Chapter 107: Change

Chapter 107: Chapter 107: Change

The Outer Sanctuary air smelled like wet stone, stale beer, and the distant tang of the tanneries. I walked without any real direction, just letting my feet carry me through the crooked, crowded streets. The holiday meant more bodies... mostly women, of course... clustered around market stalls, arguing over fabric, laughing outside taverns.

The pressure behind my eyes began to ease. Just... moving.

"So," Pixia chirped from my shoulder, her voice a tiny buzz near my ear. "Was the summon-and-dismiss just a power play? A little ’look what I can do’ for the wolf-girl? Because if so, bravo. That was some premium-grade dickhead theater."

I snorted. "Maybe. Or maybe I just wanted to see if she’d still flip me off from another dimension. She did. Worth it."

"You have the emotional maturity of a concussed badger."

"Thank you."

We bantered like that for a few blocks. Her jokes got lewder... comments about the various women we passed, their "breast-to-hip optimization ratios," suggestions about what I could do with the plump fruit-seller by the fountain. I volleyed back with sarcastic remarks about her size and her apparent obsession with my sex life. It was dumb. It was easy. It was exactly what I needed.

Then the sound hit us.

Not music, not at first. It was a rhythmic stomping, a collective shout, a wave of laughter and raw energy rolling down a side-street that opened into a wider square. A crowd was packed tight, spilling out from a makeshift stage built from crates and planks at the street’s dead end.

"Oho, a party!" Pixia zoomed up a few inches for a better view. "Let’s investigate!"

I pushed through the outer edge of the crowd, mostly women who gave me sidelong glances that turned into double-takes. My title’s passive effect... the Women Slayer vibe... did its thing. A few whispers followed me. A path kinda opened up.

Then I saw the stage.

And her.

The chant was a pounding beat: "YORNE! YORNE! YORNE!"

She was the source.

A woman... no, a dancer... she danced barefoot on the rough planks. Her blonde hair was like spun gold, wild and flying around her shoulders with every spin. Her body was... a lot. Ludicrously, cartoonishly generous. Huge, heavy tits that strained against the thin, sweat-darkened fabric of her shirt, bouncing with a life of their own. A waist you could circle with your hands, flaring out into an ass that was just... epic. Round, full, shaking with every hip-thrust and stomp.

Her skin gleamed with sweat under the midday sun. She wasn’t doing some graceful folk dance. This was raw, earthy, hypnotic. Hips grinding in circles, thighs slapping together, her back arching as she threw her head back and laughed, a sound that cut through the cheers.

The crowd was a mix... women mostly, screaming and clapping along, their eyes glued to her. But there were a few men scattered in the throng, rare and valuable, their faces slack with awe and lust. They were treated like kings, given the best spots, drinks pressed into their hands.

She spun again, and the prompt fired in my vision, cool and detached against the hot, living frenzy before me.

[SMASH / PASS]

Target: Yorne (???)

Tier: EPIC

Rank: 4th

SP Cost: 250

Epic. Rank 4. Two-fifty SP. Fuck me.

She finished her spin and dropped into a low crouch, one hand braced on the plank, the other trailing through the air. Her head turned, and her eyes... a bright, electric blue... scanned the crowd. They passed over the cheering women, the dumbstruck men, and for a half-second, they landed on me.

A slow, knowing, utterly wicked smile touched her glistening lips. She held my gaze, her hips still making tiny, suggestive circles even in the crouch.

Then she winked.

The crowd erupted. "YORNE!"

Pixia let out a low whistle next to my ear. "Okay. That is a problem-- Wait are you getting fucking hard!"

The tavern wench... a buxom redhead with a corset laced to the point of structural failure... practically shoved a stool at me when I looked her way. Her eyes were glassy with the Women Slayer effect.

"For you, m’lord," she breathed, her gaze dropping to my mouth.

I gave her a lazy grin and took the seat. It was prime real estate, right at the edge of the press, a clear view of the stage. As she leaned in to wipe the already-clean table, I reached up and palmed one of her massive tits through her thin blouse. Just a quick, playful squeeze, firm enough to make her gasp, soft enough to be a compliment.

The weight was impressive. Like a water balloon full of warm pudding. Her nipple hardened instantly against my palm.

She giggled, a high, breathy sound, and didn’t pull away. "Can I get you anything else?" she asked, her voice husky.

"Ale," I said, giving her tit a final, friendly pat before withdrawing my hand. "The cheap stuff. And keep ’em coming."

She scurried off, looking dazed and delighted.

Works every time. It’s like cheating. Which, technically, it is.

I leaned back on the stool and let my attention drift back to the stage. Back to Yorne.

She was on her feet again, moving to a faster, more complex rhythm someone was beating out on a drum. Her ass was the main event. Each bounce was a physics-defying jiggle, a hypnotic oscillation of pure, creamy flesh barely contained by her tight, simple trousers. The fabric was dark with sweat at the small of her back, plastered to the deep cleft of her cheeks.

That is an epic-tier ass. No doubt. Bet it feels like holding two bags of warm, living silk.

I took a long pull from the tankard the redhead brought me. The ale was watery and bitter. Perfect.

Pixia flitted down from my shoulder to perch on the rim of the tankard. "You’re staring," she sang.

"Can you blame me?"

"Nope. But I’m noting the drool. It’s undignified." She took a microscopic sip of the ale. "Two-fifty SP, though. That’s your whole nest egg. You smash her, you’re broke."

"I know."

"And what’s the deal with the ’???’ by her name? I have bad feeling about her..."

I shrugged, not taking my eyes off Yorne as she dropped into another impossibly low squat, her thighs flexing, her breasts threatening to spill completely out of her top. The crowd roared. "Makes it interesting."

Yorne rose from the squat in a slow, sinuous uncoiling. Her eyes found me again in the crowd. This time, her smile was less a wink and more a challenge. A promise. She ran her hands down her sweat-slicked body, over the insane curve of her hips, and gave them a little slap.

The message was clear. Look all you want. You can’t afford the ticket.

I smiled into my ale. She was probably right.

But watching was free. And with the sun on my face, the shitty ale in my hand, the noise of the crowd drowning out my own thoughts, and the most absurdly gorgeous woman I’d ever seen putting on a private show just for my libido... it wasn’t a bad way to spend a holiday.

The redhead wench reappeared, leaning over to refill my tankard, giving me an eyeful of her own impressive cleavage. "More, m’lord?"

I reached out and tweaked her nipple through the fabric. "Keep it coming."

The ale was doing its job, warming my gut and loosening my limbs. But the real heat was building lower down, a heavy, insistent throb every time Yorne moved. It was impossible not to watch her. Not just her, but the way her body worked.

It wasn’t graceful. It was very... Lewd. Her hips rolled in wide, deliberate circles, the muscles of her abdomen flexing visibly beneath her glistening skin. Sweat traced shining paths down the deep valley between her breasts, soaking the already-transparent linen of her top. It darkened the fabric under her arms, plastered stray blonde hairs to her neck and temples. When she spun, droplets flew from the ends of her hair like a golden halo.

Every bounce of her ass was a masterpiece. The heavy cheeks jiggled, then settled, then jiggled again with the next stomp of her bare feet on the wood. The tight trousers were sheer testament to their own failure, stretched to a sheen over the full, round globes. The sweat made the fabric cling even more, outlining the deep, shadowed cleft perfectly.

She threw her head back and laughed again, a sound of pure, unadulterated joy. Her bright blue eyes weren’t on the crowd in general now. They were locked onto a specific point near the front.

I followed her gaze.

A man stood there, separate from the rowdier onlookers. He was dressed in fine but practical merchant’s clothes... a dark green tunic, good leather boots. He had a neat beard and a tired, fond smile on his face as he watched his wife dance. He held a ledger in one hand, forgotten.

A couple of other men... rare commodities themselves... were clustered nearby, sipping from ornate cups. Their voices, laced with envy and a touch of mockery, carried over to where I sat.

"That’s him," one said, a portly fellow with jewelled rings. "Borin. The spice merchant."

"Lucky bastard," another, younger and sharper-faced, muttered. "How does a dried-up bean-counter like him land that?"

"I heard he won her in a card game up north," the portly one chuckled. "Some noble’s daughter gambled her away on a bad hand. Can you imagine? Betting that on a pair of sevens?"

"Insanity. She’s a treasure. And he’s got her dancing in the street like a common tavern girl."

"Maybe he likes to share the view," the younger one said, his eyes glued to Yorne’s sweat-slicked back as she bent over, presenting her epic ass to the crowd for a heart-stopping moment. "I know I would."

Borin, the husband, seemed to sense their stares. He glanced over, his tired smile not faltering, but his eyes grew a shade cooler. He didn’t say anything. He just looked back at Yorne, his expression softening again into something that looked like... awe. And a deep, quiet pride.

Won her in a card game. A living, breathing epic-tier prize. And he lets her dance. Maybe he’s not such a dried-up bean-counter after all.

Yorne finished her move and straightened. Her eyes were still on Borin. The wicked, performing smile softened into something more genuine, more intimate. She blew him a kiss, a quick, sweet gesture that seemed to shut the mocking men up instantly.

Then her gaze slid from her husband, across the crowd, and landed right back on me.

Her smile returned, but it was different now. Challenging. Knowing. Her tongue darted out to lick a bead of sweat from her upper lip. Her hips gave one last, slow, grinding circle, aimed directly at my line of sight, as if to say: You want this? It has a price. And it’s already owned.

My lust wasn’t just rising now; it was a steady, pounding drumbeat in sync with the music. The urge to just hit [SMASH] and deal with the consequences later was a physical itch in my palms. But 250 SP...

I took another long drink and leaned back, meeting her gaze.