CHAPTER 119: DAYS ON EDGE

By the time I pushed through the library doors and stepped unto it’s second floor balcony, the air slapped me with its usual damp chill, laced with that mountain-mist bite that somehow manages to make every breath taste like disappointment.

I had expected quiet—stillness, perhaps broken only by the occasional cough or whispered conversation. Instead, the courtyard was alive with shouts, grunts, and the metallic scrape of steel. Training. Or at least the clumsy approximation of it that most exhausted competitors managed when they realized the next war might only be yet but a sunrise away.

And then there was Salem.

If the rest of the yard looked like a gaggle of nervous schoolchildren attempting to mimic warriors, Salem looked like a man intent on cutting through the very concept of mortality with sheer willpower.

He moved with a kind of ferocity that didn’t belong in a courtyard of cracked stone and wooden dummies.

No, this was battlefield ferocity—every swing of his sword sharp enough to cut air itself into trembling ribbons, every strike punctuated by the kind of guttural snarl usually reserved for men about to become legends or lunatics. Or both, which Salem was dangerously close to qualifying for.

The others were watching him with intent. How could they not? His body, still scarred from injuries that would have ended lesser men, moved with savage precision. Sweat rolled down his bare arms, gleaming in the afternoon light strung across the courtyard, his chest rising and falling like a furnace stoked too hot.

The poor few who had dared to spar him earlier now sat huddled at the edges of the courtyard, clutching bruises and ice packs, their expressions split between admiration and the quiet decision never to volunteer again.

I leaned against the stone railing, crossing my arms. "Gods above," I muttered. "If we survive the war, half of these idiots are going to die of intimidation first."

"Not idiots," came a voice beside me. Rodrick, recovered enough now to walk without wobbling, appeared with his usual soldier’s stride. His hair stuck up like straw, his eyes shadowed from too little rest. He glanced at Salem, jaw tight. "They just don’t know how to measure a man like him."

"Funny," I said, arching a brow. "I always thought rulers worked fine. You know, those wooden things we used in school? Measure a man, mark the inches, compare. No problem."

Rodrick gave me the sort of long-suffering sigh that suggested he was already regretting speaking to me. Which, fair. That happened a lot.

Still, I couldn’t keep my gaze off Salem. There was a wildness there, a storm rolling just beneath the skin.

I had seen him fight before, saints knew that, but this wasn’t the same. This was desperation, fury, shame—all the things that had been festering since his loss to the King-Class mage and the humiliating clash with Fitch—pouring out in violent arcs of steel.

And saints, I understood it.

I sighed, pushing off the railing, and made my way down the steps. Someone had to stop him before he burned himself hollow. Or at least check that his eyeballs weren’t about to explode from all the blood pressure.

I tapped his shoulder.

Which, in retrospect, was perhaps the bravest and stupidest thing I’ve done in recent memory, considering he whirled on me with eyes bloodshot enough to make me wonder if he’d been crying red ink.

"Saints!" I yelped, hands flying up. "You planning to murder me, or is this just your new warm-up routine?"

He blinked, realization dawning, and the fury in his gaze eased into something closer to exhaustion. "I’m fine."

"You’re fine?" I gestured vaguely at his eyes, his sweat-soaked hair, the faint tremor in his grip. "Because fine usually doesn’t look like... well, like that. That’s not fine, that’s one bad sneeze away from cardiac arrest."

He wiped his face with the back of his arm, sheathing his sword with a hiss of steel. "I said I’m fine. I’m... practicing something. A new technique."

That perked my ears, though I was careful not to show it too much. Salem inventing techniques was the kind of thing that could either save our lives or blow us all to kingdom come.

"Oh? And this new technique involves what, exactly? Screaming until the enemy explodes? Because if so, I applaud the creativity."

He almost smiled. Almost

. "No. It’s... complicated. I’ll show you when it’s ready."

I studied him for a long moment, weighing whether to push. But something in his expression told me not to. He wasn’t lying—he was simply drowning himself in the work of survival, and gods help me, I understood that better than I wanted to admit.

So I clapped him on the shoulder, ignoring how sweat immediately soaked through my palm. "Fine. But don’t kill yourself inventing ways not to die. That’d be tragically ironic."

He gave a grunt that might have been a laugh or just another growl, and I left him to it.

The days blurred. They always did when training became the new religion. Salem keep training until the stones beneath his boots seemed carved with his footprints, until others stopped seeing him as comrade and started seeing him as spectacle.

They whispered about him in the library halls, spoke of his relentlessness as though it were divine, though I could see the hollowness gnawing at him even when he moved like a storm.

I did my own training, though with considerably more sarcasm involved. Rodrick sparred me, once his ribs had mended, and we managed to keep the bloodshed to a minimum this time.

I focused on refining my enhancements, pushing until I could activate four at once—something I celebrated with all the modesty of a man who deserved a medal and at least one statue in his honor.

By the second day, the courtyard had become an arena. Salem the storm, cutting down anyone foolish enough to challenge him. Rodrick steady as stone, guiding recruits. Myself, pretending I knew what discipline looked like while secretly counting down the minutes until someone lost a limb.

There was Dunny. Poor, quiet, perpetually book-stained Dunny, who had taken one look at the madness in the yard and decided it was none of his business. He could always be spotted at the far edge of the courtyard, hunched over a precarious tower of books, eyes darting as he flipped pages at breakneck speed.

Every so often, he’d sip from a chipped mug of tea, except "sip" doesn’t quite cover it—he was drinking tea the way drowning men gulp air. Cup after cup, kettle after kettle, until I began to suspect the tea was less a beverage and more the only thing tethering his fragile soul to reality.

And then there was the naked knight.

He, of course, did not train. No, training was beneath him, a barbaric display for those without the divine gifts of his anatomy. Instead, he made his noble contribution to the war effort by announcing his intention to bed every woman in the Sanctuary. A promise, I might add, he seemed terrifyingly committed to keeping.

And where, you may ask, did he choose to conduct these nightly feats of endurance?

The room directly beside mine.

Imagine, if you will, attempting to sleep while the walls themselves quake with moans, laughter, and the sound of flesh colliding like poorly timed drumbeats. Imagine the way it seeps into your thoughts, a ceaseless reminder that some men fight wars with steel while others do so with stamina.

Rodrick smirked every time I emerged from my room in the morning with bags under my eyes and murder in my heart. He thought it was hilarious. Nara, on the other hand, did not laugh.

He tugged at my coat one night, his eyes wide, his cheeks flushed, his breath quick. He looked at me, sitting in my half-ragged chair, like the world had ended and the only salvation left was found in my arms.

I sighed, deeply, dramatically, the sigh of a man who knows fate has once again conspired against his peace of mind.

"Fine," I muttered. "Maybe this is exactly what we need to take the edge off."

Rodrick, of course, giggled from across the room.

I rolled my eyes, but gods help me, I didn’t stop Nara’s pleading hands.

I wanted to scoff, to scold, to remind him that we were in the middle of a fortress teetering on the edge of collapse—but then I felt it.

The pen.

That subtle weight in my pocket, heavier than it had any right to be sporting a faint rhythmic thrum, pulsing against my thigh like the heartbeat of some caged creature, urging me forward like it did when I had my encounter with the lady of fangs.

It was as if the ink trapped within its barrel wanted to bleed into the moment, to soak into the heat hanging between myself and Nara.

Saints above, it was enticing me, tempting me to lean closer, to surrender to that strange union of power and desire.

I groaned before I began undoing my pants with a slow, deliberate tug, the zipper rasping like a whisper in the dimly lit room, my cock springing free already half-hard and throbbing with quiet anticipation.

I motioned for Nara to sit.

Nara hesitated, his dark red hair cascading over his shoulders like a waterfall of crimson silk, his ears twitching nervously as he peeled off his clothing piece by piece, the fabric whispering against his skin before hitting the floor with soft thuds.

He stood there exposed, his newly transformed curves on full display—soft hips flaring out invitingly, a pert ass that jiggled just slightly with his embarrassed shuffle, and a cute little cock bobbing between his thighs, already leaking a thin trail of pre-cum that stretched and snapped as he shifted.

His nervous blush painted his cheeks a deep crimson, spreading down his neck like spilled wine, and I drank it all in with vigor, my eyes tracing every inch of his lithe form, the feral scent of him hitting me like a wild storm—musky earth mixed with something primal, like fresh rain on fur, making my nostrils flare and my mouth water.

Gods, he smells like an untamed wilderness, raw and intoxicating—it’s got my blood pumping already.

Rodrick began undressing behind Nara, his shorter white hair tousled as he shrugged off his shirt and pants, the clothes pooling at his feet with a rustle, his own body delicate yet slightly toned, cock twitching to life as he stepped closer.

He caressed Nara’s shoulders gently at first, fingers trailing lower down his back in slow, teasing strokes that left goosebumps in their wake, nails lightly scraping skin that was already damp with nervous sweat.

Nara let out a little squeak, high-pitched and adorable like a startled rabbit, but then he eased into the moment, his body relaxing under the touch, a soft sigh escaping his lips as his ears drooped slightly in submission.

Rodrick chuckled softly, his voice a playful murmur, "Shh, just relax—you’re gonna love this."

He spun Nara around with a gentle but firm grip on his hips, guiding him toward my lap. Nara’s back was to me now, his ass hovering just above my throbbing cock, heat radiating off him like a furnace.

Lost in the haze, I brought one hand up to spread him open, fingers parting his cheeks with a wet schlick, already slick with sweat and a dribble of his own excitement trailing down his thighs.

That pulled out another cute moan from him, a breathy "Ahh~! W-Wait...that’s too embarrassing," his voice trembling as a stretched him wider.

Rodrick shushed him again, leaning in close with a grin, "Hush now, you’re doing great—don’t want the whole neighborhood hearing how much of a needy bunny you are, do you?"

Nara whimpered in response.

"You sure you’re ready for this?" I asked.

Nara nodded weakly, his hair swaying, whispering, "Y-Yeah, I’m ready... just... be gentle okay?" His blush deepened at his own words.

Rodrick guided him lower as he sank onto me with a wet squelch, the sound obscene and sloppy, like plunging into a ripe fruit, his tight heat enveloping my cock inch by inch, walls clenching around me in a vice of velvet warmth.

Nara let out a yelp, sharp and surprised, "Hah~!Fuck, oh gods, it’s so big," but my hands wrapped around his waist, pulling him close and silencing him with a firm hold.

My fingers dug into his soft skin as I felt his body adjust, his hole fluttering wetly around me, leaking more slick that dribbled down my thighs with a sticky trickle.

"Easy Nara, breathe—just like that, we’ll take it easy," I murmured, my voice strained as I held back my own grunts, the pressure building already from how incredibly tight he was.

Nara began to move, stiffening slowly at first, his body rigid with nervousness, but then he paced himself with more vigor, bouncing up and down with wet slaps that echoed through the room, each descent pulling a squelching sound from where we joined, slick trails stretching and snapping between us.

Oh gods, the sounds he’s making—those little whimpers, the wet smack of skin, and that smell, gods, his feral musk is everywhere. It’s making my head spin.

Rodrick watched with a smirk, his own cock hard and leaking now, dripping pre-cum onto the floor with soft little pats, "Aww, look at you go—riding him like a pro already. Feels good, doesn’t it?"

Without warning, Nara reached up to interlock fingers with Rodrick, trembling as he gripped tight, moaning as their hands weaved together with a soft squeeze.

Nara’s pace began to quicken, his ass clenching rhythmically around me, pulling grunts from my throat that I could barely hold back.

I leaned in deeper to get a sniff of his hair, burying my nose in those long dark strands, inhaling his wild, feral aroma—earthy, like damp soil and animalistic heat—making my heart beat like a war drum.

Then I moved my hands up to brush underneath Nara’s exposed armpit, fingers grazing the smooth folds, feeling the sweat-slick skin before leaning in for a few little sniffs that left my head swimming, dizzy with lust.

Nara flushed with absolute embarrassment, his face turning beet red as he squeaked, "W-Wait! That’s—oh gods, don’t sniff there!" but his body betrayed him, twitching and tightening around me, a fresh gush of slick leaking out with a wet dribble down my shaft.

"Aww, little bunny’s embarrassed? But you love it, don’t you? Smelling all feral and needy—look at him huffing you like a drug," Rodrick teased.

Nara twitched in response. "S-Stop it, please, you’re making it worse—"

He was silenced as Rodrick pulled him into a deep, overwhelming kiss, their lips crashing together with a sloppy smack, tongues tangling audibly, wet slurps and moans muffled between them.

I could feel Nara tighten at this, his walls gripping me like a fist, the sudden vice sending me over the edge instantly—I blew my load with a guttural grunt, "Ughh!" flooding his insides with thick spurts of cum that overflowed immediately, leaking out around my cock in messy rivulets, squelching with each pulse.

Nara soon followed, breaking the kiss just enough to cry out, "Oh gods, I’m cumming—nngh!" before shooting hot ropes of cum that splattered Rodrick’s thighs and belly with wet slaps, strings stretching and snapping as they landed, coating his skin in sticky white globs that dripped slowly down the hollow of his stomach.

Nara slumped back into my arms, his body limp and trembling, chest heaving as more cum began leaking between us.

Rodrick let out a little giggle, high and mischievous, as he played with the mess on his belly, fingers swirling through the thick ropes, smearing it around with wet little schlicks, "Hehe, look at this—Nara, you painted me good, didn’t you? So sticky and warm, like a naughty artist’s masterpiece."

I pulled Nara off of me, my cock slipping free with a wet pop, a trail of cum stretching between us before snapping and dribbling onto the floor, leaving me absolutely flustered, my face hot as I panted, "Gods, Nara, that... that was intense."

Rodrick leaned in closer, his hair brushing my shoulder, teasing with a finger trailing through the mess on my thighs before planting a kiss on my cheek, soft and lingering with a smack.

"My turn now—let’s see how you handle me next."

The scene continued long into the night, our bodies entwined in a tangled heap of sweat-slicked skin and feral scents that filled the room like a thick fog.

The next day, I found myself perched at one of the narrow windows on the upper floor of the library, staring out at the city that was beginning to glow in the embrace of the dying sun.

It all looked so deceptively calm from here, as though the chaos had decided to dress itself in soft colors just to mock me. I rested my chin against my hand and tried to decide whether I felt more like a king surveying his kingdom or a rat staring down the walls of a cage.

My fingers drifted absently to the ring on my hand, the one that had become as much a part of me as my cursed pen.

The little band gleamed faintly in the fading light, its etched numerals clear and unchanging. Stagnant. Frozen. A number that had been dropping, teasing, whispering progress with every step of this damned tournament... and now it simply sat there, mocking me with its silence.

I knew what that meant, of course. Anyone with two brain cells left to rub together could guess. The tournament organizers, those shadowy masochists orchestrating this grand performance, were ready to set the stage for the next act.

I thought of Salem, still punishing himself in the courtyard until his arms shook; of Rodrick, who’d finally found his footing again and was already barking orders like a soldier possessed; of Nara, who clung tight to me, as if his fingers alone could anchor me to sanity.

Even their presence couldn’t stop the gnawing in my chest as I looked out over the city and thought, Any moment now, the world is going to tilt again.

And then, as if the architects of this farce had been waiting for me to complete the thought, the bells began.

Deep, sonorous, unyielding—the sound rolled across the city in waves, heavy enough to rattle glass and vibrate in my ribs. Mourning bells, tolling as though the entire city had just died and was being lowered into the ground at once.

The sound crawled through the streets, seeped into alleys, pressed itself against every wall until there was no escaping it.

I gripped the windowsill hard, my knuckles whitening, as the chimes swallowed the sunset and turned it into something dreadful.

It was time.