A knock sounded at the door.
Neither of them looked up.
The door opened smoothly, and a waitress stepped inside, a tray balanced perfectly on one hand. She moved at a brisk but controlled pace, her posture straight, steps silent. Despite the speed, nothing on the tray moved. The liquid in the wine bottle sat perfectly still, as though gravity itself had agreed to behave out of respect.
Early Foundation Establishment.
At least.
Dean continued speaking as if she wasn't there.
"You're already betrothed," he said dryly. "Even if you don't like your fiancée, her reputation still keeps most women away from you."
The waitress placed the tray down with quiet precision, bowed, and left without interrupting or reacting. The door closed behind her with a soft click.
Dean reached for the bottle, poured wine into both glasses with practiced ease, then lifted his own.
He drank it in one smooth gulp.
Then refilled.
Kelvin watched him, shaking his head slightly as he picked up his own glass. "Does it bother you that much?" he asked, swirling the wine lazily.
Dean paused mid-pour, then set the bottle down. He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he leaned back again, eyes unfocused for a moment as if weighing how honest he wanted to be.
"To be honest," Dean said at last, breaking the quiet, "it doesn't."
He leaned back in his chair, one arm resting lazily against the polished wood, fingers tapping once against the stem of his glass. His expression was calm, but his voice wasn't. There was an edge to it, dulled by habit.
"It might look like an open ground," he continued, "a place where females compete for our attention, smile sweetly, act pretentiously or both depending on what they think will work…" He paused, lips tightening. "But I don't like the stares."
Kelvin didn't interrupt. He simply listened, lifting his glass and taking a slow sip.
"The greed," Dean went on. "The lust. It never really leaves their eyes. Sometimes I wonder if they even see us as people at all or just… priced possessions. Rare items to be acquired, displayed, traded."
He let out a low grunt, more irritation than anger.
"I just wish…"
His voice trailed off.
The sentence never finished.
Kelvin glanced at him then, studying his close friend with an expression that mixed disbelief and something close to resignation. He took another sip of wine, sighed softly, and shook his head.
He really didn't understand Dean.
Or maybe he did and that was the problem.
In this society, Dean's thoughts were naïve. Almost childish.
They were born into powerful families. Groomed from the moment they could walk. Trained not just in cultivation, but in presentation. Music lessons. Etiquette. Controlled speech. Polite smiles. Just enough self-defense to look capable without appearing threatening. Everything about them was carefully packaged to increase their value.
They were resources.
High-grade ones.
They were given the best cultivation materials money and influence could buy, all to strengthen their energy cores and secure their place in the future. And if talent bloomed elsewhere? Even better.
Dean, for example.
A gifted doctor, already recognized in alchemical circles. The number of women who pursued him through the alchemy panel alone was ridiculous. Some brought rare pills. Some brought favors. Some brought expensive gifts.
And then there was Dylan.
Dean's twin.
The Blue-haired, charming, infuriatingly good-looking Dylan. A singer whose voice could soften even hardened cultivators. He had fans everywhere…no, not fans. Admirers. Females who openly declared their intent to court him, making him their first husband, or "support him for life."
And yet.
Despite all of that.
It didn't change the ending.
They would still be handed over by their mother when the time came. Used to build connections. Strengthen alliances. Secure political ground. They'd be lucky if the woman they were given to was powerful enough to protect them or at least respectful enough not to treat them like disposable ornaments.
And Dean wanted… love?
Kelvin scoffed inwardly.
How unrealistic.
"Who knew," Kelvin said aloud, tone dry, "that Young Master Dean, the cold, distant, impossible to approach was actually a softie on the inside."
Dean's reaction was immediate.
Color crept up his neck and ears, a faint flush that ruined his carefully maintained composure. He shot Kelvin a glare sharp enough to kill small animals.
Kelvin rolled his eyes, unbothered.
"Don't look at me like that," he added lazily. "You said it yourself."
"At least," Kelvin continued, lifting his glass again, "you're free."
Dean raised an eyebrow.
"Free and open to other women," Kelvin said. "Compared to me."
He swirled the wine slowly before drinking.
"I'm already betrothed. My mother hasn't set the wedding date yet, but with how fast my fiancée is growing…" He paused, jaw tightening. "Who knows."
He gulped the rest of his wine in one go, then added quietly, "…I'll keep winding it. As long as I can."
Dean smirked, some of his earlier gloom lifting.
"Just bear with it," he said. "She's not the only one growing. Your mother sees everything. She won't release you easily."
That much was obvious.
They both knew the truth behind Kelvin's situation.
His fiancée wasn't with him out of affection. Or loyalty. Or respect.
She wanted power.
More specifically…control.
Kelvin was her path to it.
Considering how influential Kelvin's mother was across the First Continent, it wasn't surprising that many ambitious women had set their sights on him. But fate or rather politics had decided early.
He'd been betrothed the moment he was born.
The only thing saving him now was age.
He wasn't of age yet.
That, and nothing else.
His fiancée, on the other hand, already had two husbands.
And several concubines.
Or, as she liked to call them, bed warmers.
She claimed, magnanimously, that she had "reserved" the position of first husband for Kelvin. A gesture meant to sound romantic but felt more like a business proposal.
He wasn't interested.
Not in her.
Not in her ambition.
Not in her carefully curated smiles and strategic kindness.
She was pretentious. A schemer. Greedy to the core.
But she was also powerful and currently the strongest among the younger generation.
And that made everything complicated.
Kelvin had been given freedom. On the surface.
His mother allowed it. His fiancée pretended to allow it.
But he wasn't naïve.
He knew he was being watched.
Every interaction measured. Every female presence evaluated. Any woman who lingered too close, smiled too long, or showed too much interest would quietly disappear from his orbit, removed not by him, but by invisible hands.