CHAPTER 120: FINALLY, DEFEATED!

[Lust Points: 2000]

Enough.

This wasn’t just the payout from the massage quest. Not just the result of pinning her down and draining her with brute force.

No, this was accumulation.

A full reward from conquering both Lyra and the demon she had become. Her physical self, and the awakened succubi half that had tried to consume him.

And now it was paying off.

He had enough points to ascend. Enough to push his level higher. Enough to grow beyond the limit he had entered this fight with.

And more than enough to break her for good.

Lyra tried to push herself up, but her limbs gave out.

Her voice shook.

"Wait. I yield. End this."

Rae stepped over her, staring down with the same cold stare as before.

"Sorry. Succubi woman. This ends when I say it ends."

And so it continued. For hours.

Even after the moon had dipped low in the sky and the first signs of dawn began crawling across the horizon, Rae didn’t stop.

The tent remained sealed, the inside filled with the sound of skin slapping, wet squelching, heavy breathing, and the constant rhythm of domination.

He kept pounding her.

Over and over.

She couldn’t run. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t do anything.

Her body had long given up on resistance.

After being overwhelmed by his tentacles and forced through multiple mind-breaking climaxes, she had nothing left. Her limbs were too weak to lift.

Her magic too drained to trigger. Her core too overstuffed to hold energy anymore.

Small goblin or not, Rae had won.

Because unlike her, he had a plan.

He knew his limits. He knew hers. And he knew how to use the system like a tool, like a weapon. He didn’t waste time. Didn’t let fatigue catch up.

Each time his body started to falter, each time he felt his stamina drop or his grip loosen, he activated a level up.

He had 2000 Lust Points.

And he was going to use every single one.

There was no rule stopping him. No cooldown. No system lock.

He was allowed to level up mid-action, and he used that advantage to keep going.

Refueling his strength every few minutes, restoring stamina, increasing his stats, and pushing deeper into her worn-out body with more force each time.

Level twenty. Level twenty-five. Level thirty. Thirty-five.

And then finally, level forty.

That was where he stopped.

Not because he was done.

But because the lust points were over.

By the time he’d spent every single point, her body was no longer resisting. No longer twitching. Just lying there, flat, soaked, and limp.

Her arms spread loosely on the ground, her thighs slightly parted, fluids leaking out in streams. Her face was blank, mouth half-open, eyes rolled halfway back, glowing pink faded to a dull hue.

She wasn’t fighting. She wasn’t thinking.

She was done.

A puddle of exhausted, overstimulated, completely defeated succubi.

Rae stood over her, breathing steady.

This was no longer a battle.

It was a result.

After it was finally over, Rae dropped onto a wooden chair near the corner of the tent, shoulders slumped, chest rising and falling in heavy, uneven breaths.

His entire body was slick with sweat, muscles sore, limbs drained, but his eyes were still fixed on the scene in front of him.

Lyra lay on the bedroll, her body covered in bruises and sweat, sheets loosely draped over her, barely clinging to her curves.

Her chest rose and fell slowly, her breathing shallow but steady. She wasn’t moving. Her aura was nearly gone. No trace of resistance left.

He stared for a long moment.

Then laughed.

Not out of mockery. Just out of disbelief.

He had actually done it. Tamed a full-blooded succubi. With his own damn body and his own damn system.

No weapons. No magic circles. Just pure, calculated assault.

Then he got up, leaned over her exhausted form, and pressed a single kiss to her forehead—quick, quiet, oddly gentle.

After that, he adjusted her posture on the bedroll, covering her with the sheet so she wouldn’t wake up cold or exposed.

It wasn’t kindness exactly. Just... basic decency.

He walked out of the tent.

It was early morning. The sky was beginning to turn light blue, and the air was crisp.

The other heroes hadn’t woken up yet. Camp was quiet, still. Birds hadn’t even started chirping.

Rae didn’t hesitate and just made his way to Alice’s tent.

She was still asleep, curled up under her blanket. Her face calm, posture relaxed. Her hair a mess. Her body unmoving.

Rae slipped in beside her without a word and wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her in close.

His limbs were trembling. His brain was fogged. He needed warmth, and she had it.

Alice stirred at the contact, her brows twitching slightly.

She felt the hand slide over her stomach, felt the arm pull her in.

Her body tensed for a second—ready to react, ready to shove away whatever was grabbing her.

But when she saw his face, the way his eyelids were already half-shut, his expression drained and worn down, she stopped.

She just watched him for a moment, silently.

Then bit her bottom lip.

She could guess where he had been. The smell on his skin, the marks on his neck, the state of his body.

All of it pointed to one thing. And for a second, something sharp twisted in her gut.

Jealousy. Not loud, but present.

Still, she said nothing.

She didn’t pull away.

Because she was tired too. Mentally. Physically. Heroes needed rest just as much as they needed power.

So instead of letting her emotions ruin the quiet moment, she settled back down and let herself sleep again.

Rae’s grip softened as he drifted off behind her, breathing warm against her shoulder.

And in a way, that was the best decision she could’ve made.

In the early morning, Bryce rubbed the crust out of his eyes and sighed. There was something he needed to take care of, and of course, it had to be inconvenient.

His sword. The one he used during yesterday’s practice session.

He’d handed it off to that dumb goblin, Grumpy, and told him—very clearly—to store it somewhere safe.

Safe, as in his own tent.

Not Lyra’s.

But apparently, the little green idiot had taken "safe" to mean "nearest tent available," which ended up being Lyra’s.

Bryce clicked his tongue.

Now he had to go in there and fetch it himself. Which meant waking Lyra up. Which meant hearing her complain.

Which meant standing there like a punching bag while she threw verbal daggers at him for disturbing her precious sleep.

’Man, I hope she doesn’t spit on me this time.’

He mumbled a half-hearted prayer to whatever half-asleep god might be listening, and marched toward her tent.

He braced himself for a long argument, mentally rehearsing excuses about goblin incompetence and how he totally didn’t mean to barge in.

Bryce mumbled a half-assed prayer to whichever god handled married men and their daily suffering, then took a breath and pushed at the tent flap.

To his surprise—it wasn’t latched shut.

No rope. No knot. Just hanging there like an open invitation.

His face lit up.

No need to knock, no need to call her name. No loud sighs. No drama. If he was quick enough, he could slip in, grab the sword, and be out before she even realized anything.

He stepped inside.

And immediately doubled over.

The smell hit him like a brick to the lungs. His whole body jerked.

A wave of pungent, musky, stale heat wrapped around his face and nose, dragging a gag out of him before he could stop it.

He clutched his stomach, stumbled back a step, eyes watering instantly.

"Wh-what the hell is that"

His voice cracked. He looked around the tent, blinking rapidly, trying to adjust to the dim light and locate the sword through the haze of whatever-the-hell had happened in here.

Of course, it was the smell of sex.

A thick, unmistakable mix of sweat, fluids, heat, and exhaustion all clinging to the air like a fog that refused to leave.

Anyone with even a halfway decent sex life would’ve picked up on it instantly.

But Bryce had no frame of reference. None.

He’d never had a steamy session with anyone.

Not because he couldn’t—but because he didn’t care.

He had trained during those hours. While others were chasing flesh and distractions, he was pushing himself to the edge.

Tempering his body. Sharpening his technique. Lust, carnal pleasure, all that nonsense—it was just noise. It got in the way of results.

And to make it worse, his wife was practically untouchable.

Not emotionally. Not romantically. Literally.

And he had long since accepted that whatever they had, it didn’t include intimacy. He’d learned to live with it. Or maybe he just buried it under more training.

But this smell?

It was too much.

Too strong. Too invasive. It was in his nose, his throat, his brain.

’What the fuck is this smell’

His eyes snapped to the bedroll.