TO&FQ: Book 2 - Chapter 37 (RAW)

Chapter 37 - The Lecher “Lust and greed are more gullible than innocence.” - Mason Cooley. Head held high, back straight as a lance, Seraphi

Chapter 37 - The Lecher

“Lust and greed are more gullible than innocence.”

- Mason Cooley.

Head held high, back straight as a lance, Seraphina was the very image of a captured noblewoman who still clung to her dignity like armor. Her expression, serene yet defiant, was that of one expecting ransom. Behind her, Desdemona mirrored the posture of her lady, but barely. The hunger in her eyes, that feral gleam, told another story—a beast caged only by willpower and the unspoken terror of disappointing the golden-haired aristocrat before her.

They drew stares. Soldiers lined the path like gawking townsfolk at a gallows march—most were green peasant levies by the way they held their spears, their armor hanging off them like borrowed costumes. A few veterans loomed among them, silent and grim-eyed, but the new-looking troops outnumbered them. Blacksmiths labored nearby at clanking mobile forges, their soot-smeared faces lit orange by flame. One of the younger craftsmen, too distracted by the girls, drove his hammer down onto his own thumb with a sickening crunch, howling and swearing as he dropped the twisted piece he had been working on.

She had to give it that, the Empire’s language was definitely suited for cursing.

At the head of their escort strutted Sergeant Zhao Genshu—a creature who embodied the word "ratty" so perfectly it might as well have been tattooed on his forehead. His beady, narrow eyes glinted with opportunism, and his buck teeth jutted out like he was always halfway to gnawing something. However, he walked now with the swagger of a man who believed he had conquered a kingdom. Genshu grinned wide as he waved at his comrades in the camp, puffing his chest with the self-importance of one who had personally captured the Aranthian noblewomen for his general’s hareem or ransom.

They marched on through the heart of the camp until they reached their destination: a crimson pavilion emblazoned with the coiled image of a dragon turtle. The heavy silk walls shimmered in the sun, ominous and regal. Before the entrance stood two guards—silent statues clad in lacquered black armor, their halberds cruel and archaic. The blades, etched with jagged runes and glimmering script, seemed to hum with latent menace. Even in rest, the weapons gave the impression of slicing through the very air around them.

Their escorts dismounted, and Sir Frest and the brothers helped the girls down from the horses. Sir Gravens looked very worried, it took everything he had not to draw the sword at his waist. He was fearful, but not in fear for his life, but for his lady and his lady love.

Sergeant Genshu conferred briefly with the guards, their unreadable gazes sweeping over Seraphina and Desdemona. No words were exchanged—just a pair of nods, curt and cold.

“I will summon the Great General Ma,” Genshu declared as though reciting from a holy text. With a theatrical sweep, he pulled back the silk flap and vanished into the tent’s shadow.

They waited. Time stretched in the waiting, each second sharpening the tension like a knife across a whetstone. Seraphina sat astride her horse, a storm boiling beneath her calm exterior. The rope strained to constrain her. Patience thinned. 

Just as her temper reached a flashpoint—just as she considered bursting out of her bonds and carving a path through anyone foolish enough to stand in her way—the tent flap stirred.

And as if summoned by her very dark thoughts, the general emerged.

General Ma emerged from the pavilion like a lustful storm disguised in silk and lacquered steel. He was a rotund man clad in gleaming red lamellar armor, its lacquered plates like bloodied scales, and beneath it, a brocade tunic shimmered with black and gold patterns of clouds and waves. His face was round, eyes narrow and calculating, crowned by a meticulously oiled mustache that curled like the tails of a calligrapher’s brush—his chin otherwise clean-shaven. At his hip hung a curved saber in a lacquered scabbard adorned with an ornate dragon turtle motif, its jeweled eyes gleaming, its shell etched with exquisite detail—a weapon and proclamation both. 

He moved with deceptive grace for a man of his shape, and as he stepped forward, the soldiers around him straightened, instinctively bracing under the weight of his authority. The general’s gaze danced over the girls lasciviously, and he smiled, undressing them with his eyes.

He leered at the girls, eyes glinting like oil-slick puddles, before sweeping into a florid bow toward Eloise. “Ah, I do not believe I have been graced with your introduction. A thousand humble apologies, for you have presented me with a gift fit for emperors.”

“Heaven guides and wills,” she replied, voice smooth as water jade. “I am Lan Mingtian of Clan Onyx, at your service, Lord Ma. It is a singular pleasure to bask, at last, in the light of your greatness.”

Ma’s head dipped a mere finger’s breadth—just enough to acknowledge without insult. “Yes, yes, a rare honor indeed for one of a Clan Minor.” His fleshy hands rubbed together greedily. “You have brought great face upon yourself and every ancestor scratching for recognition below the Heavens.” He savored the words, then asked, voice dirty enough to stain a stranger’s clothes, “Their names?”

“A de Sariens and a de Savant,” Eloise answered, a picture of cultured serenity. “We caught them fleeing their estates—precisely as foreseen. Aranthians remain tragically predictable.” She offered a demure tilt of her head. “If it pleases Your Excellency, how shall you employ them for the Empire’s glory?”

Ma’s laughter boomed like a war drum. His tongue darted across cracked lips. “Ah, a little cultural exchange, of course. The golden one will grace my harem; let the other lords gnash their teeth with envy. The darker rose I shall ransom—after allowing her to savor the Empire’s… Yang virtues.” His grin curdled into something reptilian. “Naturally, Lady Mingtian, you will receive a share of the spoils.”

Seraphina, jaw clenched, whispered to Desdemona behind her, “Play along for now. When you’re alone, please tear him limb from swollen limb.”

Ma clapped his hands twice. “Bring the brown-haired jewel to my inner tent.” His sausage-like finger swiveled to Desdemona. “Sergeant Genshu—you have served me well. A talent of silver for your unquestioning zeal in your duties.”

Genshu slammed a fist to his breastplate and bowed until his greasy ponytail brushed the dust. “This soldier is unworthy of such bounty.”

“Yes, that you are!” Ma guffawed, a sound thick enough to curdle milk. “See to my orders: the brown-haired one within, the golden one afforded her own guarded pavilion.”

“Lord General Ma, a single request,” Eloise said, lips frozen in a doll’s perfect smile.

“A request? I am generous today.” His gaze slithered down her form. “Perhaps you would join me in instructing the Aranthian in Empire values, Lady Mingtian? Perhaps she is also in need of Ying energy.”

She swallowed a tremor. “Your offer is most generous, but I crave merely a brief discourse with the blonde prisoner—to glean what scraps of intelligence she may conceal.”

Ma waved a pudgy hand. “Granted, granted. But do not blame me for the wind’s howl or the rain’s hammering.”

“I shall weather both,” Eloise murmured, bowing with stiff grace.

The guards obeyed at once, ushering Desdemona—firm yet courteous—through the crimson curtain. A grin, sharp as broken glass, flickered across Seraphina’s lips: Ma will be lucky to leave that tent with anything left attached. The bounty of experience from his death or no, sparing herself his touch was worth the sacrifice.

Servants, galvanized by barked orders, poured from the pavilion like ants from a disturbed nest. Tables and finely made chairs appeared, arranged beneath fluttering silk banners. Miriam, as if by instinct, leapt to assist, unloading baggage and stacking supplies with brisk precision.

Then lumbered a matron of terrifying girth, looking half human and half bear, brandishing a ladle like a cudgel. “Lord Ma’s broth scalds unattended,” she groused, superstition thick in her country drawl. “The wind shifts ill when foreign women are in the camp of war.” Her small eyes raked Seraphina. “What does His Excellency see in your kind? Wild branches grafted to a noble tree only sap its strength. And your man-armor—ridiculous! We shall strip it and clothe you in proper womanly garb, lest chaos reign—”

Seraphina’s vision narrowed to a lethal point. Her greatsword lay a scant stride away.

From inside the pavilion erupted a bestial howl—Desdemona’s battle cry, raw and echoing, a clarion that tore the air in two. Rage burst Seraphina’s restraints. The bear-woman’s tirade ended mid-syllable as an armored fist punched through rib, lung, and spine in an explosion of viscera.

You have slain a human. 10 experience earned.

It was more mercy than she deserved for her insults, Seraphina mused, would have been slower. Grabbing her weapon and ripping it free from its swaddling, she charged at the soldiers who had welcomed her into their camp. Limbs flew, arterial spray painting the air crimson. System messages cascaded—cold numbers tallying a harvest of meat and fear.

Above, the sky fractured—spiderweb cracks revealing brilliant white beyond the false heavens. The Trial is collapsing. Desdemona had already felled Ma, draining the bubble of reality of its stabilizing energies. With a snarl, Seraphina triggered Dash and hurtled toward one of the general’s elite guards.

She seized the warrior’s halberd by its black haft, pivoted him like a siege engine, and faced the camp proper. A roar built in her lungs, magic intertwining with wrath, before exploding outward.

Wail of Judgment rippled across tents and men alike, a sonic scythe mowing flesh from bone.

You have learned Wail of Judgment (lvl.3)

You have slain a Human. 56 experience gained.

You have slain a Human. 10 experience gained.

You have slain a Human. 11 experience gained.

…..

…..

Lines of text blurred until the system finally rewarded her for her gamer’s greed.

You have reached level 18.

3 unassigned attribute points.

1 unassigned skill point.

The counter began its countdown. She kicked the elite guard’s corpse off the weapon's shaft—his fingers still locked in a death grip—and allocated her gains without hesitation. All three attribute points into Intelligence and the skill point into Mana Regeneration. Not because she needed to be any smarter, she told herself, but because she needed the Mana. Or so she justified to herself.

Fixing her eyes on the other remaining elite guard, she tried to use Wail of Judgment again, but the spell resisted her summons. The spell was on cooldown, she realized blithely.

So she prepared to kill the guard the old-fashioned way. Or, a more stylish way, at least. A crimson Crystal Dagger blossomed in her palm. With a flick of her wrist, it streaked toward the remaining guard. Yet faster still flew Sir Frest’s quarrel that pierced him through the eye, even as her crystalline missile exploded his chest. Even in death, his corpse clung to his precious magical halberd.

You have slain a human. 28 experience gained.

Damn stupid Frest and his kill stealing. She cursed, but there was no time to fume. The world groaned like a ship breaking its keel. Seraphina hurled the halberd to her maid, shouting “Catch, Milly!” before she blasted forward again with Dash, taking a large chunk out of her Stamina as she used the skill on its cooldown.

Distracted, Miriam left an opening—and the soldier she was fighting seized upon it, driving his blade straight through where a human heart would be. It should have been a killing blow. Unfortunately for him, Palisa Slugs kept their vital organs in very different places. With an annoyed grunt, Miriam dropped her cudgel, caught the thrown weapon just in time, and swung it in a wild arc. The improvised strike connected with a satisfying crack, caving in the maid’s would-be killer’s skull.

The twins carved a butcher’s toll beside Sir Gravens, whose blade sang to madness as he fought to protect his lady and his lady love. Nearby, Eloise rippled the Earth itself into treacherous waves, tripping the panicked reinforcements that were already far too late to even matter.

Seraphina’s gauntleted fingers closed round the polearm’s ebon haft just as light shattered everything—prismatic, deafening, divine. Everything fractured like broken glass as a celestial hymn echoed in marrow and soul.

They had done it. They had absolutely shattered the Trial of “The Realm of the Four Gods.” It was just a shame that cameras and such devices had not been invented in world yet to record all of her glory.