CHAPTER 33: ISOLDE

Oliver staggered back, one hand clamped over his gushing nose. His other hand desperately covered the bulge rising in his pants.

"Wh-what the hell!?" he stammered, eyes darting everywhere but always snapping back to her. "Put some clothes on, damn it!"

But she didn’t.

Instead, she tilted her head and chuckled—a soft, throaty laugh that made Oliver’s ears burn. Her long, silken hair draped over her shoulders, but it did nothing to hide her generous chest, which swayed with every slow, deliberate step forward.

Oliver’s gaze betrayed him instantly. He tried to look at her face—he really did—but his eyes kept dropping lower, following the hypnotic bounce of her breasts.

’S-stop moving like that!’ he screamed internally. His body wasn’t listening.

She stopped right in front of him, towering slightly over his slouched, stunned posture. With a knowing smirk, she extended her hand toward him.

"Hello," she said with perfect composure, her voice rich with amusement. "I am Isolde Umbrae Noctis. Matriarch of the Nightveil clan... and the last of my bloodline."

Oliver gulped audibly.

Her calm, regal introduction didn’t match at all with the fact she was standing stark naked in front of him. And worse, she knew exactly what kind of effect she was having on him. Her eyes gleamed mischievously.

Oliver blinked hard, trying to snap himself out of his trance. He forced himself to stand up straight, though his legs were shaky, and reached for her hand.

"H-hello," he muttered, his voice cracking. "I’m... Oliver. From Earth."

Their hands clasped. Her skin was smooth, cool, almost silky. He felt his spine jolt as a shiver ran through him.

She noticed, of course. Her lips curved into a sly grin.

"From Earth?" she repeated, leaning slightly forward. Her breasts pressed together as she did, and Oliver’s eyes nearly popped out of his skull.

"Y-yeah," he said quickly, tearing his gaze away only for it to fall on the curve of her hip instead. He cursed under his breath, face bright red.

Isolde chuckled again, clearly entertained. "My, my... centuries locked away, and the first person I meet is such an honest little boy. Your body is far more truthful than your words."

Oliver’s hand snapped back, his ears burning. "H-hey! Don’t say it like that!"

But she only laughed harder, her eyes glimmering with teasing delight.

Isolde slid closer, her bare skin brushing against Oliver’s arm as she casually draped it over his shoulder. The contact sent sparks through him, and he stiffened like a board. Her soft, teasing chuckle ghosted against his ear as she leaned in, breasts pressing lightly against his arm.

Oliver’s whole body went rigid. His heart thumped so loud he swore she could hear it.

"H-Hey! Stop that!" he stammered, trying to wriggle free but failing miserably. "I-I really don’t want to say this but... you should get dressed. I can’t even think straight with you like this! And we—we have a lot to talk about. I have so many questions!"

Isolde smirked knowingly, her crimson eyes gleaming with amusement. "Well, you are my master now. Whatever you say."

Oliver blinked. "...Wait. For real? That wasn’t just a saying?"

"Of course not," she said matter-of-factly, tilting her head as if surprised he’d even doubt her. "We Umbrals are a race that abides by our word. If I said I’ll be at your command, then I will be. Every word I speak binds me." Her smirk deepened, and she suddenly pressed his arm firmly between her breasts, hugging it tightly to her chest. "Or do you want me to prove it?"

Oliver’s brain shut down instantly. His face flushed crimson as he froze, wide-eyed. Her soft warmth molded around his arm, and every rational thought fled him.

"A-ahhmm... no need for that," Oliver stuttered, refusing to pull his arm away despite his words. "I—I believe you."

Isolde chuckled softly at his reaction, her voice carrying genuine amusement. For the first time in centuries, she wasn’t alone, and it showed in the way her smirk softened into something almost gentle. She was... enjoying this.

But the moment shattered the instant she stepped out of the chamber.

Her footsteps halted as her crimson eyes swept across the barren landscape. The air felt heavy, lifeless. Her smirk vanished, her lips parting slightly as she turned back to look at the chamber that had been her prison for countless years. Inside, she had no concept of day or night—only endless silence.

Oliver, following behind, tilted his head. "...Something wrong?"

Isolde didn’t answer immediately. Her gaze lingered on the ruins around them. Crumbled stone walls. Empty huts. A silence that stretched forever.

She remembered.

Children laughing as they ran across the village square. Old men sitting in circles, boasting about their youth and trading stories. Women carrying baskets, scolding children while chatting warmly. Warmth. Life.

Now—nothing.

Tears welled up in her eyes before she even realized it. They dripped, one by one, then came faster until her vision blurred. A choked sob escaped her throat, and she dropped to her knees, clutching at the dry earth beneath her fingers as if it would somehow bring it all back.

"Everyone... gone..." she whispered, voice cracking.

Oliver froze. He had absolutely no idea what to do. Comforting crying girls wasn’t exactly in his skill set. Especially not naked, ancient vampire-demon-lady girls.

So... he did the only thing that made sense to him. He awkwardly scratched the back of his head and muttered, "Uh... I’ll... just... go grab you some clothes."

Leaving her to grieve, Oliver jogged toward one of the half-collapsed huts nearby. Inside, dust and cobwebs covered everything, but in one corner he found a chest with neatly folded garments. Old, but surprisingly well-preserved.

Meanwhile, Isolde remained kneeling outside, her tears staining the earth of what once was her home.

Oliver came back quietly, carrying a bundle of old garments he’d dug out of one of the huts. He set them down beside Isolde, who was still kneeling on the ground with tears drying on her cheeks. He didn’t say anything. Just placed the clothes down, gave a short nod, and walked away, giving her space.

Half an hour passed. Oliver leaned against the wall of one of the empty huts, tapping his foot out of sheer boredom. He had half a mind to take a nap when the sound of footsteps reached him. He turned his head—and stopped.

Isolde stood there, clothed now. The garments were old-fashioned, clearly belonging to a bygone age, but on her they looked regal. A long black robe trimmed with faint silver lines wrapped around her figure, cinched neatly at her waist. Her pale skin contrasted with the dark fabric, making her crimson eyes all the more striking. She looked less like a desperate prisoner and more like someone who had stepped out of an ancient painting.

Oliver blinked twice, trying not to stare. "...You look, uh... good. Better than good, actually."

"Are you okay now?" he asked carefully.

Isolde gave a small nod, her expression soft. "Yeah. Some old memories surfaced. Painful ones."

Oliver hesitated before speaking. "...Care to talk about it?"

She gave a faint chuckle and shook her head. "It’s a long story. Why don’t we start with you instead? You said you’re from another world, didn’t you? I want to hear about it." She walked over and sat down beside him, folding her hands in her lap.

Oliver scratched his cheek, suddenly self-conscious. "...Well, sure. Where do I even begin? My world is called Earth. It’s... nothing like this place. There’s no magic there, no elves or dwarves or beastmen. Only humans. Technology replaces magic—machines, electricity, things like that."

"Sounds boring," Isolde teased lightly.

Oliver snorted. "Yeah, it’s not exactly a dangerous world like this one. Peaceful for the most part. Sure, wars and conflicts happen, but there’s no constant threat of demons trying to wipe us out. Nothing on this scale."

Isolde leaned her chin against her hand, listening intently.

"As for how I got here..." Oliver’s face darkened. "That’s tied to the goddess Synthia. Supposedly, the demons are on the verge of conquering Lunanra. All the races joined hands to fight, but they were still losing. Then, an oracle came down from that so-called goddess, saying they needed heroes from another world. And just like that, one normal day, my entire class got summoned here. We didn’t even get a choice."

Isolde’s eyes narrowed slightly at the mention of the name.

Oliver continued, his voice sharper. "She gave us blessings—classes and skills. Most of my classmates got absurdly strong ones. OP abilities straight out of a video game. Me? I got stuck with an F-rank class. He laughed bitterly. "But I didn’t give up. I trained anyway. Day after day. Hoping I’d find some hidden potential."

He clenched his fists. "Then came our first real mission. A trial run in this very dungeon. Things went fine until the twentieth floor. We ran into something too strong for us. Our supervisor, Samuel had no intention of stepping in the fight. He decided to use a return stone to teleport us back up. But just when we were about to escape... someone kicked me out of the circle."

Oliver’s voice dropped, simmering with rage. "I was abandoned. Left to die down here." His eyes burned with the memory.

For a moment, silence stretched between them. Then, softly, Isolde moved closer. She slipped her arm around his shoulder, her touch gentle yet grounding.

"Don’t be so angry," she whispered. "There will be time for revenge. And maybe... it’s not such a bad thing you were kicked out. Otherwise..." Her lips curled into a small, almost playful smile. "...you wouldn’t have met me."

Before Oliver could react, she leaned in and pressed her lips to his.