CHAPTER 20: THE FIRST FORM OF THE CRIMSON LANCE... AND HER WHISPER: “WHY NOT?”

A week. Seven days where every morning began in the same suffering, where every evening ended in the same burning. Old Maeron had said this work took an entire lifetime, and he hadn’t exaggerated. At first, I thought he just wanted to scare us. But no. It was true.

Every breath in became an exercise, every breath out a struggle against my own body. You had to see the mana, not just feel it. Imagine it as invisible particles, tiny, dancing in the air around me. At first, I saw nothing, only emptiness. But through concentration, through closing my eyes and letting my skin shiver, I began to perceive glimmers. Little suspended sparks, moving, like motes of gold dust you only see in sunlight.

The first time I managed to guide them, I thought my lungs would burst. My breath was ragged, my ribs ready to crack. But I held on, teeth clenched, and the golden light clung to my palm. A flash, brief, violent. And there... between my fingers, a vial. Perfect. Smooth. Transparent. Not a shapeless draft that shattered after a few seconds, but a real object, tangible, solid.

I still remember the girls’ looks that morning. Hikari, holding her breath, lips parted, cheeks flushed as if I’d performed a divine miracle. Miyu, who scoffed, but whose eyes still glittered. Reina, who only murmured "finally," icy but relieved. And Ayame... she smiled. That smile of a woman who had seen it all, lived it all, yet still carried enough warmth to soften your soul. Fuck. That troubled me more than the success itself.

The other progress was worse. Drawing in external mana. Forcing it in.

Maeron told us: "It’s like swallowing seawater. Too much, and you die. Too fast, and you burn." And he was right. The first time, I thought my throat was splitting in two. A brutal heat surged through me, as if molten metal was being poured into my veins. My tongue tasted of iron, my temples hammered. But little by little, the flow calmed. The burn turned into warmth. A hot river flowing down my back, seeping into my arms, into my clenched fingers.

And then... for the first time, I felt my reserves filling in ways other than rest. A shiver ran through me, a mix of pain and pleasure, like an orgasm too brutal that leaves your muscles stiff but your stomach ablaze.

I held on. Again. Every morning, every night before sleep. Breathe in. Breathe out. Swallow the pain, embrace the heat. Until my breath grew a little longer, my movements a little more fluid. Not much, not yet. But enough to know the old man hadn’t lied: this was an endless road. And I had only just set foot on it.

Then one morning, as usual, we headed to HQ for the morning meeting.

The war room echoed with the dull thud of boots and the rustle of cloaks. On the great oak table, worn maps, riddled with red and black marks, spread out like gaping wounds. Steel pins pierced them, each marking a raid, a vanished patrol, a destroyed village. Torches fixed to the walls cast tawny lights that danced across the stern faces of the Thorns. The air smelled of oiled leather, sweat, and scorched dust.

Albrecht stood tall, both hands on the table. His broad shoulders barely bent under the weight of his black armor trimmed with silver. His steel-blue eyes swept over the map, but I could tell he wasn’t reading it anymore. His jaw tightened, his teeth nearly grinding as he inhaled.

— "The reinforcements from the capital should have been here three days ago."

His voice struck, deep, like an axe planted in wood. Silence fell at once. Even the caged ravens stopped beating their wings for an instant.

He raised his head, his eyes stabbing through us one by one.

— "A detachment of knights. A royal steward. And the flying ship that was supposed to bring them through the eastern sky." His hand slammed on the map, his nail scraping a blue path. "Nothing. No news. No messenger. Not even a raven’s feather."

A nervous murmur rippled through the room. Reina frowned, icy, but her fingers clenched around her staff betrayed tension. Miyu snickered, but it was that nervous laugh with no bravado behind it. Hikari lowered her head, staff pressed against her chest, lips trembling pale. And Ayame, upright, merely watched Albrecht, her brown eyes as dark as night.

The commander continued, lower, heavier.

— "Silence..." He paused, eyes narrowing. "... silence is worse than war drums."

His words rolled through our guts like a death knell.

I gripped my spear Aurelia, breath short. This wasn’t the first time I’d seen Albrecht. In one week, I had come to know him: relentless, straight as a blade, a human rock nothing seemed to shake. But now... now, in the faint tremble of his jaw, in the crease splitting his brow, I saw something else. Not fear. Worse. Certainty. The kind of certainty a veteran feels when he senses the storm before he sees the clouds.

I swallowed hard, throat dry.

Fuck. If even he was on edge, then something really bad was coming.

Then came magic class, running its course as usual with subtle improvements.

And in the afternoon, it was the big day.

Elyra.

Her weapon was no longer just a piece of metal, but a living extension of her body. The red aura that concentrated at the tip of her shaft pulsed like a stoked ember, tracing a blazing trail in the air with each move.

She moved like she danced. Fluid, precise, each step grazing the ground before blending seamlessly into the next. Her silver hair lashed the air, scattering reflections around her. And her chest... fuck. Firm, heavy, trapped in a training corset that groaned with every pivot. With each motion, her breasts bounced, marking a rhythm that had nothing martial about it, yet hypnotized me all the same.

I swallowed, unable to look away. This wasn’t just a technical drill: it was provocation, unconscious seduction slipping into every swing of her hips, every perfect arc of her toned thighs. Her lance spun, whistled, struck the air with raw elegance, almost obscene, as if even battle had turned into a spectacle for the senses.

My throat tightened. My stomach burst with a strange fire. I felt like I was witnessing a forbidden ritual, a dance that stripped your soul naked before piercing your heart.

Elyra stopped with a sharp snap. Her lance planted in the ground quivered like a taut string. She raised her head, a sly smile tugging at her lips, and her gray eyes locked on mine.

— "So, Hero... you watching my moves?"

I blinked, caught red-handed. My breath stuck in my throat. I wanted to say I was analyzing technique, that I was focused on the aura, but my eyes still burned with the image of her bouncing breasts, her wild hair in the wind.

I stammered:

— "Y-yes... I... well, your... your mastery..."

She burst into clear laughter, shaking her lance with a careless flick. Her hair fell back onto her sweaty shoulders, and a drop slid from her temple down to her parted lips.

— "Hm. My mastery, huh?" she repeated, amused. Her smile widened. "Or my tits distracting you?"

My cheeks flared instantly.

Elyra spun her lance one last time, then planted it in the ground with a sharp crack. Her gray gaze caught mine, serious for once, her voice resonating with authority that pinned me in place.

— "Watch closely. What I’ll teach you today isn’t just a gesture. It’s the first step into the Art of the Crimson Lance."

I frowned. The name alone sounded like a promise of blood spilled.

She went on, her lips curling into a sly grin.

— "This art is mine. Inherited from my lineage, perfected through my battles. Every move is a scar turned into strength. The first is Dawn Bleed. A strike that cleaves the air like the light of a red sun, before your enemy even has time to breathe."

She reset her stance, thighs taut, back straight. The lance rose, glowing crimson, then fell in a perfectly fluid arc. The crimson aura burst from the tip, leaving a blazing trail in the air before vanishing with a burning sigh. A shiver ran down me despite myself. It was beautiful. Fuck, too beautiful to be just combat.

— "Your turn, Hero."

I drew a breath, straightened, and gripped my lance. My body still quivered from the image she’d carved into me. I lunged.

The wood whistled. My muscles seized. And the move... broke. Too stiff. Too forced. None of the elegance, none of the fluidity. Just a clumsy strike that nearly tore my shoulder apart.

— "Fuck..." I muttered through clenched teeth.

Elyra’s laughter rang behind me, clear, cutting.

— "You handle your lance like you’ve got a stick up your ass."

I spun, red-faced but not defeated. This time, I was looser, freer.

— "And you move like you’re dancing just to make us watch something other than your lance."

Her smile widened, predatory.

— "Oh? Finally some bite."

I tried again. Again. My breath quickened, arms trembling. The move stayed awkward, my feet too heavy, my lance too rigid. Each time, Elyra shook her head, feigning exasperation.

Then she came closer. Slowly. Her hips swayed with that martial confidence that already killed me. She slipped behind me, pressed her torso to my back, and seized my hands. Heat flooded through my fingers at once, burning, electric. Her heavy breasts deliberately pressed against my shoulder blades, nearly crushing me under their weight.

— "Like this..." she whispered. Her breath brushed my ear, hot, damp, maddening.

She guided my arms, her chest bouncing with each correction, her hard nipples rubbing against the soaked fabric of my tunic. My stomach erupted, a brutal heat rising to my throat.

— "Relax your shoulders. Let the lance breathe with you. No useless tension." Her voice throbbed, low, more like an invitation to anything but combat.

I bit my lip. Fuck. Concentration was impossible. Her silver hair grazed my cheek, her scent of sweat and metal filled my nose. I felt hostage to her body as much as her teaching.

I gripped the lance, panting, but this time the move was better. Less stiff. Smoother. And yet, it wasn’t thanks to my will, but to her firm chest guiding every motion, her hot fingers gripping mine, her burning breath searing my neck.

A soft laugh hummed in my ear.

— "There... now you’re starting to get it."

My arms gave out all at once. The lance slipped from my hands, and my knees crashed into the sand with a dull thud. Dust rose around me, clinging to my sweat-soaked skin. My ragged breath rasped like an overworked forge, each inhale tearing at my chest.

— "Hey, easy."

Elyra caught my hand before I collapsed. Her palm was firm, burning, yet strangely soft despite the calluses. She pulled me up with steady strength, her torso close enough for her breasts to brush my arm, heavy, still slick with sweat.

She smiled, teasing but not cruel.

— "That’s normal. This move takes months to master." Her hand lingered a moment on my wrist, her thumb sliding over my skin. "But... you’re improving."

Her gray eyes glimmered, softer than usual.

— "Your mind and your body have changed. You don’t move like a novice anymore."

I glanced down. My chest still heaved, brutal breaths rocking me. And yet... she was right. My lean muscles were now drawn hard, carved by training and mana optimization. My arms no longer had the hesitant frailty of before: every fiber swelled beneath my taut skin. Even my sweat tasted bitter with newfound pride.

A smile slipped out. Fuck. Yeah, she was right.

— "Maybe you should be the one to taste the results..."

I tossed the line like a joke, nervous laughter on my lips. I expected her to scoff, to throw back a sharp insult, or smack me with her lance for daring.

But no.

Elyra froze. Her gray eyes locked on mine, still. A brutal silence fell. Her lips barely parted, and her voice dropped a tone, slower, deeper.

— "Why not?"

Time froze.

She stepped forward. Her boots sank into the sand, her hips rolled under her light armor, and her silver hair slid over her sweaty shoulders. Her eyes gleamed with a dangerous light, not that of an instructor. No. That of a woman who had just decided to cross a line.

I swallowed hard. My stomach clenched. My throat closed.

What... what... WHAT? Seriously? Now? Like this?!

Her sly smile widened, almost predatory. And me, planted there, panting, body still burning, I no longer knew whether to raise my lance... or my hands.

The sand, and me with it, cracked under her next step.