The Fake Wife of the Strongest Husband Wants to Survive - Chapter 62

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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 62
The Eastern Region’s defensive line remained precarious.
Only after rebuilding the stone wall throughout the day, clearing away the contaminated earth, and ordering the soldiers to rotate their posts could Owen finally draw a breath.
As the men kept vigil through the night with campfires burning here and there, the wind carried the reek of blood and ash—the stench of death itself.
It was a sickeningly familiar smell, one he’d grown weary of catching on battlefields for far too long.
Owen stepped into his tent and exhaled deeply.
“Hah…….”
Unfastening the shoulder guard of his armor felt like shedding a heavy weight—suddenly light.
He rotated his right shoulder gently, his eyes drifting toward the glass bottle resting on the small table beside him.
Within the cloudy liquid, silver powder drifted and shimmered with a soft glow.
Sidiroca. Anyone living in regions adjacent to the Eastern Region would call it a miracle—a purifying disinfectant.
It was the fruit of Pesha’s stubborn research and countless hours of painstaking work.
Countless soldiers and civilians had owed their lives to this very potion.
His own wounded shoulder had benefited from it as well.
In years past, he would have held back in combat, fearing contamination, but this time he’d pushed hard—entirely because he trusted in Sidiroca.
Following Pesha’s instructions, he dampened a bandage with the potion, and found himself remembering her from yesterday—the way she couldn’t even meet his eyes.
The moment she’d seen the wound on his shoulder split open, Pesha had gone pale and seized his arm, insisting she’d fetch a physician at once rather than let him treat it himself.
But the castle physician had died in the chaos that followed, and the civilian healers were overwhelmed caring for the injured townsfolk.
They would have dropped everything and rushed to a lord’s summons, but that wasn’t what Owen wanted.
So Pesha had insisted on bandaging it herself.
“You must remember that you’re a patient in need of absolute rest right now.”
“It’s not that serious.”
“The physicians in the Capital said it was.”
Her hands were clumsy and the bandage wound far too tightly around his shoulder, but Owen hadn’t bothered to loosen it and rebind it properly.
Part of him didn’t want to touch the wound she’d cared for, but half a day had already passed—he needed fresh bandaging now.
As he untied his shirt, the bandage Pesha had wound so firmly came into view.
Far from being painful, there was no soreness at all, so his hands moved roughly and without care as he unwound it.
Soon the bandage fell away completely.
But Owen couldn’t breathe for a long moment.
As the cloth pooled at his feet, the shoulder beneath it was……entirely unmarked.
There was no deep scar that should have remained on his skin, no trace of the bruised discoloration where the Monster Aura had seeped in.
Even the dark tendrils that had crept along the blood vessels had vanished without a trace.
Owen’s stiff fingers slowly traced the spot where the wound had been.
The skin beneath his touch held the elasticity of a healthy body.
It defied simple explanation as mere healing.
It was as if the very fact of the wound’s existence had been erased, leaving only smooth, unmarred skin.
His breath came sharply.
“……This can’t be.”
His fingers moved of their own accord, probing the spot where the wound had been.
Even when he gripped his shoulder hard, there was no pain—only a strange, almost buoyant sensation spreading through his entire body.
Even his movements felt smoother than before.
As if the wound had never existed at all.
He stared at the potion bottle on the table.
He knows better than anyone how remarkable Sidiroca is.
He’s seen countless wounded saved by it across countless battlefields, in daily life.
But a potion’s effect was limited to disinfecting wounds and slowing the decay of auras at best.
While it could stanch blood quickly, he’d never once seen a wound vanish without leaving even a trace.
Scarring and aftereffects were unavoidable, something men simply accepted and made do with.
Yet Owen’s arm now stood before him with even its oldest scars—those records of battlefields past—completely erased.
Pesha’s face suddenly surfaced in his mind, creased with worry.
“All I can do is bandage you, so please, I’m begging you—don’t get hurt again instead of me.”
There had been no hint in those words of any special treatment or suggestion that the wound would heal rapidly.
Owen remained leaning back in his chair, unable to move for a long time.
If this phenomenon wasn’t simply due to Sidiroca alone.
Did she also know that his wound had healed completely?
If she had known, she wouldn’t have treated it so quietly, without a word.
“…….”
The tent remained silent.
Only the firelight swayed softly, casting shadows across his face.
The moment this truth became known to others, it might descend upon Pesha as a terrible storm.
If the soldiers saw that the wound had healed, rumors would spread immediately, and once the nobles learned of it through gossip, suspicion and conspiracy would follow in its wake.
Even in a situation so uncertain that he couldn’t be sure of the healing process itself, one clear principle occupied his mind.
No one must connect Pesha to this strange phenomenon.
And if word leaked out, it had to be only because Pesha wanted it to.
He picked up the fresh bandage he’d set aside.
The cloth soaked in potion was cool and damp to the touch.
Soon he wrapped the bandage around his shoulder multiple times, as though the wound were still severe.
For a moment he stared at the healed shoulder in confusion, but the expression reflected in the mirror had grown colder and more rigid than ever.
* * *
A strange silence had settled over the tavern.
Since it was broad daylight, there were no patrons inside the inn besides the Mercenary Company, and when they fell silent, the earlier commotion seemed almost unbelievable in its quiet.
It was a nervous, rough laugh that shattered that silence.
“Ha! Coming to find us now, are you?”
Lucas folded his arms across his chest.
Though he feigned indifference, his hands trembled slightly where they gripped his sides.
Pesha glanced at him and formed a thought.
Among this generally burly crowd of mercenaries, the one with the thinnest, most lanky build must be Lucas Leshueur.
She recalled there had been a blacksmith of sorts among them—the kind who forged and repaired weapons for the other members rather than taking to the battlefield directly.
In the original story, this was the man who’d carelessly blurted out words to Io and frequently started fights.
“Let’s say you really are the Countess, like he claims. What face do you have to show up here now?”
“Face?”
“That’s right! You betrayed your comrades, deceived them… and killed some of them in cold blood. What do you have to say for yourself now?”
At that, Pesha let out a scoff.
“I came because I have plenty to say.”
She swept a cold gaze across the mercenaries, then opened her mouth.
“As you know, Owen Namoi executed his subordinate Peter Potton during the Snowy Mountain campaign in Alandrya six years ago. The reason was Potton’s espionage.”
“That’s a lie! Peter was good-hearted and honest! He never spied on anyone. You should’ve seen how much he looked up to that man—how could he have done it with his own hands….”
One of the mercenaries twisted his face in anguish and bowed his head, and Pesha smirked.
“Seems there aren’t many good-hearted, honest people in the Mercenary Company. Judging by the way you speak of a dead man like that.”
She tossed a stack of papers onto the table.
The documents, scorched by fire and poorly kept, bore a clear eagle insignia.
“This is from Clapton….”
It was a Military Document.
A Military Document from the enemy nation, the Clapton Kingdom.

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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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