The Fake Wife of the Strongest Husband Wants to Survive - Chapter 61

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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Chapter 61
Autumn, when fruit ripened to its sweetest, was the busiest season in the vineyards.
Great wooden barrels stood overflowing with freshly harvested grapes, trampled beneath workers’ feet, releasing a sickeningly sweet odor.
The entire Territory was alight with the bustle of winemaking.
The wine from Damia Territory was a specialty good exported across the Empire, so when this time came around, everyone had to move quickly.
Yet the one man who should have been busiest of all sat in a corner of a tavern, drowning himself in drink.
“Oi, Count! The appetizers are here!”
Inside the dim tavern, hollow-eyed men sprawled across wooden chairs, while the ever-present card game played out amidst worthless jokes and curses.
Georg, having lost his stake early and folded his hand, dropped into a seat and began needling the man beside him.
“Enzo, drinking on an empty stomach like that? Were you born clutching a wine glass?”
Enzo, sweeping back his long blond hair, retorted with an air of disbelief.
“If my mother heard that, she’d faint dead away.”
Georg burst into cheerful laughter.
“How is your mother these days?”
“Same as always. Pestering me to go to parties, to meet some proper lady……Why should I do any of that?”
Lucas, who had been stubbornly eating through all the noise, let out a heavy sigh.
“I feel sorry for the Territory folk, having to serve a lord like you.”
“The vineyards run themselves whether I’m here or not. Why should I have to be there? The steward handles everything. All I do is sign documents once in a while—couldn’t someone else sign those too? Why does everyone make such a fuss about it?”
Georg laughed loudly at that.
“You find everything such a bore—so why do you refuse marriage? Your mother could plan your whole life and you’d have it made.”
“An easy life is a dead life.”
Enzo drained half a mug of beer in one gulp, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“The Territory needs a better lord than a drunk like me. Someone like Bjorn, for instance……”
Their gatherings—which happened once or twice a year—never strayed from tedious topics.
It started with who could drink more, and devolved into idle gossip about how Dieter’s childhood friend had coldly looked away despite ten years of earnest pursuit, and other nonsense.
Then a man at the next table, whose wife had run off and who was raising his son alone, started in on his tiresome refrain of boasting about the boy.
“My boy took second place in the village Archery competition! That’s my son—nothing like me! The kid’s a natural!”
Having finished his meal, Lucas regarded him with a sneer.
“Don’t plant false hopes in your child. Archery’s useless—there’s nowhere to use it.”
“What do you mean useless? It’s impressive and pays decent coin!”
“What coin? You’re lucky if he doesn’t get some wild idea to become a mercenary.”
The cheerful mood of the tavern dimmed at that.
Despite the shift, Lucas pressed on.
“What does our Archery prodigy Count think of it?”
Enzo, meanwhile, sat staring into his cup, lost in thought.
The bow……
He had held one once, long ago.
The memory of receiving a bow as a gift from his father, bouncing with joy; the encouragement his always-frail brother Bjorn had given him; the man who had opened a path forward when he wandered after his brother’s death……those mercenary days, brief but sharper than any other time, surfaced in his mind like a dream.
Yet the hard, familiar feel of the bow that had worn calluses into his palms had faded at some point into vagueness.
The sensation of his fingers stinging as he drew the string, the electric thrill of watching the arrow fly true—it all seemed as distant as something from a dream.
It was nothing to do with him now.
In the end, it was all just a faded story from the past.
Without answering, Enzo smiled bitterly and drained his cup.
That was when it happened.
The tavern door swung open with a dull bang.
Bright light suddenly flooded into the dim interior.
The drunks, unable to open their eyes properly, let out annoyed sounds.
“Damn it.”
“Who the hell is it?”
But the moment the woman who had opened the door—Pesha—stepped inside, the tavern fell silent.
The rough laughter of men, the vulgar jokes, the clinking of cups—all vanished, leaving only stillness.
Pesha, her silver hair brushed and neatly bound, made no attempt to hide herself; alone in that reeking tavern, she stood radiant in her finery.
When a woman so perfectly groomed appeared, the drinkers felt not curiosity or anger, but a sense of profound wrongness.
Regardless, Pesha scanned the faces of the tavern’s patrons with an expression of grim determination.
Then, without hesitation, she walked straight toward Enzo.
“You’re Count Enzo Bedford, aren’t you?”
Enzo set down his cup, his face darkening.
“What?”
“Blond hair, drooping eyes, teardrop mole. That’s definitely you. We need to talk. Come with me.”
At such an abrupt and absurdly straightforward demand, Enzo laughed helplessly.
“Looking at you, you seem like the daughter of some grand house…… Is this the match your mother arranged for you?”
He’d asked it half-joking, half-hoping to embarrass her, but Pesha’s expression hardened as though she’d heard utter nonsense.
“Sorry, but I’m a married woman.”
“What’s a noblewoman doing in a place like this? Your husband’s a drunk too, I suppose?”
The jab was meant as jest, but Pesha didn’t so much as blink.
Instead, she leaned in close to his face and looked him over.
“Ugh, reek of alcohol.”
In the same motion, his collar was seized with brutal force.
“Walking around like this, anything you say will just sound like drunken rambling anyway.”
“What—”
He instinctively tried to pull back, but it was already too late.
Enzo found himself in the grip of a woman barely reaching his shoulder.
“Hey, wait—!”
He tried frantically to pry her fingers from his collar, but he was overmatched by her strength.
Weakened by drink, his body offered no resistance as she dragged him out with methodical ease.
The drunks inside the tavern erupted in cheers.
“Look at our Count getting hauled off by this pretty thing!”
Leaving the jeering mercenaries to their amusement, Enzo was hurled onto the street outside and hit the ground hard.
Sprawled on the cobblestones, whether from lingering drunkenness or sheer shock, he felt no anger—only confusion.
All he could focus on was the carriage standing before the tavern entrance, solid and imposing.
Its black body was immaculately maintained, its wheels trimmed in silver.
But what truly caught his eye was the emblem carved into the carriage’s side.
The moment he saw it, his face went rigid.
A crossed lance and sword, etched above a burial mound—the grave of comrades sent before him.
There was no mistaking it.
There had been a time when he swore he would die beneath a banner bearing that very mark.
The alcohol drained from his system in an instant.
Enzo’s throat went dry, and he barely managed to force out words.
“That emblem…… you’re still using it?”
Pesha stepped into his line of sight and spoke.
“The Taligan Mercenary Company. There’s something you need to hear.”

“It’s about your old commander.”
At those words, Enzo looked up at her with a hollow stare, as though his soul had fled his body.
“Who…… who exactly are you?”

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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