I jolt awake in my rented room at The Iron Bloom, heart hammering from a nightmare—Bera, Lila, and Tira chasing me through Valthorne's forests, axes glinting, their laughter slicing like Zenoite blades. Damn curse weighs me down, pressing my bones, making my groan feel like hefting a Krovar . Then I feel her—Tira, sprawled across me like a drunk merchant on a Zorath, one arm slung over my chest, a leg hooked over my thigh. Her tight red dress, same as yesterday, clings to her phoenix-tattooed curves, reeking of ale, hair a tangled mess, boots still laced. This fire-crazed lunatic trying to replay yesterday's stunt? Does she crave torment? my super-perverted mind sparks.
My scavenging eye, honed from sniffing out traps, scans the room. No Moonflower sap, no cut fabric, none of her fake bruises from yesterday's memory. Dead drunk, stumbled into my bed, craving what swings between my legs, I smirk, the nightmare's axes flashing.
I slide out, the curse slowing my steps like wading through Gromble oil, throw on my tunic, buckle my glowing groin guard—"Supreme Sword Sleeps Here," Marko's gift—and head downstairs, ordering three plates of Gromble ribs, tubers, and ale. Bera and Tira'll be down soon, and I'm ready for their sparks.
The tavern's a chaotic hum, merchants haggling over Zenoite shards, the air thick with ale and sweat. I slump in a corner table, the curse's weight draining my stamina, though a sip of ale eases it. Bera and Tira storm down the stairs, whispering like hissing Starborn Drakes, oblivious to me lurking in the shadows. Tira's voice cuts low, her fiery aura flickering like a torch.
"I didn't mean to crash in his bed, you busty cow!" Bera snaps back, her temper crackling, "Sure, tell that to the drunks you drained mugs with last night! After that beast humiliated us, you jumped him, you lusty rider!" Tira hisses, "Quiet, he might be here. We poked the devil first—the hotspring, then that seduction stunt. We overplayed our hand, admit it." My grin widens, perverse delight bubbling as I pretend to stare into my ale, lost in thought.
They spot me, their glares sharp enough to carve Zenoite, and march over, hips swaying like Crestmoore's quarry winds.
"Well, Tira, sleep tight?" I drawl, gold-tipped braid glinting under the lanterns. Tira leans in, her phoenix tattoo peeking from her dress, a fiery smirk on her lips.
"You took advantage of a drunk girl, Beacon Boy. Used me good, didn't you?" Bera, arms crossed, her corset straining against her massive chest, stays silent, her rosy, tender pink skin flushing, eyes smoldering like a forge. I laugh, leaning back.
"Tira, if I'd used you, four things'd be true: one, you'd be bedbound—ask Bera," I wink, her flush deepening.
"Two, that dress'd be shredded. Three, you'd need a long bath, soaked to your core. Four, you think the Supreme Elf needs a drunk girl to prove his point?" Their faces burn like a Crestmoore sunset, jaws slack, words choked.
The food arrives, steaming ribs and tubers piling high. Tira dives in like a Crystal Wyrm, sauce dripping down her chin, while Bera nibbles slowly, her gaze locked on me, haunted by yesterday's memory—shackled, soaked, and shamed.Bera picks at a tuber, then speaks, voice low, trembling with heat. "Killyaen, I'm sorry. For the hotspring, for plotting with Tira and Lila to mess with you. We went too far." Her eyes flicker with vulnerability, then blaze, her Fire Qi sparking faintly as she slides next to me, her hand gripping my thigh, fingers brushing my groin guard.
"This fire's been burning since yesterday, you perverse bastard. Put it out," she whispers, her breath hot against my ear. Tira chokes on a rib, jaw dropping.
"Have you lost it, Bera? You wanted to torch him an hour ago, now you're begging for his bed?"
My grin's wider than a Zenoite quarry, my super-perverted mind painting Bera's curves in neon Glowvine.
"What's this, Tira? Jealous? Or craving another round tied to my bed, watching me work?" Tira shudders, a mix of arousal and chills flashing across her face, yesterday's memory—shackled and helpless—burning in her eyes. She bolts up, stammering, "I… forgot to buy… something!" and flees, muttering about errands. "Grab Bera some panties—she's running wild without 'em!" I shout, the tavern erupting in stares at Bera's crotch. She clamps her legs shut, her rosy skin crimson, steam practically hissing from her ears. Her fist slams my head, stars bursting, then she grabs my arm, dragging me upstairs, the crowd gawking as her Fire Qi crackles.
In my room, Bera shoves me onto the bed, her rosy, tender pink skin flushed, corset barely containing her massive breasts. "You're mine, Supreme Elf," she growls, straddling me, ripping my tunic to expose my toned chest, the curse's weight making my breaths heavy. My hands roam her curves, narrating her "blazing hips" and "melons ripe for harvest" in my lust-soaked mind. She grabs the Qi-blocking shackles from yesterday, their runes glowing faintly, and thrusts them at me.
"Tie me up, you twisted prick. Yesterday… it drove me wild," she admits, eyes burning with perverse thrill.
I secure her wrists to the bedframe, the shackles suppressing her Fire Qi, leaving her helpless but quivering with want. I dive in, my lips savage on her nipples, licking and biting, her gasps sharp as I bury my head between her massive breasts, their softness smothering me like a Zenoite cave-in. "Harder, you beast!" she moans, arching as I slide my throbbing "supreme sword" between her breasts, the friction driving us wild. I shift, entering her slick core, her cries echoing as I thrust with curse-fueled strength, the 30 kg weight pushing my stamina to the brink. She begs for more, and I switch, teasing her tighter hole, alternating between her core and rear with relentless rhythm, her body trembling, sweat-slicked, the bed creaking like a collapsing mine.
Hours pass, her moans a symphony, the shackles rattling as she writhes. We collapse, panting, but her Fire Qi sparks faintly through the shackles, urging a second round—slower, deeper, her nails clawing my back as I tease her bound state.
"You're my fire queen," I murmur, both of us spent, grinning like idiots.
Night falls, and we stumble downstairs, my stamina creeping back, Bera's arm looped through mine, her corset loosened, hair a wild tangle, her rosy skin glowing.
The tavern buzzes, men glaring jealously, women eyeing Bera with envy and me with lustful smirks. Tira struts in, her fiery aura flaring, red dress clinging to her tattooed thighs.
"Put out Bera's fire yet, Beacon Boy?" she taunts, tossing a Glowvine-sap coin that sticks to Bera's skirt. I grin, leaning in.
"Hers, yeah, but your flame's still burning from yesterday, my fiery little bird. Want me to help with that?" Bera freezes, her rosy skin flushing—part of her wants to laugh, part wants to slug me, maybe both, her hand twitching. Tira's eyes widen, her smirk faltering.
"My tattoo's got you hypnotized, elf," she recovers, thrusting her chest forward. I flash a wicked grin.
"Want me to ink you another? Chains around your wrists, so you never forget yesterday?" Tira's jaw drops, speechless, her mind spiraling. What's happening to me? I'm never this tongue-tied. I want to jump him, rip that tunic off, ride him till dawn. What is he? Why does he twist me like this?
Her thoughts crash as the innkeeper, a burly bastard with an Earth-hardened frame, slaps my shoulder.
"Haven't seen a lad with your stamina in years, boy—whole damn tavern felt that quake!" I leap onto the table, my groin guard glowing with "Supreme Sword Sleeps Here," crowing, "Behold the Supreme Elf, conqueror of fires and hearts!"
The crowd roars, merchants tossing coins for rounds of ale and ribs, chanting "Fiery Triangle!" as Bera's rosy skin blushes and Tira smirks, her eyes glinting with mischief. I toss a Zenoite shard from my spatial ring, and my split-leaf amulet pulses faintly—bad ale vibes, I mutter, shrugging it off. Tira leans in, whispering,
"Next time, I'm tying you up, Beacon Boy," her fiery aura sparking, promising a revenge prank. I grin, Lila's absence a faint pang drowned by the tavern's chaos and Bera's curves.