, and in his eyes… a glint that looked at Riven as if appraising merchandise, not a person.

Riven didn't answer. He simply stared back, expression flat and cold.

The man narrowed his eyes. "Hm… Not a servant, I see. Or perhaps, just one who dreams of being a swordsman?"

The words were a jab. Soft, but deliberate. One step forward.

Riven sighed. Then spoke, quietly—almost lazily—but with the sharpness of a blade's edge.

"I don't know who you are, and I don't care. But if you judge people by their clothes, your brain might weigh less than the brooch on your chest."

Riven had never seen this man at the Valderacht estate, but from the way he carried himself and how he dressed, it was clear he was nobility. Likely one of the guests who arrived the night before.

In the past, Riven might've held his tongue, might've let himself be insulted. He knew arguing with nobles only brought meaningless trouble.

But after spending time with Ashtoria and learning who she truly was, he no longer had any patience for being looked down upon.

The noble's eyes tightened for a moment at Riven's remark.

The morning wind blew a strand of black hair across his face, but didn't wipe away the thin smile that crept back onto his lips.

"Amusing." His voice remained flat, but his tone dropped a few degrees colder. "Most people like you bow before I even speak."

"Then maybe," Riven replied without blinking, "you're surrounded by cowards."

Silence stretched.

Their gazes locked. Both cold. Both sharp. Neither willing to yield.

Seconds passed, taut with tension.

Then the young man stepped forward—close enough that only a few paces remained between them.

"I like people who don't know their place," he whispered. "They always make for the most satisfying lessons."

"Then," Riven murmured, "you'll learn something today."

For a moment, the air turned colder.

But the man didn't move further. He gave a small smile now, no longer bothering to hide the malice. His chin tilted slightly upward.

"I'll remember your face. Maybe… we'll speak again tonight. When my father and I meet with Lord Valderacht. I hope you're still here… so I can see just how far a servant dares to go."

Without waiting for a reply, he turned and walked away. His steps calm, as if nothing had happened.

Riven simply watched his back.