Reincarnated as General's Wife

Chapter 6: Freedom

Meanwhile, the low hum of an engine broke the still air. From the driveway rolled in a gleaming relic of wealth — a car so rare and regal it seemed pulled straight from another era, the kind only the richest could afford. Its polished frame reflected the towering walls of the castle-like mansion.

The door opened with a muted click, and a man stepped out. Leather shoes struck the stone path with slow, deliberate weight. Beside the entrance, the maids, aligned in perfect rows, bowed in unison without a word.

It was General Seranya’s husband. The crisp green of his formal soldier’s uniform carried the scent of discipline and war. He was tall, broad-shouldered, his long black hair combed neatly back, revealing the sharp cut of his jaw. His eyes — deep and unyielding black — didn’t just look at people; they measured them, judged them.

His face was striking, the kind that could have been admired, but no one dared. The weight of his presence smothered admiration and replaced it with fear. His aura was an unspoken warning, a silent command to lower your gaze.

As he strode forward, the air itself seemed to tighten. The elder butler, spine bent in deep respect, approached with measured steps.

“My lord,” the butler said, voice steady but subdued, “your wife awaits you inside to welcome you home.”

The general’s gaze flicked briefly toward the mansion, unreadable. Without a word, he walked past — every step a quiet storm.

Seranya stood in the grand hallway, back straight, palms sweaty, every nerve in her body on high alert. Beside her, Marielle, the elder maid, was a picture of calm dignity… though Seranya could swear she caught the faintest twitch of amusement in the corner of the woman’s lips.

Her mind, however, was anything but calm.

What does he look like?

A hulking man with a scar cutting across his face?

A bald head that shines under the chandelier light?

An old man with yellow teeth and a wheezing laugh?

…Or worse, a man whose face screams psychopath, complete with a smile you’d only see in your nightmares?

The longer she thought, the darker her imagination became. A demon in human flesh, they’d called him. How does a man like that treat his wife?

Her mind spun into wild, theatrical images — her being locked in a dungeon, fed bread and water, whipped for “talking too much.” Treated like an animal, chained by the ankle, a tragic figure in her own horror play.

By the time the heavy door began to creak open, she had nearly convinced herself she’d see the Devil himself.

Then… he stepped in.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Wearing the deep green of a formal military uniform that looked far too clean for a man of war. His jaw was sharp enough to slice bread, and his eyes — dark and piercing — carried the weight of someone who had seen a hundred battlefields. His hair, long and black, was pulled back neatly, not a strand out of place.

Seranya’s mouth went dry.

In her mind: …Oh.

Ohhh.

…I think he’ll be a fine husband.

The sharp turn from terrified prisoner to secretly impressed wife happened so fast she almost laughed out loud. Instead, she kept her expression neutral, hoping Marielle hadn’t caught on to her mental flip-flop.

The air grew heavier with every step he took.

Seranya swore she could feel his aura pressing against her chest like a giant boulder, squeezing the air right out of her lungs. His sharp eyes locked briefly on her, and she nearly dropped dead on the spot.

Never mind, she thought frantically, I am going to die.

Her knees wobbled so hard she bowed instinctively, like it was second nature — forehead low, hands clenched so tight they were damp with sweat.

But instead of grabbing her by the chin or declaring her fate like the terrifying tyrant of her imagination, the man simply walked past her without so much as a glance. His boots clicked sharply against the marble, echoing in the grand hall.

“Prepare my lunch,” he said, his voice deep, commanding, and smooth enough to make the chandeliers tremble. “I’m hungry.”

And that was it.

…Seranya froze. Her mind, which had been playing horror reels of her tragic demise, came to a full, screeching halt.

Lunch?

Not ‘kneel, wife, and beg for mercy’ or ‘off with her head’.

Not ‘you are mine forever, chained and bound in the basement’.

Just… lunch.

Her inner self blinked.

Then blinked again.

And then, with the grace of someone completely unhinged, she began laughing maniacally inside her own skull.

Pfft—hahaha! Oh, this is better. Much better. If ignoring me is his hobby, he should keep at it. Ignore me, husband! Forget I exist! This is my ticket to FREEDOM—!

Her poker face on the outside was so perfect that even the stone statues in the hall would’ve envied her composure. Not a twitch, not a c***k, not a single betraying smile.

Meanwhile, in her imagination, she was rolling around the floor of her mental dungeon in hysterics. Oh yes, treat me like the wallpaper! Invisible wife, that’s me! No bruises, no yelling—just sweet, sweet freedom!

Marielle, the elder maid, shot her the quickest of glances. It was the kind of look that said, I know you’re having a breakdown in there. But, as always, the woman remained stone-faced, only the tiniest twitch at the corner of her lips betraying her amusement.

Seranya, poker-faced: ❝…Yes, my lord.❞

Seranya’s brain: MWAHAHAHAHA—FREEDOM!!

She never thought being ignored would feel like winning the lottery.

Seranya’s laughter died in her throat the moment her husband turned to her. His voice, deep and commanding, broke the air.

“Follow me.”

Her smile froze. Follow you? Where?

In her mind, she threw herself on the floor, rolling like a stubborn child refusing to leave the candy shop. No, no, I don’t want to! I’ll stay here forever, feed me sweets instead! But in reality, her legs obeyed without protest, stiff and unwilling, as she trailed behind him.