Volume 10 Chapter 25 Bridgehead to the Moon Palace
Edited by: Kanaa-senpai
”They aren’t moving.”
From the top of the walls, Primlena gazed down at them—like bugs huddling tight against the killing winter cold, beasts pressing close just to survive the chill. She leaned forward a little, her breath fogging in the crisp air.
”Kaitney. Weren’t there way more monsters than this?”
”Nah. They’ve dropped a ton. Way more than we even took out.”
The two sisters stood on the battlements, slurping hot stew from their bowls. They could have rested in the square below. Instead, they shoveled in mouthfuls of beans while keeping their eyes glued to the horizon, fists clenched around their spoons like it was a fight they couldn’t let slip.
Every soldier on the walls shifted uneasily, brows furrowed, murmuring. About a kilometer out, the monsters held their ground, arrayed in neat ranks, just far enough to taunt. And that mass of them? It had shrunk, clear as day compared to the start. What was once a seething, impenetrable blur now appeared as a single troop cluster.
Monsters, yes, and the distance made counting difficult. If that group had been humans, Primlena estimated around five thousand. Her stomach twisted—not fear, but the weight of their hard-won progress.
”The enemy army looks much smaller now,” she said, voice low and edged with that tired satisfaction.
”Yeah,” Kaitney replied, wiping stew from her chin. “Viola must’ve shown up, so they split their forces. Slipped north in the cover of night, I bet.”
If they’d thinned out this much, it could only mean relocation—either south to retreat or north to advance. Retreat made no sense after coming so far. It had to be north, the certainty settling heavily in her gut.
”The majin handed this spot to Viola? Why? They’ve taken heavy damage since the attack began. Ceding the field to vampires midway seems insane.”
Primlena slumped against the wall, spear propped easy in one hand, her muscles still humming from the fight. The man beside her yawned wide, scratching at his stubble as he took in her question, eyes half-lidded but sharp underneath.
In war, merit comes from defeating enemies and claiming land—no sharing glory. Demonkin yielding a battlefield to vampires is like gifting them the win. Everyone knows these races don’t care about each other; alliances are weak at best. Moon Court leading the vanguard doesn’t mean first dibs on kills. Vampires swooping in could anger demonkin who’ve already fought.
”True enough,” he admitted, yawn fading into a grim smirk. “They’ve already got skin in the game, so they could scream bloody murder about vampires poaching their merits. But they’ve got a reason to swallow it. Bet they were itching to quit this battle anyway.”
”Quit?” Primlena echoed, her voice sharpening as she stepped closer, shoulder brushing his like she needed the warmth to steady the spark of doubt.
Klock gazed over the wall, exhaustion weighing on his features, eyelids heavy. She sidled up beside him, their arms touching, sharing a quiet anchor in the biting wind.
”They thought it was just a small fort. Then a tsunami hit, wiping out their main force of large monsters. After that, it was an endless slog with no breakthrough, and they panicked. Losses piled up. ‘If this keeps going, the bosses will have our heads,’ that kind of fear gnawing at them.”
We fought. We killed. War isn’t simple—reports don’t tell the full story. Even in victory, they’d inspect the fort, tally enemy dead against their own, and calculate merits. No hiding the bloodbath.
”Taking the fort is just the start, not the end,” Primlena murmured, the pieces clicking with a bitter nod. “Even if they took it cleanly, Bandanzine learning of massive casualties would brand it a failure. Demonkin punish their own for less.”
To Bandanzine and his kind, monsters were disposable tools, sure—but tools in war ran finite. Even “mere” monsters counted as force, and after that first wave, not a single big one had reared up since. They had to husband those assets close, treat ’em like gold.
Klock rubbed his temple, recalling the opening salvo—a terrifying wall of death that could’ve ended them. The demonkin burned everything in one reckless throw, losing it all. Now, heads must be in despair. Against humans, it might’ve worked, but they never expected a tsunami. Excuses? Hard to sell to superiors.
Blame would crash down if tactics were questioned. Anyone with rank walks a knife’s edge, always watching their step.
”That’s why they handed it to Viola—for the excuse,” Klock went on, voice dropping conspiratorial, a sly edge cutting through his fatigue. “She’s a loose cannon, so ‘had no choice but to yield.’ Under that flag, they temporarily ditch the fort, march troops north, and rack up wins to wipe the slate clean.”
”Using Viola as the scapegoat. The situation screams it plainly,” Primlena agreed, a low chuckle escaping despite the ache in her bones.
Logic says take the fort first—best play. Skipping it for the north would raise questions later; war is dissected win or lose. Troop commanders face demotion or worse for fatal command errors.
But “Viola showed, couldn’t be helped”? Even superiors might buy that. Demon Lord himself called her Moon Court’s monster—enough to make any demonkin flinch.
Things swung as they’d hoped pre-battle. No more bleeding for this small fort—a pointless, fruitless grind. If that’s what demonkin thought, it was perfect. The scraps left here are just a holding pin. No real fight now, the air empty, tension bleeding into the cold dusk.
”Still, what idiots,” Primlena spat, frustration flaring hot in her chest. “Push a bit longer, and the tide might’ve turned for them.”
Klock snorted, shaking his head slow. “If the king or top general’s calling shots, maybe. But mid-level commanders? Shit turns out like this every time. War ain’t just enemies—you gotta kiss ass with your own side too, or you’re screwed.”
No way Bandanzine commanded that troop personally. Enemy collapse felt real, close enough to taste. Monster armies terrified, but with clear weak spots? Doable. Still, that was for Orrid’s governor to handle—not Klock and Brigante’s scale.
And damn. Stormhorn hadn’t shown this time. Klock had half-hoped it might swoop in mid-clash, lend a claw like old times. Can’t count it as a pure ally, though. Or had it slipped away quietly? No sign, no roar—he had no idea where it lurked, the absence itching like an old wound.
”Lady Keeper,” came a soft voice, pulling him sharp.
”What?”
Flavia emerged from the shadows, wrapped in a sleek black hood exuding refined poise, her aura solemn. A magic user through and through—anyone could tell she was high-rank, the air around her humming with restrained power.
”First battle. You did well—rest now.”
Klock waved it off with a tired grin. “Eh, didn’t feel like much.”
First deployment or not, he’d seen personal scraps before, even jumped into the fray at Polet Village against a mob. Count that as a debut? Debatable. But a full army bearing down? That was new—the gut-wrenching despair, the throat-tight tension of facing horde-scale death. Never figured it would claw so deep.
Thank fuck for Primlena. In that moment, dragging masses to hell, regret flickered—what have I unleashed?—the war’s cold truth sinking in.
”Orders on the vampire disposal, Lady Keeper,” Flavia continued, voice steady but urgent. “The prisoner’s magic power is nearly drained. The restraint will break soon.”
”Magic power drained…?” Klock echoed, brow creasing as ice prickled his spine.
”Yes. The binding I cast feeds off the target’s magic power. Once depleted, the spell fades.”
”Using the enemy’s own magic? That’s an insane spell,” he breathed, awe mixing with a dark thrill, pulse quickening at the sheer ruthless genius.
Normal bindings guzzle mana to hold and sustain. Flavia’s? It siphons directly from the victim, brutally efficient. Pulling it from their body, sucking life dry from the inside, the thought sending a shiver of respect through him.
”Primlena, hold the fort. I’m negotiating with Rugandia.”
”Got it.”
Flavia fell in step beside him, their boots crunching urgently over stone as they headed for the barn. Usually just storage, but today? An emergency cell, the wood creaking, air thick with the promise of hard choices and screams.
”Rugandia. I want to negotiate with you.”
Klock shoved open the barn door. There it was—a skin-crawling horror show. Thick clumps of wooden roots coiled around a human shape, smothering her. It hit him like staring at someone trapped in an abyss beast’s grip, roots pulsing alive. His brows knotted as he stepped inside, the sharp, acrid stink of piss slamming into his nose.
Fuck, she pissed herself. In that state? No way she could’ve hit the toilet. Damn, we went too far. Guilt twisted in his gut, sour and heavy, as his boots crunched over the soiled straw.
A faint creeeak—her fingers clenched desperately around the roots, knuckles white. She was conscious, fighting weakly, thrashing against the hold. No real strength left; just gripping, enduring, her body trembling faintly.
”Does this thing suck out magic power when touched?” Klock asked, voice thick with unease.
”No,” Flavia replied calm as ever. “Touching with your hand barely draws anything.”
Roots like a plant’s—sucking water, nutrients from soil. Shaped perfectly to leech magic power from the source, veins throbbing subtly in the dim light.
”So touching’s fine—then how does it drain her?” he pressed, dread coiling tighter.
”Yes. By rooting deep inside the target’s body.”
”…Huh?”
Inside the body. Roots spreading in there. Took Klock three full seconds to process, his mind blanking out, stomach lurching cold.
He edged closer to Rugandia, heart thudding hesitantly. Up close, he peered at the mess—thick roots bundled tight, gaps showing her head trapped. Clearly, roots snaked into her mouth, like an abyss plant burrowing into prey.
”No way, you… this is…”
Not just her mouth—no. To keep her pinned, roots slithered under her clothes, wrapping her body ruthlessly, binding every curve. Lean closer, and they’d wormed under her robe, invading deep.
He peeled the robe up, fabric whispering—drip—a glistening trail of piss on the roots. Her shorts next; a fat root thrust straight in, piercing like a violation that burned his eyes.
”Wait—Flavia?” Klock choked out, face twisting in shock.
”Yes.”
”This… it’s inside her…?”
Horror slammed him, jaw dropping, bile rising. This wasn’t restraint—this was punishment, cruel and twisted. Flavia’s face was blank, like it was Tuesday.
”Exactly. The spell roots through the body completely. Mouth, ears, asshole—every hole gets invaded, draining their power dry.”
”Nooo—what the fuck—that’s brutal, brutal, brutal!? Holy shit, that’s terrifying. What is this?!””
The world’s a goddamn monster. Binding by shoving foreign shit up the ass? Bowed to that nightmare. Flavia looked pure, innocent… that’s why she could do this, no flinch. Whoever taught her? Dead man walking.
Torture magic, pure and vile—roots locking you from inside, no escape, siphoning magic so you can’t twitch. Zero mercy, just raw, dignity-shredding horror. Forestkin specialty? Pray it stays that way—keep this nightmare in their woods.
He turned to Rugandia, voice softening urgent. “Resist nothing, and I’ll free you from this.” Her hand poked out—perfect. “Raise it if you agree.”
Roots probably jammed her ears; she couldn’t hear. But she did—hand shot up frantically, waving desperately, eyes wild above the roots.
The spell unraveled—roots dissolving in wisps of green smoke. Last to fade: the creepy sword with rolling eyes. Rugandia slumped, collapsing free.
Klock lunged, caught her mid-fall, arms wrapping tight. No way dumping her in her own piss puddle—heart ached sharp at the mess. Hoisted her piggyback, her weight limp and warm against him, piss-soaked clothes soaking through as he hauled ass to the chapel, boots pounding urgent, her shallow breaths hot on his neck.
”Worst… ever…”
”Hey, shit—I’m really sorry.”
Rugandia gulped water down, steadying ragged breaths as she slumped in the pew. She raked back her semi-long black hair, glaring daggers at Klock—color returning slow, but cheeks still flushed crimson, eyes glassy with unshed tears that stung to see.
”You always pull this sadistic bullshit? Not just fucking—humiliating me? Your tastes scare the hell outta me.”
”Wasn’t me—Forestkin shit…?”
Shouldn’t name-drop them here, but no choice—excuses flew from his hands waving wild, desperate. Flavia was out, but now it all pinned on him, guilt twisting deeper, her glare burning holes.
Her body’s still twitching faint—bzzzt—roots’ tendrils leaving her wrecked inside, words failing to touch the raw violation. Magic tentacles raped her, no sugarcoating. And to the woman he wanted peace with? Fucked that bridge hard.
”Rugandia. I ain’t here to hurt you.”
”Which lying mouth says that…?”
”No—wait! I swear, not me! My bad for not clocking Forestkin magic—total fuckup!!”
Bought useless hate now, chest tight with panic. He knew Flavia was off—let it slide, and this happened. Fair to beat himself bloody over it. Flavia? Zero remorse, cool as ice. Later. They’d talk. Hard.
”Anyway—listen first. I want peace with you and Viola. Let me talk.”
He dropped to knees, eyes level with hers in the pew—close, earnest, pulse hammering the plea.
”Agree to hear me, and you’re free. Even if you turn enemy after.”
Klock laid max mercy first shot—heart on sleeve. Didn’t need the win yet; needed talking, the door cracked open, air thick with fragile hope.
”What kinda dumbass deal is that?” she snapped, voice cracking raw.
”Maybe. But I ain’t half-assing peace with you two.”
Rejection? Fine. Start the talk—that’s step one, or nothing moved. Goal: recruit her. But easy “yes”? Dream on.
”Why push this hard?”
”‘Cause you’re you, Rugandia.”
”That ’cause you’re House of Livorno?”
”Yeah. You served Sylvia—you ain’t no stranger.”
Stranger? Bullshit technicality, but fuck details—let it slide.
”…How the hell you even know me? Never met you.”
”Long story… Rugandia, first—remember Sylvia Croce?”
…
She froze, brows furrowing deep, words choking silent—pain flickering raw in her eyes.
”…Kinda, yeah.”
”Hero Anna is Sylvia Croce.”
”…What?”
Didn’t know if it’d land, but he played the ace, watching her face—shock rippling, breath hitching. If Sylvia memories lingered? This hit like a gut punch, impossible to shrug.
”Get why I wanna negotiate now?”
”…Think I’ll believe that shit?”
”It’s truth. But hey, your call to buy it. Point is—we’re that stance. Hero being Sylvia? Won’t flip you overnight.”
Fifteen years since Sylvia died. Rugandia’s service? Short as hell—no mind-change fuel. This was his heart spilling—raw want to welcome her side, no tricks, just aching truth.
”You know Sand Village, right? If Sylvia’s Hero Anna, why the fuck couldn’t she save ’em?”
Sylvia-sama. Still that tone—loyalty’s ghost clinging tight, stabbing his chest.
”Simple—she wasn’t Hero then. Your Viola wasn’t born Moon Court apostle either.”
”Turned Hero later…? Even harder to swallow.”
Yeah, sounded convenient as hell. Right now? All words, no proof—skepticism burned fair in her glare.
”I get it. When I learned? I was most shocked alive. Fiancée from my clan’s heyday—reunite, and bam, Hero. Wish I could beam that fifteen-year-reunion gut-kick right to you.”
Strictly? Shock came from her sword-at-throat revenge vow—but hey, details soured the romance, left his throat dry with old fear’s echo.
Klock skimmed the ugly truth, spinning it light like some old bar joke, grin forced wide to ease the air. But Rugandia’s face stayed locked tight, jaw clenched hard—no laugh cracking through. Made sense; enemy turf’s heart, middle of fucking nowhere for her. Chitchat? Might as well ask her to dance on graves.
”Even if Hero Anna’s the Sylvia-sama I knew—so fucking what? Like you said, I ain’t flipping sides.”
”Got it. Viola shot me down already—ain’t free lunch, huh?”
”Free lunch? You think we’ve got room to betray?”
”Nah, you two ain’t Vampire top dogs. Strike peace with Moon Court’s nobility, and you’d follow suit, right?”
”…Yeah, fair.”
If Viola ran the show, it’d be quick—but this? At least she’d see them groping for no-blood paths. No trap vibes, no yes needed. Just plant the seed; when Moon Court beef thawed someday, they’d slide back to the table easy. War’s end meant Vampire scraps dying too—impossible now? Fine. Woo hard early, and it’d bloom later, roots digging deep in her doubt.
”Rugandia.”
”…What?”
”Kispe surrendered already.”
”…Huh?”
”Hero Anna stormed Crimson Spire herself. Place no one cracks—she did. Hero power crushed ’em flat. So she waved white, trading her succubus crew’s lives.”
Rugandia’s eyes blew wide, body freezing stiff—scanning Klock’s face frantic, hunting lies in his steady stare. Easy prove if pushed; how much shake this gave? Gold to gauge.
”…Bullshit. That’s why you walked out alive.”
”Yep. And next? Moon Court.”
”…!!”
”We’ve got the drop on how to take it.”
Bluff, straight up. Unless Cianie rolled back—then truth. Crimson Spire fell? Moon Court’d crumble same. No vampire slaying Cianie? Victory sealed, blood already tasting sweet.
”Scare tactic. Ain’t biting.”
”Talked Cardinal Hanover down once.”
”…What?!”
”Shit’s all out now.”
Her eyes popped huge—knew it, but reaction screamed she knew him. High-up in Moon Court, no stretch. Cianie dragging a vampire cardinal? Intel bomb, heart-stopping gold, pulse hammering Klock’s thrill.
Hanover? Klock’d chewed it endless—lowbie vamp sneaking Theocracy? No fast track to cardinal. Cash, sweat, strings, muscle, years—everything poured in. Pointed straight to nobility pulling levers, cocky as sin.
Backup: some underling on orders? Nah—Barreith face-off screamed pure arrogant noble blood, chin high like owned the world.
”Well. You know the cardinal too? Master lives up,” came a voice—silk and venom.
”You…!!?”
Not door creak—no. She’d always been there, ghosting by the altar like born from shadows. One flash—white demon wings flapping proof, gone in a blink, air rippling faint.
”…Why’re you here?”
”Master interrogating? Thought I’d lend tiny hand,” she purred, stepping down dainty—tiny, cute-as-hell girl now, no trace of hellspawn.
Rugandia jolted clear—panic splashing raw across her face, breath snagging sharp.
”Succubus Princess… no way. You really surrendered…?”
”Yes. We succubi bowed formal. Hero’d have our heads—Master begged mercy, saved us. Now? Serving in this Brigante group, under our life-debt Master.”
Serving? Kispe ever worked? Klock bit it back, air thick—let her roll, help sounded sweet, tension coiling eager in his gut.
”Ms. Rugandia. Ms. Viola still… kicking…?”
…
Enemy flagged—Rugandia clamped shut, lips thin, eyes darting guilty.
”How long she stay kicking?”
”…Meaning?”
”Literal, dear. Nobility’s pride runs deep. Dhampir snagging apostle spot? Slave class strutting their yard? They’ve raged forever—you know.”
”So what? Old news.”
Kispe’s laugh tinkled—evil, child-sweet, that smug mask she wore lording over trash.
”My joining here? Moon Court nobles will hear. You’ll squeeze tighter, shoulders burning.”
”Hah? Why us?”
”‘Cause I backed Ms. Viola. Nobles let you roam free to dodge me. Now I’m Hero’s? That’s cutoff—clean break. How long till they boot her from the castle?”
”…What the fuck are you saying…!?!?”
Rugandia gaped, lost—tough for Klock’s words, but Kispe’s? Cracked her wide, confusion bleeding raw. Natural—pure threat, claws out gleaming.
”You shielded Viola?”
”Shield? I spotted her first. Groomed her for my finger—kept nosy nobles off while softening her up.”
Rugandia’s gaze dropped, face draining pale—click—puzzles snapping ugly in her head, gut twisting visible.
”But didn’t drag her to Crimson Spire.”
”Yes. Let go final. Apostle-bound? Had to yield to Moon Court.”
Klock nodded slow, pieces fitting bitter. Kispe’s hook? Viola’s Cursed Eye of the Moon Mirror, power dripping. But otherworld apostle? Ownership muddied hard. Snatch from Moon Court? Beef eternal—no matter Kispe’s terror, nobles wouldn’t stomach leashed spot.
”Kept ties after, though.”
”Yes. Easier handling than those pompous shits—way nicer.”
”…Asshole.”
Tone grated—Rugandia glared venom. Kispe? Smiled delighted, lapping it like cream, eyes sparkling cruel.
If real? Clusterfuck brewing. Ten years? Dust to Klock. But long-lived vamps? Yesterday’s sting, hate fresh as blood. No shield? Nobles’d pounce, knife-fight for scraps, Viola’s throat first.
”Hey, Rugandia. Sure you won’t join us?”
…
”That ’cause Sand Village folk’re still locked up—hostages dragging you?”
”No.”
Klock’s words hung there, pulling him up short for a beat—heart thudding hesitant as gears ground slow. Yeah… could just pull her solo. Real fighter too; she’d shine hard on their side, blood pumping fierce at the thought.
”Sending you back? Viola can’t glare same hate at me after. Hate fighting her guts—really don’t. So you’re going home.
Oh—and stay undercover. Dhampir curse lift? Lips sealed—Viola included. Keep rolling as her crew, same as always.”
Endgame: snag Viola. Returning Rugandia? Bet on tomorrow, seed buried deep for harvest, chest tight with the long gamble.
”Even if war hits us? Fight as Moon Court. No dragging Viola our way.”
”Fair… but why not break her contract too? Can’t flip instant, sure—but free her, and we’d haul Mermy crew, bolt Moon Court, land here clean.”
Secret sway on Viola, snap the slave chain. Nail it? Her and Rugandia yanking Sand Village girls—yeah, dodge noble eyes easy, hope flaring hot in his veins.
”Nah… fuckup risk’s massive. Nobles sniff? All you die screaming.”
”…Shit…”
Viola spared maybe—rest? Death row, no mercy. Rugandia’s brows crushed deep at Klock’s words, pain twisting raw.
”Nobles? Hate strong underlings—fear, not joy. Shake their power, rank? Boom, rivals plot. Got a beast like Viola? Always weighing turncoat odds. Bet they’re prepped—minimum, eyes glued 24/7.”
”Watch… oh fuck.”
Flash hit her—Rugandia clutched her head, face draining white, agony spilling visible.
”Castle inside—Ridonia was singing.”
”Singing?”
”Count Bernia sniffed it instant.”
Click—nobles matched Klock’s read, slimy as sin. Viola watched constant? Sneak close? Nightmare fuel, gut sinking cold.
”Viola play? We handle. You? Blend seamless—exact same.”
”Got it.”
”Daily grind, no slip. But big moves there? Whisper if you can. Full assault? Wanna brace.”
”Got it. I’ll signal somehow. But… endgame? Your pitch floats wild—no landing.”
How to close? Moon Court beef had to thaw—core fix. Slim shot: yank Viola mid-peace. But sway and curse-crack under noble noses? Long haul, patience burning slow in his blood.
”Talk ’em down.”
Meeting? Hellish odds. Start dialogue—vamp cease-fire pitch.
”Fails?”
”Then crush ’em.”
No choice—war. Post-Demon Lord, Cianie flank, smash Moon Court. Snatch Viola? That locked it. One woman’s war—worth every drop, fire roaring defiant.
”Thanks… for saving Viola.”
”Yeah. Save thanks till she’s here. Ain’t swayed her yet.”
Klock’s fingers dug brutal into her buttocks, yanking her ass tight against his raging hard-on—rock-hard and straining vicious in his lower garments, grinding it fierce through fabric straight into her soft belly. Fuck me, the demand burned raw, slamming silent into her tiny frame, cock throbbing hungry for that heat.
Saliva bridge snapped down sloppy as their lips crashed—her face flipped instant to pure bitch in heat, eyes glazing feral, chest heaving wild. His pulse jackhammered, thundering hot at the switch, that slutty surrender flooding his veins like fire. Corner of her mouth curled wicked smile—mine, confirmation hit sweet and vicious, this face his alone, no sharing that broken bliss.
Rough as hell, he crushed her hand in his grip, dragging her hard toward the bedroom—boots stomping urgent over chapel stone, her little body stumbling eager in his wake, air thick with the musk of what was coming, her shallow pants echoing his own ragged roar.
”Thank you for trying to help Viola,” Rugandia said, her voice thick with emotion. She had managed to stand, her body still trembling slightly.
”Don’t thank me yet. I haven’t even convinced Viola,” Klock replied, his tone weary.
”Still… thank you. I never expected this to happen, and I’m still confused, but… if I get the chance, I’ll thank Sylvia-sama too.”
Rugandia, now steady enough to walk, insisted on returning. Klock agreed, deciding it was best to send her back before Viola came looking for her.
”Wait. Before you go, I have one last piece of information that might be useful,” Rugandia said, stopping at the exit.
”Oh?”
”Do you know about the Beast Demon Tribe? They’ve allied themselves with the ruler of the Great Wolf Forest.”
She left behind the information about the Beast Demon Tribe, a group Klock was considering for recruitment, and vanished through a portal.
With Rugandia gone and the confrontation with Viola seemingly settled, Klock left the chapel. Despite the positive developments, his heart was heavy.
The source of his unease was the woman beside him—Kispe Shisa. The mistress of Crimson Spire, now bearing his slave mark.
He had subjected her to terrible treatment, not once, but twice. She likely wouldn’t dare defy him now. With the slave mark, she was nothing more than his property.
That’s not right. Kispe was no ordinary woman. She wasn’t some naive village girl who would simply break after being tormented. No matter how much he hurt her, she would smile sweetly and offer him poison the next moment.
”Men returning from the battlefield often find the city streets bustling,” Kispe said softly, her voice cutting through the silence as they prepared to leave the chapel.
”What are you talking about?”
”War is a matter of life and death. Men who experience the thrill of battle, facing death, find their desires heightened. It’s instinct, perhaps? After brushing against death, they feel an urgent need to leave descendants, to fill a woman’s womb.”
Klock raised an eyebrow at her sudden, blunt statement. Anyone else might have dismissed it as a crude joke. But coming from a succubus, it carried a different weight.
She sidled up to him, clinging to his arm, a playful smile on her face. She acted like a girl in love, her fingers tracing a path down his thigh.
”Master. Welcome back ♡. Your command of the battlefield was magnificent. You have desires for me, don’t you? Your prey is right here. The room is just next door. With your large, strong hands, it would be easy to take my small ones… ♡”
Her adorable face, her provocative body, her innocent voice—all a carefully crafted lure.
Romantic advances usually started with the man. When a woman initiated, there was always a reason.
”It’s a shame we couldn’t enjoy Ms. Rugandia. Spoils of war are the best part, but I couldn’t risk displeasing you. She’ll have to wait for Ms. Viola to return before we can deal with her. Besides, there’s no need to hold back with someone already in hand… ♡”
She purred, a demon hiding wings and tail, feigning innocence to ensnare him. She wore the guise of a naive girl, whispering sweet nothings.
”I received an eternal mark from you, Master. Are you satisfied…? Will you let me go for the next woman? Or…? ♡”
She pressed herself against him, her seductive plea radiating heat. Letting her go? Unthinkable. A prize like this? Never to be shared. Her very words were a challenge, a subtle act of defiance.
If she defied him, he’d make her understand immediately.
He grabbed her buttocks, pulling her closer, tilting her head back to demand a kiss. His erection, hard against his pants, pressed insistently against her lower abdomen. Fuck me, the demand echoed, raw and urgent.
The bridge of saliva fell. Her face transformed instantly into that of a predatory female, eyes glazed, chest heaving. He felt his pulse hammer, a wild thrill coursing through him as she surrendered. A wicked smile curled her lips—mine, the confirmation sweet and sharp. This expression was his alone.
He grabbed her hand, his grip rough, and dragged her toward the bedroom, boots stomping urgently over the chapel floor. Her small body stumbled eagerly in his wake, the air thick with the scent of impending intimacy, her shallow pants mirroring his own ragged breaths.
Notes:
• Primlena – Orange-haired merfolk priestess, fierce yet elegant | First v8c3 | Sister of Sea General Primjune, subordinate to Primrity | Once captured and violated by Klock, now obsessed with reclaiming honor | Commands Obsidian Riders on giant fish, fights with trident | Seeks to drag Klock to Seabed Temple for marriage trial or execution | Unique note: revenge-driven siren bride who masks fury under ritual grace
• Bandanzine – They are one of the Four Heavenly Kings, appeared as a warrior with a dignified gaze, known for their frontline combat prowess.
• Orrid – Southern pleasure town near Conro, known for its chaos and vice. Serves as Brigante’s next destination and Count Grasso’s sphere of influence. Rumored den of spies and mercenaries.
• Flavia – Younger Forestkin princess (132). Gentle yet resolute. Sent by Queen Isabella as marriage pledge to Klock, the Chain Binder, symbolizing the Void’s loyalty to the Goddess Teekua.
• Rugandia – Human maid from Sand Village appearing before Croce Estate’s fire, assigned by Sylvia’s father as her loyal, diligent servant.
• Clea – younger dog beastkin sister who also serviced Klock previously.
• Sylvia – The hero who accuses Klock of abandoning her in her past life. She was reborn as Anna after dying in a fire and holds a grudge against Klock.
• Anna – The legendary Hero, chosen to defeat the Demon Lord. Her past life is Sylvia Croce. She is described as a heavenly being with overwhelming skill and a merciless attitude.
• Cianie – A noble girl with a fluffy white and light blue dress, indicating her high status. She has a hesitant and flustered personality but is kind and courteous. Her relationship with Klock begins as an accidental encounter and develops into a romantic interest. She has a fiancé but expresses feelings for Klock, complicating their relationship.
• Cardinal Hanover – He appears as Theocracy envoy; clarifies Barutoro’s legitimate authority and prevents Hero from being forced into Barreith’s political obligations
• Mermy – A dampir maid and Viola’s childhood friend first appearing during the Orrid sky battle. Urges retreat as sun rises to avoid burning. Serves as Viola’s subordinate in the vampire maid unit. Loyal ally with no other known relations. Calm and dutiful.
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Edited by Kanaa-senpai.
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