SOTBW - 38

It was close to noon when Najane first noticed something was wrong with her body. She wondered if it was because she had inhaled only a small amount of tranquilizer during last night’s heat. Grabbing a fresh cigarette, she placed it between her lips. Her mouth felt dry, and the smoke tasted excessively bitter and astringent.

Frowning, Najane inhaled the smoke but was interrupted by a fit of dry coughing. Somehow, the sensation of smoking felt different from usual. Thinking she might have made a mistake with the mix, she put out the cigarette and lit a new one. However, the bitterness persisted.

Troubled, Najane took a sip of the wine Amelia had left behind, wetting her throat before forcing herself to swallow the smoke. Her body felt strange. Like she was coming down with a fever, her limbs shivered, and her hands trembled as if she hadn’t eaten in days. Though she recognized the severity of her condition, she stubbornly continued to inhale.

This was unlike her usual heat. Fear struck her heart. It reminded her of her first heat. Back then, Najane had hidden inside an abandoned house, locked herself in a closet, and repeatedly pleasured herself until the skin between her legs was raw.

She had panted like an animal, chasing pleasure until her body was utterly spent, no longer able to produce a single drop of fluid. If she hadn’t taken refuge in that closet out of sheer terror of her body’s transformation, she would’ve been raped in the filthy streets, shaking her hips like a sow in heat for strange men.

As that memory resurfaced, Najane’s complexion turned pale. Though she had experienced numerous heats since then, this was the first time she had such a dreadful premonition. Quickly, she retrieved the hidden stash of drugs and tranquilizers. She knew it was dangerous, but to avoid the worst-case scenario, she had no choice but to inhale more than usual.

She calmly rolled a large dose of the drugs and tranquilizers into a cigarette when, all of a sudden, a twitch came from below. Gasping sharply, Najane collapsed to the floor. Her inner thighs trembled violently, and a clear fluid began to trickle out. She had completely lost control of her body. Out of nowhere, an overwhelming climax surged up from deep inside her, leaving her breathless and unable to compose herself.

Panicking, Najane dropped to her knees and crouched, trying to regulate her ragged breathing. Her hands kept wandering downward. Biting her lower lip hard enough to draw blood, she clenched her legs, unsure of how to handle this unprecedented situation.

She pressed her hands against the floor, her entire body shaking uncontrollably. Suddenly, she thought of Maximón. He was the only one who could help her in this situation. Najane shut her eyes tightly and recalled the expression on Maximón’s face from the night before. He had seemed strange then, as if he were just as confused by his own changes as she was by hers.

But she forced herself to stop thinking about him. Digging her nails into the wooden floor so hard they almost tore off, she finally felt somewhat lucid again.

Pain helps me stay grounded, she realized. If it hurts, I can keep my sanity.

With this new understanding, Najane bit down on her wrist as hard as she could, blood dripping from her wrist and teeth. She fumbled blindly through a drawer, refusing to turn to Maximón for help. The thought of being held by someone who had looked at her with such cold indifference was unbearable—it would drive her to despair.

Finally managing to open the drawer, Najane pulled out a small pair of scissors. They were the ones Amelia often used to mend torn clothing or cut threads. Her chest heaving with rapid breaths, Najane hesitated for only a moment before plunging the sharp scissors into her thigh.

The short but razor-sharp blade sank deep into her flesh. Her body, already flushed from the relentless heat, barely registered the pain. Sobbing, she stabbed her thigh repeatedly, the thin skin tearing with each thrust, splattering blood.

Only then did the pain begin to reach her. Najane let the scissors slip from her trembling hands and pressed her palm against the rising heat of the wound, burying her face in the bed. Her vision began to blur. She knew too well what kind of tragedy would unfold if she lost her grip on reality.

Clutching the blood-soaked blanket with trembling hands, she unconsciously twisted her hips. It felt as though someone was penetrating her from behind, making her genitals throb painfully. Swallowing shallow breaths, Najane clenched her thighs tightly, soft moans escaping her lips despite her efforts.

Even as she struggled to hold on to her sanity, Najane couldn’t help but feel that it was all over. When in heat, rational thought was impossible. All she could do was wander the streets with a vacant expression, hoping someone would embrace her, or collapse in exhaustion after endlessly pleasuring herself.

Digging her nails into the wounds on her thigh, Najane winced as a suffocating pain made her shoulders hunch involuntarily.

Maybe I should just die…

Tears streamed down her face as she let out a hollow laugh. Every time she went into heat, the suffering was unbearable. She even gave up on looking for Luna, feeling so defeated that she just wanted to disappear from the world.

For a while, the drugs had helped. She had thought she could endure the physical strain and continue searching for Luna’s whereabouts. For a fleeting moment, that thought had made her happy.

But now, she was completely consumed by the devastating heat that had struck her like a natural disaster. Already exhausted from the accumulated stress and her turmoil over Maximón, she felt utterly hopeless. Even if she somehow survived this ordeal, there was no guarantee it wouldn’t happen again.

Crying and laughing alternately, Najane picked up the bloodied scissors again. Feeling like she was running in circles with no way forward, she was overwhelmed with frustration and despair. Her upper body swayed weakly as if she were struggling to stay awake. With all her strength, she drove the scissors into her thigh once more.

The intensifying heat dulled her sense of pain entirely. Dazed, Najane shook her head as her ears buzzed and her vision blurred. She gripped the scissors tightly and tried to pull them upward, but they wouldn’t budge. Slumping her shoulders, she turned her head to the side, her neck limp.

Her surroundings blurred, but strangely, she could clearly see the scissors embedded in her hand. Trembling as her hips twitched involuntarily, Najane watched indifferently as her hand absentmindedly pulled the scissors free.

The color of the blood flowing down her thigh seemed a bit strange. It looked red, but at the same time, there was a tinge of dark blue to it.

At that moment, Najane’s strength drained from her body, and she tipped over to one side. The sound of the small scissors skidding across the wooden floor echoed softly. However, Najane did not collapse to the ground. Instead, she fell into someone’s arms, her head tilting back as she continued to pant and moan helplessly.

Instinctively, she sought someone to hold. She groped around for a warm, comforting place to rest and found herself clutching at a broad, firm back. Pressing her face into the person’s neck, she rubbed her lips against their cool skin. Her body burned as if it were on fire, but their skin felt as cold as someone who had just emerged from icy water. It felt good.

Najane gasped for breath and, with hazy eyes, looked up at the person. She wanted them to touch her, to soothe her, to fulfill her desperate need.

She was no longer in her right mind. She didn’t know who was holding her and didn’t care to know. Twisting her legs together, Najane couldn’t bear the heat coursing through her lower abdomen. Her head tilted back as waves of pleasure overwhelmed her.

Through her blurred vision, something came into focus—a pair of murky emerald-green eyes shining faintly, like a cloudy gemstone.

Seeing the anguish in those eyes, Najane laughed like someone who had lost her mind. There was no way this person could be Maximón. He wouldn’t come for her. And even if it was him supporting her now, he would never wear such an expression.

Yes, this must all be a dream—a wretched nightmare.

Najane’s blood-soaked hand weakly pushed against Maximón’s body. It was an instinctive rejection, a final act of defiance, as if to say she would not sleep with anyone who wasn’t Maximón.

Maximón looked down at her and then gently grasped her wrist.

“Decide here and now, Najane. Will you come to my room, or will you stay here?”

At that moment, Najane clenched her lower abdomen. Another wave of ecstasy surged through her. Clenching her teeth, she unintentionally rubbed against Maximón’s chest. She gasped for air, closing her eyes. She lacked the strength to be angry, irritated, or to voice her refusal.

Maximón placed his hand on Najane’s bleeding thigh, cupping it as he spoke again.

“...I can handle this.”

His voice trembled faintly. But Najane didn’t register what the person holding her was saying. She no longer had the will to understand. Her mind was filled only with dirty, messy thoughts of sex.

She wanted Maximón. She wanted to run to him, even now, and beg him to hold her just once. The overwhelming pleasure consumed her pride, her anger, and even the pain he had caused her. Najane wanted nothing more than to see Maximón.

Her consciousness began to sink slowly into the depths of unconsciousness. Unaware that Najane’s mind had completely unraveled, Maximón held her tightly, his voice trembling as if he might cry at any moment.

“...You know I’m good at this.”

Najane’s arms slowly wrapped around Maximón’s neck.

Maximón pleaded with her.

“Please, let me hold you.”

________________________________________

Belshua gently polished his sword with a piece of leather worn thin on one side. The blade, sharpened to a razor’s edge, gleamed so brightly it reflected his face. Satisfied, Belshua smiled as he inspected the sword. He thought it would look quite impressive if he added a long groove to the edge.

Lost in thought, Belshua raised his index fingernail and slowly ran it along the blade from top to bottom. Despite being a sacred sword, tempered thousands of times to ensure no scratches could form, a fine line appeared instantly.

Belshua examined the groove carefully before scratching the other side to add a matching design. It was an idea no ordinary person would have dared to conceive. Once his weapon was complete, Belshua held the sword high. At that moment, a face appeared reflected on the blade.

Turning around, he met the gaze of Gwyneth’s violet eyes. Sliding the sword into its sheath, Belshua now pulled out a shield. Gwyneth, leaning against the door of the storage room with her arms crossed, smirked.

“Since when did you develop such an adorable hobby? I bet you’re the only lunatic in the world who would scratch a sacred sword with their fingernails.”

“If you’ve got something to say, spit it out and leave. Stop lurking around like a rat.”

Belshua, despite Gwyneth being over fifty years old, spoke to her with complete disregard. Gwyneth removed her hood, looking out at the training ground where dust swirled and settled. In the distance, boys no older than fourteen or fifteen were sweating profusely as they worked on their stamina.

“It’s a message from His Holiness the Pope.”

Belshua, who had been wiping down the shield with leather, glanced back at her.

“Before winter ends, enough Serith will attack to wipe out every resident of Noctis Fortress.”

“Another one of his vague prophecies?”

“He can’t help it. Unlike you, all living things must eventually succumb to old age.”

At Gwyneth’s words, Belshua’s face slowly twisted. He glared at her for a moment before silently turning away.

“Is that the end of the story?”

“I brought Rakhshu’s Sword.”

This time, Belshua, who had been tending to his shield, froze in the middle of flipping it over at the mention of Rakhshu Elgort’s name. Rakhshu’s Sword. Unlike the sacred swords Gwyneth had crafted, this was an unparalleled masterpiece, the final great treasure forged in the age of magic.

Long ago, when the Serith were on the brink of assaulting humanity’s last fortress, Rakhshu Elgort slit his own throat with that sword to invoke a spell that could only be activated through death. The spell created an indestructible iron barrier.

Thanks to Rakhshu’s sacrifice, humanity survived and prepared to counterattack the Serith from within the fortress. Leading the survivors during that time was Sylin Bastronia.

Though the fortress where the heroes had made their final stand had long since crumbled into dust, the sword Rakhshu used remained safely preserved by the Holy Church. Notably, Rakhshu’s Sword was crafted personally by Sylin. After Rakhshu gave his life to cast the barrier, Sylin had clung to the sword embedded in the ground, weeping bitterly.

Since then, the sacred sword Rakhshu had wielded was known as Rakhshu’s Sword, revered as a legendary treasure among nations. There was even a time when those blinded by power attempted to wield Rakhshu’s Sword. But the blade could only be used by Rakhshu himself; in anyone else’s hands, it was nothing more than an ornamental sword incapable of cutting even a piece of paper.

According to legend, Rakhshu’s Sword was so extraordinary that it scorched the Serith in black flames with every swing. Rakhshu symbolized fire, while Sylin symbolized ice. Their legendary battle against the Serith, waged with opposing forces, was widely known.

“The Pope insisted that we must take it. He mentioned it would soon be necessary. Any ideas as to why?”

“Who knows? Too many possibilities to guess.”

Though his tone was mocking, Belshua appeared deep in thought. Rakhshu’s Sword was a treasure capable of casting an expansive barrier. Could the Pope mean for it to be used when the Serith attacked? But, as stated earlier, Rakhshu’s Sword could only be wielded by Rakhshu Elgort.

On top of that, Rakhshu had given his entire soul to cast the final barrier at the last fortress. As a result, he was the only hero among the Astrun who had been unable to reincarnate.

After pondering for a while, Belshua’s expression shifted to one of indifference, as if the matter had suddenly become bothersome. He stood up, leaving Gwyneth behind. Watching him exit the armory, Gwyneth spoke quietly.

“Why didn’t you lift that child’s curse?”

“That child?”

“I mean Najane.”

Gwyneth’s expression turned severe, as if she wouldn’t forgive him depending on his answer. But Belshua responded nonchalantly, as though her question was trivial.

“Why should I go out of my way to do something so kind?”

He climbed the stairs without looking back, signaling the conversation was over. Gwyneth, left staring at his retreating figure, let out a long sigh.

“Honestly, whether it’s him or anyone else...”