Top-Tier Arranged Marriage, but the Dom-Husband Has Amnesia - Chapter 4

Noah squinted his eyes slightly.

The note was hidden within his personal spatial ring. Without his mental imprint, no other insect could open it, and the ring itself showed no signs of external forced entry. Furthermore, while the handwriting on the note appeared slightly mature, it was not difficult to recognize the shadow of his eighteen-year-old self within the strokes.

It was undeniably his own handwriting.

To be more precise, it was the handwriting of the twenty-eight-year-old Noah Veroria from before he lost his memories.

He lowered his eyelashes and fell into deep thought.

Without warning, the note in his hand ignited with an icy blue flame. The fire, shaped like a snake, wreathed around the male’s slender, articulated fingers. In just a few seconds, it consumed the note entirely, leaving not even a speck of ash behind, as if it had never existed in the first place.

Only the lingering coldness in his palm served as a reminder that this had been real.

Noah: “…”

Very well.

As expected of myself; when it comes to being ruthless, I even plot against my own self.

He rubbed his temples and let out an almost inaudible sigh.

No insect likes being schemed against, and Noah was certainly no exception. But if the one scheming against him was not another insect, but rather himself in a different state, fine.

Since it was his own layout, he might as well indulge it a little.

He felt no drowsiness.

With his head bowed, he pressed his curled index finger against his chin, lost in thought.

Based on the contents of the note, his older self, the twenty-eight-year-old Noah, knew that he would lose his memories. Considering the uncontrollability of an accidental memory loss, this could not have been an accident. It was the result of a calculated move by a determined mind, namely, his past self.

With the insect race’s current level of technology, while restoring memories without damaging the brain might be difficult, deleting a specific portion of memory was certainly not impossible.

There must be someone of his own choosing within the treatment team.

As for the traffic accident itself, after a moment of consideration, Noah dismissed the possibility that he had designed it himself.

Plotting is a risky business; the more one designs, the more flaws emerge. Given his cautious nature, he would never intentionally orchestrate a flawed flight accident just to lose his memory. It was more likely that he had simply utilized the aftermath of a genuine accident to advance his own plans.

So, it was a real accident.

Or perhaps, a mastermind had orchestrated this flight accident to eliminate him.

Daring to plot the death of a high-ranking male in the most prosperous planet of the Federation meant the opponent was certainly a powerful enemy, occupying a high position with significant authority.

It was truly a situation riddled with danger.

The young Saint curved his eyes, thinking with a sense of amusement.

If this memory loss were truly an accident, waking up to find his memories and psychological age regressed to eighteen would be frustrating, no matter how mature he was. But because the one plotting against him was his future self, everything happening now was under his own control.

In this way, the memory loss was no longer an annoying variable, but a game of chess played across time and space, with himself as both the challenger and the opponent.

Player One was his past self.

Player Two, naturally, was his present self.

That was actually quite cool, he thought.

Noah was well aware that his present self, whether in terms of psychological awareness or the wisdom and methods used to handle affairs, could not compare to his future self of ten years later. Scheming against oneself was an intriguing concept, but it was fraught with crisis. One slight misstep, and the entire game could be lost. The twenty-eight-year-old Noah’s actions were akin to stepping into the layout himself.

Fishing?

Probably more than that.

The mere opposition, insects in the gutter, were not worth such an elaborate effort from a Saint.

Whatever could make the twenty-eight-year-old Noah Veroria go to such lengths, even risking his more naive, tender, and vulnerable ten-years-younger self, must be a true threat to his interests. What he sought to gain must be of extraordinary, revolutionary significance.

What exactly did he want?

Or rather, was there something that only the eighteen-year-old Noah Veroria, his present self, could accomplish?

Noah furrowed his brows.

The intelligence was severely lacking, and for the moment, he could not draw any useful conclusions.

He buried this key question in his mind for now and thought back to the probes he had made toward his supposed spouse upon waking up.

Igris Orwell had shown obvious resistance to the amnesiac husband’s intimate advances and had immediately clarified the fact of their political marriage, proving that there had been no emotional entanglement between them before the memory loss. Yet, when he had proposed closeness again, his spouse had chosen to submit without much hesitation.

The other party did not seem to mind fulfilling the duties of a spouse, maintaining the proper decorum and grace expected of a consort toward all his requests, without the slightest sign of perfunctoriness.

Noah was thoughtful.

He did not mind fulfilling the duties of a consort, yet he resisted any affection beyond that of a political marriage?

He felt a little thirsty.

He rolled out of bed, intending to pour himself a glass of water, while the words on the note remained in his mind. The first two points were easy to understand, but the third was rather profound:

“When things seem safe, Igris Orwell is the most dangerous person to be around.”

What did that mean?

He was so lost in thought that he did not notice his feet, and he kicked against the leg of the table.

Hiss…

That hurt.

His knee throbbed with a burning pain. Noah frowned slightly, enduring it without making a sound. There was no low furniture nearby to help him steady himself. He braced his hands on the floor, attempting to stand, but his vision went dark for no reason and his heart raced. Even the slightest movement brought sharp, piercing pain.

This body’s foundation seemed even more fragile than he had imagined.

Noah was perplexed.

By rights, the twenty-eight-year-old version of himself should be far more composed and thorough than his eighteen-year-old self. How could he have let his body deteriorate into such a state?

When he was eighteen, his body did not seem this bad, did it?

The room was silent.

Noah raised his eyes, looking at the bed, which was within arm’s reach but felt miles away, and then glanced at the door not far off. He felt a bit troubled.

If he guessed correctly, his duty-bound spouse was likely keeping watch in the next room.

However, Noah lowered his eyes, his gaze wandering aimlessly across the floor.

It was difficult to put into words.

He could play the part of a nervous male insect dependent on his spouse for the sake of probing, but when he truly became the vulnerable one in need of help, even if this vulnerability and help were trivial, he could not bring himself to utter a single request for assistance.

As an adult, tripping and bumping one’s knee while fumbling around in the middle of the night:

Embarrassment level: +5

As a husband, after bumping one’s knee, calling in a spouse who might be sleeping, who did not like him emotionally, and who was only taking care of him out of duty, to help:

Embarrassment level: +100000

Forget it.

In any case, the room was pitch black and no one could see, so why not…

The young Saint raised his head slightly, coolly surveying his surroundings to ensure no one had witnessed his embarrassing moment. He retracted his gaze, hugged his knees, and sat quietly on the carpet by the table leg, letting his mind go blank and staring into the darkness before him.

He would just rest here for a while, wait for his strength to return and the pain to subside, then sneak back into bed.

He had planned it perfectly.

However, click.

The door opened.

The lights went on.

The room was instantly illuminated, leaving the darkness nowhere to hide. The Councilor stood by the door, looking down at him: the small male insect was curled up under the table leg with his arms around his knees, looking slightly dazed, his calf bruised and faintly seeping blood.

He looked weak, pitiful, and helpless.

Noah: “…”

So, so embarrassing.

He silently turned his back, slowly leaving the other with an isolated silhouette.

Out of consideration for the fragile pride of the young male insect, the Councilor tactfully remained silent. He bent down, picked up the small husband on the carpet with gentle and careful movements, and then rose slowly, steadily carrying the male back to the bed.

Noah shuffled inward quietly, attempting to slip under the covers without drawing attention.

It was unsuccessful.

Igris knelt down, lowered his eyes, and observed the wound on his knee carefully. His hand, however, seemed to have eyes of its own; without looking up, he flipped over Noah’s hand, gripped it, and with a gentle but firm tug, easily pulled the little turtle trying to burrow into its shell back out.

“Does it hurt?” he asked.

The other was too close; his humid breath fell against his skin, bringing a faint warmth.

Noah was not accustomed to this and had no desire to discuss the topic, but he could not ignore the other’s concern, so he replied in a muffled voice: “It is nothing.”

In truth, it was painful.

The injury was minor; to a female insect, it probably would not even register as pain. But the constitution of a male insect was generally weak, with a very low tolerance for pain. Moreover, this body had just recovered from a flight accident; while the medical pod had healed the surface, the lost blood had not yet been replenished, and he was at his weakest internally.

To say it was nothing was definitely a lie.

It was just that…

Glancing at the female insect in front of him from the corner of his eye, Noah lowered his gaze and looked away.

At least for now, while the initial probing was finished, he did not want to leave an impression of being too soft and easily bullied in the eyes of his nominal spouse and actual potential rival.

Igris warned him: “When I disinfect it, it might sting a little.”

Noah nodded randomly.

After the exchange, Igris stood up to fetch the disinfectant and treatment spray.

Taking advantage of the moment the female insect turned his back to him, and thinking of the stinging sensation the medication might bring to the wound, the Saint, whose psychological age was barely that of an adult, hesitated. He could not help it; he cautiously lowered his head and blew on his own wound, letting out a quiet “hiss.” As the other returned with the medicine, he immediately straightened his face, looking up at the other with cold indifference.

As if silently accusing: You are too slow.

Igris: “…?”

Strange.

Why was he looking at him like that?

Noah hesitated and reflected. He recalled the moment and confirmed that he had reacted quickly and had not slipped up. With conviction, he lifted his chin and gazed back with cold, calm detachment.

Igris raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

He showed no reaction, turned around as if nothing had happened, glanced sideways, crooked his finger, and tapped the edge of the medical kit calmly, as if deliberating which spray was most effective. But behind him, he seemed to have eyes as well; he timed it perfectly to the moment the young Saint felt at ease and relaxed, and turned around instantly!

Noah: “…!”

Under the orange light, the male insect was biting his lower lip in frustration, his small canine teeth showing as he endured the pain, his brows slightly furrowed. But because of the Councilor’s sudden turn, he could not catch the overly vivid expression on his face in time, like a small animal caught by its tail, and he was stunned on the spot.

Caught in the act.

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