Killing Marriage [ABO] - Chapter 4
Chapter 4: Obligation
The vast majority of ordinary people could only wait to be matched before marrying the one and only partner assigned to them—unlike Ren Zhong and Zhang Qingyuan, who had the luxury of choosing from multiple candidates.
Therefore, in the early days of the Compulsory Marriage Matching Act, the happiness index of such matches was not high, and the increase in the birthrate failed to meet expectations.
Some officials and so-called “experts” proposed using big data and AI systems to monitor the marital lives of couples. The AI would score their “performance” to determine whether they were fulfilling their obligations and whether they required marriage counseling. This requirement had been in place for several years.
Ren Zhong was shocked.
He had read through the Compulsory Marriage Matching Act and was aware of this ridiculous regulation. But he hadn’t expected this day to actually arrive—and so suddenly. He was completely unprepared, mentally or otherwise.
This marriage… truly lacked any sense of existence.
Who could’ve guessed that a man he met for the first time today had actually been his husband for a whole month?
“Isn’t it stated that if one party is pregnant, ill, disabled, or in other special circumstances, they can apply for a leave of absence?” Ren Zhong knocked on the side of his electric wheelchair. “I’m disabled—shouldn’t that exempt me from this obligation?”
Zhang Qingyuan looked equally helpless. “Captain, you’re only in the recovery stage after surgery. That doesn’t qualify as a disability in terms of marital or reproductive function. I already submitted a leave request to the Marriage Monitoring Center. It was denied.”
He opened the app that all married citizens were required to download—the Marriage Monitoring Center—and pulled up the administrator’s response.
Ren Zhong took the screen, skipping past the formal greetings and pleasantries.
“…Given that the patient has already been discharged and completed treatment, their injury is considered minor. As the wound is located on a peripheral area of the body, after consultation with the attending physician, the Monitoring Center has determined it does not affect the ability to engage in marital relations. Therefore, leave is not approved.”
In simpler terms, the Monitoring Center’s stance was—
He only needed to lie down, spread his legs, and get it over with. Whether or not his legs worked didn’t matter.
Zhang Qingyuan’s expression was also hard to describe. “It really is difficult to get marital leave approved. I thought your surgery was serious enough that they’d make an exception. But…”
“That… uh, Mr. Zhang, what if you told them you sprained your ankle or something…” Ren Zhong was getting desperate, racking his brain for the kind of dumb excuses he’d used to skip class back in school.
Zhang Qingyuan shook his head, dashing that last hope. “A friend of mine tried something similar. The Monitoring Center still refused, and just sent him a few pages of a manual suggesting they try different positions.”
Ren Zhong: “…”
Sure, the evaluators were AI and supposedly protected users’ privacy, but who wouldn’t feel grossed out by this?
Ren Zhong cursed, “What a stupid fucking system.”
“They say it protects privacy, but in reality, any connected camera is a potential leak,” Zhang Qingyuan said, equally dissatisfied—though at least he didn’t swear.
But they had no choice.
Unless leave was granted for pregnancy, disability, illness, separation, or another force majeure, every month they were required to perform marital duties in front of the camera.
One warning could impact Ren Zhong’s military promotion.
A second would result in mandatory marriage counseling and a 40% fine on his personal income.
The third? He’d be demoted in the military.
“Captain—uh, maybe it’s weird to still call you that right now. Let’s go with Mr. Ren.”
Zhang Qingyuan asked with polite seriousness, “Mr. Ren, are you willing to fulfill the ‘obligation’ in front of the AI evaluation system?”
“…,” Ren Zhong was quiet for a while, then sighed. “Honestly, I don’t want to expose my personal life like this under any circumstances. But the rules are what they are. I can’t let this bring trouble to you, me, or the military.”
He took a deep breath. “So, I’ll comply.”
This wasn’t something his reluctance could change. It was better to offer each other a dignified compromise.
Zhang Qingyuan looked surprised.
His eyes twitched slightly, betraying an internal shock that Ren Zhong quickly picked up on.
Ren Zhong figured the man probably had a whole speech prepared—ready to reason, plead, and impress with eloquence.
And yet, he just agreed—without argument, and so fast!
Despite Zhang Qingyuan’s efforts to hide it, a sense of emptiness leaked through.
How empty? Like someone who pulled three all-nighters studying for an exam only to find out it was open book.
“…,” Zhang Qingyuan was silent.
After a long pause, he opened his mouth, closed it, and finally spoke.
“Thank you for your cooperation and understanding. But…” His tone shifted. “I’ve learned some tricks from married friends—ways to fool the AI. Would you…”
Ren Zhong immediately replied, “I’m all ears!”
“Seems you’re someone who stays true to your feelings,” Zhang Qingyuan said, sounding relieved.
…
That night, a fake consummation meant to trick the AI system was scheduled.
After setting up the government-issued marriage monitoring camera, the couple underwent facial recognition and fingerprint verification. Once their identities were confirmed, the AI scoring began.
The AI assigned to rate marital intimacy wasn’t particularly intelligent.
In fact, everyone who’d used it agreed it was a “glorified idiot.”
It only judged based on a few preset indicators to determine if a couple had really done the deed.
[Skin Exposure Index]
The more you exposed, the higher the score.
So if one person wore their “factory-original birthday suit” and the other wore “the emperor’s new clothes,” and they spun around in front of the camera a few times, the score would hit the pass mark.
Scores were displayed in real-time on the app. Once they maxed one index, they could move to the next.
[Physical Contact Index]
Ren Zhong lay stiffly on the bed.
Zhang Qingyuan, equally stiff and awkward, covered them with a blanket to ease some of the discomfort.
He showed Ren Zhong videos from an acting school’s open course—teaching camera-friendly “fake kissing” techniques.
The romantic setup began with the Alpha gently cradling the Omega’s face and brushing his thumb across the lips. Then, he’d lean in and “kiss” his thumb.
The trick required subtle, believable acting.
Before closing their eyes, they needed to give a bashful, longing look, followed by careful head tilting, synchronized breathing, and gentle caressing.
The Alpha’s hand—visible to the camera—would trail from the Omega’s neck into his hair, lifting his head for the “kiss.”
Zhang Qingyuan: “…”
Ren Zhong, being military, kept his hair short. Even though he was on medical leave now and not quite buzz-cut, it was still prickly—and Zhang Qingyuan could definitely feel it.
At this point, the Omega was supposed to breathe heavily, torn between resistance and desire, sweetness and shame. First, he would push against the Alpha’s chest, then ultimately wrap his arms around his neck.
Ren Zhong mimicked the motion with minimal effort.
Still, he accidentally shoved Zhang Qingyuan right off.
Bit off mark, but still okay.
They started the fake kiss again.
Time to do the little “punch.”
Ren Zhong pulled back even more, lightly tapping Zhang Qingyuan’s chest.
Zhang Qingyuan gave a stifled grunt—the controlled force caught in his throat, making him sound like he had sudden constipation.
Forget it. Let’s just skip to wrapping the arms.
“Wait wait wait!” Zhang Qingyuan quickly pulled back, dodging the muscular arms.
That night, he learned two painful truths firsthand:
-
Muscles gained through combat training were not the same as protein-shake gym muscles.
-
A well-trained Omega soldier could absolutely overpower your average Alpha.
[Sound Index]
This one was trickier. It had two parts: vocal and ambient.
The vocal part was easy—like triggering a voice assistant. As long as they said key phrases, the system would recognize and score them.
They took out a banned-words list and began reading dramatically.
Ren Zhong frowned and said: “Ahh… Ahh… Ohh… Mmm…”
Zhang Qingyuan hesitated, shot a “deep” glance at Ren Zhong, peeked at the cheat sheet on the nightstand, and followed, “Ahh… Mmm… Faster…”
At least that just needed acting. For the ambient noises, they needed props.
Zhang Qingyuan, under the blanket, did modified push-ups to shake the bed.
They’d loosened the bed screws beforehand, so the thing squeaked on cue.
Under the blanket, Ren Zhong opened a jar of slime.
He poked at it rhythmically to match the bed’s motion, producing wet, sticky sounds.
“Squelch!”
The thinned slime bubbled and hissed.
“Pop!”
They were perfectly in sync. Practically indistinguishable from the real thing.
“Should we bring in some… toys?” Zhang Qingyuan asked, giving Ren Zhong a fake “kiss” and ducking under the blanket.
Ren Zhong got the hint. He took out a mini electric suction cup and placed it on his chest, creating convincing “hickeys” for the final score.
[Physiological Index] was the last step, based on facial recognition and biometrics post-“session.”
“Pulse: qualified.”
Of course it was—they were nervous as hell fooling the AI.
“Sweat: qualified.”
Obviously. It was summer and they were under a blanket.
“Semen: …”
Zhang Qingyuan took out a tied, used-looking rubber item filled with cloudy liquid.
Camera scanned. Approved.
The app showed animated fireworks and rained pixelated hearts.
“Congratulations on an excellent marital intimacy experience!”
Finally, they could unplug the damn AI and turn everything off.
As they got dressed, Ren Zhong asked curiously, “So what did you put inside that?”
“Thick cream sea-salt milk foam,” Zhang Qingyuan said, slipping into his robe. “With some clear slime and water. If used normally, it’s actually great on milk tea.”
Ren Zhong: “…”
Thanks, but he’d probably never touch milk foam again for the rest of his life.