The Rogue System [BL]-Chapter 310 - Disastrous wedding night

The nightmare wedding was finally over.

There had been no music. No joy. Just a bunch of muttering spectators, one emotionally constipated groom, and a very loud, very pissed-off bride cussing him out mid-ceremony.

As far as weddings went, it was an absolute disaster.

Eric, still fuming, had barely finished his vow of vengeance before two soldiers grabbed him by the arms and dragged him out of the temple like a sack of rice that had insulted someone’s grandmother.

"Let go of me, you hairless war dogs!" he shouted, kicking his heels uselessly against the stone floor. "I am the bride, for heaven’s sake!"

The soldiers didn’t care. They shoved him into the bridal chamber with all the grace of a potato being thrown into a basket.

The heavy door slammed behind him with a loud BANG, the wooden latch locking him inside.

Eric immediately turned around, scowling at the door like it had just insulted his ancestors. He dusted his shoulders off dramatically.

"Tsk, they could’ve been a bit more delicate," he muttered, pulling down the sleeve of his wedding robe to reveal two deep, bluish bruises forming around his wrists.

"This body is delicate..." he added under his breath, pouting.

Grumbling, he glanced around the room. It was dimly lit, warm, but oddly sterile for what was supposed to be a wedding chamber. Then his eyes landed on the red wedding bed—canopy veil tied up, the silk looking a little too perfect, like no one actually cared enough to mess it up for tradition’s sake.

Next to the bed was a table with a bottle of wine, two cups, and a small mountain of fruits and pastries.

Eric didn’t hesitate.

"Food!" he cried, lunging toward the table like a starving raccoon. In a matter of seconds, two pastries were already in his mouth, half-chewed. He downed half the wine without checking if it was poisoned. At this point, he welcomed death.

"Two days," he muttered through a mouthful. "Two whole days they starved me like some prisoner—and I’m the damn bride!"

But before he could even enjoy the small moment of victory, his stomach let out a low, gurgling groan.

His face paled.

"Oh no."

Clutching his stomach, he doubled over and stumbled toward the bed.

He threw himself onto it, curling up into a ball, his hands gripping the soft fabric.

"I just want to poop, dammit..." he moaned, grinding his teeth as pain rippled through his belly. "Why won’t it come out?!"

The bloated pressure in his gut made him feel like a ticking time bomb.

He rolled back and forth a few times, groaning into the pillow.

And then—he passed out.

By the end of the night, long after the palace lights had dimmed, General Ryan returned to his new wedding room.

He stood outside the door for a moment, his posture stiff. Silent.

The guard stationed nearby bowed quickly and handed him a thick iron key. The door had been latched from the outside.

Ryan’s eyes narrowed.

"...Why is it locked?" he asked, voice sharp.

The male servant standing nearby immediately broke into a cold sweat.

"M-Master, we... we thought he might try to escape," the servant stammered, already kneeling. He slammed his forehead into the ground in a deep kowtow.

Ryan stepped closer, gaze like a blade. "He might be an enemy prince," he said quietly, "but from now on, he is my wife. I expect him to be treated as such. Do you understand me?"

"Y-Yes, Master!" the servant squeaked.

Ryan said no more. He took the key, inserted it into the door, and turned it with a heavy click.

The door creaked open.

Immediately, his nose was met with the sharp mix of wine, sugar, and old dust.

The room was a mess.

The floor had crumbs scattered across it like a rat party had taken place. The wine bottle was half-drunk and lying sideways. The wedding snacks had been attacked like prey. The red bed curtains were twisted, and there was a faint trail of pastry filling on the sheets.

Ryan blinked once, processing the chaos.

He approached the bed and lifted the silk veil.

And there—amid the disarray—lay his new bride.

Eric was fast asleep.

His black hair, now dry and half-brushed, fanned out around him like spilled ink on silk. His robe had slipped off one shoulder, revealing the soft curve of his neck and collarbone. His lips were parted slightly, breath slow and even—although a faint wrinkle between his brows betrayed discomfort.

Ryan found himself staring longer than intended.

The prince was undeniably attractive. Delicate features, long lashes, almost unreal in appearance. He looked like a painting of a courtesan from the old scrolls—except this painting was snoring lightly and covered in cake crumbs.

With a breath, Ryan pulled himself back.

This was a political marriage. A sham. There would be no consummation, no romance.

He turned away from the bed and walked over to the small reading table, pulling out a thick stack of war reports.

Still, his eyes wandered to the bed every few minutes.

Then, suddenly—a soft groan.

"Ughhh..."

Ryan looked up sharply.

He stood and returned to the bed.

Eric was frowning, sweat forming on his flushed face. His arms were curled around his stomach, knotted tightly.

"...Stomach..." he mumbled, shifting with a wince.

Ryan reached out hesitantly. His hand hovered over the prince’s forehead, then moved to his wrist. The pulse felt... off.

He frowned.

"Servant," he called out calmly. "Bring the medic."

Minutes later, the old palace physician arrived, dragging a heavy box of herbs behind him. He gently took the prince’s pulse and examined his stomach.

Ryan stood nearby, arms crossed, watching intently.

"Well?" he asked.

The medic hesitated, looking uncomfortable. "Your wife seems to have... a minor stomach issue."

"What kind of issue?"

The old man coughed awkwardly into his sleeve.

"He... appears to be suffering from digestive obstruction, my lord."

Ryan blinked. "...Come again?"

"He... is unable to defecate," the medic said, face turning red. "I will prescribe a herbal remedy for... relief. It must be taken twice daily—once before breakfast and once after dinner. I’ll prepare the instructions."

Ryan stood silently for a moment.

A very long moment.

Finally, he turned to the medic and nodded. "Thank you."

"Servant," he said without raising his voice. "See that the doctor is given a room to rest next door. And prepare the medicine."

Shortly after, a small bowl of warm, herbal paste was brought in—thick, bitter, and steaming.

Ryan sat beside the unconscious Eric, who was still curled up, whimpering softly in his sleep.

"Sorry," he muttered under his breath.

He pulled Eric up against his chest, propping him up with one arm. His other hand pried open the prince’s mouth.

He spooned the medicine in slowly. Most of it made it in.

Some of it... didn’t.

It spilled down the side of Eric’s lips, soaking into his red wedding robe. The sticky liquid smeared over his chin and neckline, staining the fabric. 𝕗𝐫𝐞𝕖𝕨𝐞𝗯𝚗𝕠𝘃𝐞𝚕.𝐜𝗼𝚖

Ryan didn’t move.

He stared at him for a long moment.

Red silk clinging to flushed skin. Stray strands of hair damp with sweat. A mouth that moved in unconscious protest.

Somewhere deep inside him, something he thought long-buried stirred faintly.

But he swallowed it down.

He reached for a cloth and gently wiped the mess off Eric’s chin.

Then he laid him back on the bed and stepped away.

"Sleep well," he said quietly.

And then he returned to the table.

To the reports.

And to the growing silence.