Arthur collapsed onto the bed still dressed.
The exhaustion of the day—the broken cart, the trips on foot with the load, the constant tension, Tessa’s gazes—had consumed even his last reserves of energy.
He did not have the strength to take off his shirt or check the Status.
He closed his eyes and sleep dragged him under in a few minutes, heavy and confused.
At first they were only fragments.
The shop.
The heat of the forge.
The sound of wood splitting.
Then the images began to mix and change.
The tiredness gave way to something warmer, more fluid.
He found himself in a space without clear boundaries, immersed in a soft light.
There was someone with him.
He could not see the face clearly, but he felt the body: bare skin against his, hands that explored him with a certainty that admitted no resistance.
In the dream there was no shame.
Only sensation.
The hands ran along his hips, then higher, opening the shirt that in the dream seemed to dissolve.
Warm fingers circled his chest, gently squeezing the now-sensitive points, and Arthur let out a low sound without being able to hold it back.
The contact was slow, insistent, and every caress seemed multiplied by the curse.
The body in the dream reacted without restraint: it arched, sought more, opened its thighs when a leg slipped between his.
Warm lips brushed his neck, then the collarbone, then lower.
A mouth closed over a newly formed breast, sucking lightly, while a hand slid down the abdomen and slipped between his legs.
Arthur moaned in the dream, his hips moving to meet those fingers.
The pleasure was dense, warm, and grew in waves that became stronger and stronger.
There was no way to stop it.
There was not even the will to do so.
The fingers inside him—or on him, the dream blurred the boundaries—moved with a precise rhythm.
A second hand gripped one of his hips, holding him still while the pleasure rose.
His breath broke.
He felt the body changing even inside the dream: softer, more open, more reactive.
As if every contact accelerated something inevitable.
The heat became too much.
For a moment everything was white and hot.
Then the images began to unravel.
He woke with a jolt.
He was breathing with his mouth open.
His heart pounded hard and irregularly.
His body was hot, sweaty, and for a few seconds he did not understand where he was.
The grey light of dawn filtered through the window.
He was in his room.
In his bed.
But something was different.
He moved and felt it immediately.
The shirt clung to him in a strange way, pulled in certain places and too present in others.
The skin under the clothes was extremely sensitive: even the simple friction of the fabric sent shivers through him.
And the scent… the scent was much stronger than when he had fallen asleep.
Sweet, intense, almost heavy in the closed room.
He sat up slowly, still dazed.
He still had the body of the dream impressed on him: the memory of the hands, the mouth, the pleasure.
And together with that, a cold and uncomfortable awareness.
He raised his hands and looked at them.
Then, with a hesitant gesture, he touched his face.
The features under his fingers were even softer.
He stood up, legs a little unsteady, and went to the mirror.
What he saw kept him still for a long time.
The face had lost almost every trace of angularity.
The cheeks were full, the jaw soft, the lips more defined.
The eyes seemed larger.
He shifted the shirt aside with hands that trembled slightly.
The hips curved in a pronounced way.
The waist was narrower.
Even the thighs, when he turned sideways, had a different softness and line.
The skin was perfect everywhere, smooth and even, and when he passed his fingers over it he felt again that exaggerated sensitivity that made him hold his breath.
He was still recognizable.
But it was becoming harder and harder to pretend he was just a somewhat delicate boy.
He touched one breast with the tips of his fingers and had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from making a sound.
The reactivity was too high.
The dream had left the body charged and vulnerable.
With a trembling hand he called up the Status.
[Name: Arthur Age: 18 Level: 1 Class: Apprentice Blacksmith (Weak) Strength: 4 Agility: 6 Endurance: 5 Magic: 3 Intelligence: 12 Dexterity: 8 Skills: – Basic Sharpening (Lv.2) – Tool Organization (Lv.3) – Excessive Shyness (Passive) [Curse: Gender Transformation – Blood of Lysara] Phase: 1/4 Progress: 75%]
From 65% to 75%.
Ten points in a single night, just from a dream.
Arthur leaned one hand against the wall beside the mirror and closed his eyes.
The blood of Lysara had taken advantage of the tiredness and the sleep to advance further.
And now, at 75%, the changes of Phase 1 had become truly difficult to hide.
When dressed he could still get away with it if he was very careful.
But the margin had shrunk to almost nothing.
He forced himself to look away from the reflection.
He dressed with an almost obsessive care: two loose shirts, a jacket, calculated movements so as not to emphasize the chest.
Every friction of the fabric was a small torture.
Outside, the sounds of the house waking up began to be heard.
Soon he would have to go downstairs.
Soon he would have to pretend once again that nothing was happening.
He ran a hand over his face, feeling the skin that was too smooth and the sweet scent that now seemed impossible to mask completely.
75%.
And Phase 1 was not over yet.
Arthur drew a slow, uneven breath, then headed toward the door.
Tomorrow, or perhaps even in just a few hours, pretending would become even harder.
But for now he at least had to try.