QT: I hijacked a harem system and now I'm ruining every plot(GL) Chapter 65: Smells like shit

Chapter 65 – Daphne POV

It slls like shit.

No, like it genuinely does.

I scrunch my nose, gagging slightly, and pray for death as the carriage lurches again. The constant shaking, the creaking, the claustrophobic walls, and this fucking corset are conspiring to murder before I even make it to the estate.

A dieval world?

A fucking honest-to-God dieval world?

I could handle the tragic backstory.

I could handle being sold by my father like a rare goat with a birth defect.

But I draw the line at authentic manure aromatherapy.

My eyes are burning—from rage, despair, and that ungodly scent wafting through the tiny window slit. I lean back, trying to rest my head—bam. It hits the wooden panel behind so hard I see stars.

’I can’t do this, System! Take back!!’ I scream ntally, clutching the hem of my dress like it personally betrayed .

> [Host. Please calm down. This is a low-tier world. You’re lucky we even loaded it in full color.]

’Full color?!’

> [Would you prefer grayscale? I can patch that in.]

I curl further into the corner of the carriage, defeated, suffering, and 99% sure I’m developing scoliosis.

This world is supposed to be a slow-burn political harem novel.

"I Was Born as a Duke in a dieval Kingdom."

Interesting title.

Very subtle.

Very literary.

The plot? Oh, it’s a classic.

So guy from Earth—nerdy, reclusive, probably had an ani figure collection—wakes up in the body of Cedric Callum, a 26-year-old duke with dead parents, a crumbling estate, and the personality of undercooked toast. His vassals, uncle, and the royal court all treat him like a placeholder with nice cheekbones.

The story follows his political rise—modern wisdom, basic hygiene, and Google search-level innovations turning him into the next great statesman. He improves trade, updates military strategy, builds public trust, blah blah blah.

And of course—it’s a harem.

Because no one can resist a man who rediscovered crop rotation.

Official wife? Check.

Three concubines? Naturally.

? That’s concubine number four.

A maid? Eventually added.

A female knight? Because the dream harem isn’t complete without one sword-wielding woman kneeling at your feet.

The man fathers fourteen children. Fourteen.

Our male lead has such a big heart. So compassionate. So selfless. So... fertile.

Anyway.

Today is my wedding day.

Tomorrow is when the plot starts.

Specifically, when Duke Cedric wakes up in bed with "Lady Daphne of Callum", a.k.a. , the nobleman’s daughter sold to him like a particularly well-grood sheep.

So here’s the plan.

I make myself scarce.

I don’t get involved. Not with the main character. Not with the harem. Not with the sches, backstabbing, poisoned tea, war declarations, or political assassinations.

I’m going to ride this world out quietly, elegantly, and completely irrelevant to the story.

If I’m lucky, the next world will have air conditioning, and equal, human rights.

Luckily, I picked up painting in my previous life.

What started as excuse to stare at my wife for hours on end, turned into sothing I genuinely enjoy.

My wife.

Jiang Yuxi.

The na hits harder than it should. The mory folds over like a wave I didn’t see coming.

That familiar, all-encompassing pain wraps around my chest like a vice.

But I don’t let it show.

I take it—gently, carefully—and shove it into the ntal compartnt box I’ve labeled "Unsurvivable Emotional Topics."

I shut the lid.

And I put away the key.

**

The small chapel is empty, save for in my simple veil.

No flowers. No guests. No music. Just , so dusty pews, and the slow spiral of my patience circling the drain.

I haven’t even t the father of this body yet—Count Whatever-His-Face-Was—but I hope he dies. Horribly. In a fire. With a tax audit waiting in hell.

Soon, the priest walks in.

And so does he.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Polished boots. Handso like a wet rat? I don’t know my romantic interest lies with people over a softer curvier nature.

The Male Lead. Duke Cedric Callum.

When they join at the small altar, I do everything in my power not to visibly gag.

When was the last ti either of them took a bath?

Oh. Right.

Baths aren’t standard in this ti period. People mask slls with oils and hope for the best.

Maybe... I sll too.

Oh god.

I start spiraling.

The ceremony passes in a blur of mumbled prayers and vows I didn’t agree to. Cedric says his lines with all the emotion of a man reciting soup ingredients. I think the priest mispronounced my na.

And then it’s done.

A couple of stone-faced maids lead from the chapel to a room so luxurious by this world’s standards it probably qualifies as royal.

Velvet drapes. Ornate carvings. Gold thread.

It’s... okay.

Honestly? I’ve been a woman with millions in my past two lives. Luxury doesn’t impress .

The maids help peel off the bloody corset—I nearly cry from the relief—and slip into so long, trailing white gown. I’m not sure if it’s ant to be romantic or ceremonial, but it feels like I’m being prepped for sacrifice.

I glance at the "mirror."

It’s not a mirror.

It’s a vaguely polished chunk of shiny tal. I catch a distorted blur of myself and a maid hovering awkwardly behind .

As for the toilet situation, I really needed to pee...

Let’s just say I was handed a shiny tal bowl, left alone, and then soone knocked gently to co take it away.

I don’t want to think about that.

I will never think about that again.

I sit on the edge of the bed, the mattress too soft in that dieval "stuffed with the tears of peasants" kind of way. Candlelight flickers gently on the stone walls, casting long, stretching shadows. It’s quiet.

Too quiet.

I raise my hands and tug at the ends of my hair.

Brown? Maybe black. The lighting’s too dim to tell.

It’s thick, long, and a bit wavy— and greesey and dry at the sa ti?

I don’t even know what I look like.

Not like really look like.

No mirror. No phone cara. No plumbing.