Duria burst from the rear exit of the inn exactly like a cork popping from a champagne bottle, actively dragging her two companions behind her like unruly toddlers.
Her terrifying vampire strength rendered any physical resistance futile.
Zedora swore vehemently under her breath, continually tripping over her own boots, while Perval allowed himself to be dragged along with philosophical calm, actively treating the rough treatment as an excellent stretching exercise for his shoulder joints.
The winding streets leading toward the bathhouse district looked entirely surreal.
There was no lingering trace of the recent, brutal massacre.
The snow blanketing the ground was immaculately white, the paper lanterns cast a warm, inviting orange glow, and there wasn’t so much as a fleeting memory left of the yokai or their shredded victims.
Were it not for the deep ache in their exhausted muscles and the lingering stench of scorched acid clinging to the barbarian’s skin, one could easily believe the entire bloody battle had been nothing more than a vivid, collective hallucination brought on by a bad batch of sake.
Halfway down a narrow, winding alley, Duria ground to a sudden halt.
She released Perval’s hand, spun around, and, with a brilliantly mischievous grin, slapped him hard on his broad shoulder.
“The rules are incredibly simple!” she announced, her crimson eyes flashing wickedly in the gloom.
“Last one there has to scrub the backs of the others!
No complaining allowed!”
Without waiting a single second for a response, she let out a joyful squeal and bolted forward, dragging Zedora with her, who only managed to roar:
“Let go of me, you lunatic!” right before they vanished completely around the corner in a blinding flurry of kicked-up snow.
He was left standing entirely alone in the quiet, freezing street.
He calmly adjusted the lapels of his winter coat and smiled warmly to himself, gently stroking his thick beard.
He thoroughly analyzed the specific terms of the wager.
The loser was contractually obligated to personally scrub the bare backs of an exotic, incredibly ancient vampire and an athletic barbarian in a pool of boiling water.
This specific prospect, taking into full account Perval’s monastic appreciation for physical beauty and tactile contact, did not bother him in the slightest.
On the contrary; it sounded exactly like his precise definition of a truly magnificent evening.
“True enlightenment abhors unnecessary haste,” he muttered to himself with satisfaction.
He reached deep into the pocket of his coat and produced a plump, ceramic bottle of premium sake, which he had graciously “borrowed” from the Matron’s private reserves when no one was looking.
He casually bit the wax seal off, spat it into the snow, and took a long, appreciative swig, fully savoring the heat rapidly spreading through his chest.
Rather than breaking into a sprint, he strolled toward the bathhouse at a leisurely, relaxed pace, quietly humming a bawdy tavern tune about an innocent novice and an overly enthusiastic gardener, marching with deliberate premeditation straight toward his incredibly sweet defeat.
He wandered briefly through the cedar-lined corridors of the bathhouse, casually strolling past several sliding doors from which the pleasant sounds of splashing water and muted, relaxed conversation drifted.
Thick, fragrant steam hung everywhere, actively softening the sharp architectural contours and pleasantly muffling the ambient noise.
The rich scent of natural minerals mingled with the sharp tang of heated pine resin.
Finally, guided purely by instinct and the distant, melodic echo of Duria’s laughter, he arrived at the correct entryway.
He wore nothing but a thick, white cotton towel wrapped carelessly around his narrow waist.
As he stepped outside, the sheer, breathtaking beauty of the place struck him instantly.
It was an open-air, natural hot spring, flawlessly integrated directly into the raw, volcanic rock.
Looming directly overhead was the pitch-black, winter sky, completely dominated by two brilliant moons; one massive and silver, the other a smaller (though noticeably larger than usual), ominous crimson crescent.
Despite the biting, freezing frost maintaining a stranglehold over the rest of the city, a humid, sweltering microclimate thrived here.
Surrounding the steaming, bubbling pools, seemingly in direct, violent defiance of the laws of nature, lush green ferns thrived, and delicate, tiny white blossoms hung from the branches of stunted, twisted trees, greedily drinking in the intense heat actively radiating from the earth.
The closer he approached the primary stone basin, the thicker the milky steam became.
Finally, cutting through the dense, white fog, he caught sight of their silhouettes.
Zedora sat on the smooth, worn stone edge of the pool, submerged directly in the boiling water from the waist down.
She leaned her back comfortably against a moss-covered boulder, her muscled arms spread wide along the stone rim in a posture of total, unadulterated relaxation.
Her dark skin, richly tanned by the brutal Southern sun, was pulled taut over defined, corded muscles that had been flawlessly sculpted by years of swinging axes.
Perval’s gaze involuntarily lingered on her extensive tribal tattoos.
Her right arm, running continuously from the cap of her shoulder all the way down to her wrist, was covered in a complex, tribal pattern inked in stark black.
The intricate lines twisted, coiled, and seamlessly intertwined, flowing directly down onto her right breast, where they formed the detailed, stylized calyx of an exotic, carnivorous flower whose exact species he could not name.
The darkly inked petals of this botanical masterpiece perfectly enclosed her nipple, effectively concealing it while simultaneously exhibiting it in a stunningly artistic form.
Her left forearm bore similar, marks of ritualistic inking.
In that exact moment, shrouded in the dim moonlight and the thick, swirling steam, she looked exactly like a feral, untamed war goddess actively resting after forging the world.
A short distance away, dead center in the stone basin, the surface of the water was nearly completely still.
Only Duria’s head protruded from the steaming depths.
The vampire had submerged herself completely right up to her chin, her crimson eyes narrowed in sheer, unadulterated bliss.
Her signature, stark-white hair, which was usually worn in a chaotic, spiky mess, was now tightly gathered at the very crown of her head in a short, severe knot styled exactly like a traditional northern warrior’s topknot, securely pinned in place with a simple, polished wooden hairpin.
Perval smiled broadly into the thick, humid fog, appreciating the exquisite, artistic composition of the scene before him.
“Enlightenment truly possesses a great many faces,” he murmured quietly to himself, stepping confidently toward the water’s edge.
“But this one is undeniably my favorite.
To lose to you, ladies, is the purest form of victory.”
Zedora stared at him, not exactly like a seasoned gambler assessing a sore loser, but vastly more like a hungry lioness evaluating a particularly plump antelope that had willingly strolled onto the savannah.
With a slow, commanding wave of her hand, she indicated the steaming water directly beside her.
It was a blatant invitation one did not refuse.
He casually shed his towel and slipped into the stone basin.
His colossal frame, scarred and corded with muscle as hard as granite, displaced a significant volume of water.
The water level surged , spilling over the mossy stone edges with a satisfying splash.
He exhaled a long, deep sigh as the scalding heat enveloped his thoroughly exhausted joints, and settled comfortably on the barbarian’s left side.
He maintained a strategic distance; close enough to intimately feel her presence, but just far enough away to avoid catching a stray elbow.
At that exact moment, the surface of the water directly in front of them rippled entirely soundlessly.
Duria, still fully submerged right up to her chin, glided toward the edge as smoothly and silently as an albino alligator actively hunting in a swamp.
Her brilliant crimson eyes gleamed sharply through the thick steam, thoroughly appraising the newcomer.
It seemed the moment was flawless.
“Mmmm…” she sighed blissfully.”Nighttime, the stars, boiling hot water, excellent company, and…
Shimatta!
(Shit!)” she cursed , completely and shattering the tranquil mood.”Shochu!
I completely forgot the shochu!”
She wasted no time on polite social conventions.
She exploded from the water exactly as if she’d been scalded, splashing boiling droplets in every direction, and before anyone could even blink, she sprinted completely barefoot across the wet stone tiles toward the changing rooms, vanishing rapidly into the thick clouds of steam.
Zedora didn’t even flinch.
She simply closed her eyes, resting her head comfortably against the moss-covered rock, entirely reveling in the stillness and the searing heat.
Perval did not close his eyes.
He possessed a truly magnificent view of the rapidly retreating vampire.
Duria was completely naked, and for an “undead” creature, she looked startlingly, incredibly alive.
Her physique was the quintessence of terrifying agility and raw speed; a narrow, waspish waist, firm, athletic glutes, and the incredibly long, powerful legs of a seasoned sprinter.
But it wasn’t the flawless shape that arrested his attention; it was what adorned it.
Her entire back was a living, breathing canvas.
Stretching continuously from the nape of her neck all the way down to the base of her spine was a intricate, incredibly detailed, full-color traditional tattoo.
It vividly depicted a brutal skirmish between a horned demon and a ferocious tiger amidst crashing waves and blooming cherry blossoms; the colors remained shockingly vibrant despite the passage of centuries, and the deep ink actively seemed to pulse just beneath her pale skin.
Less than a minute later, she returned, carrying two plump, ceramic cups and a carafe.
This time, he was afforded the distinct opportunity to appreciate the masterpiece from the front.
The tattoo did not simply terminate on her back.
The delicate cherry petals and the foaming, stylized waves visually “spilled over” her narrow shoulders, trailing down her collarbones, and re-emerged on her hips, coiling dangerously close to her groin before finally vanishing entirely on the insides of her firm thighs.
Her body was a stunning, living map of violence and exquisite beauty.
He caught sight of one final, intriguing detail as she stepped confidently to the edge of the pool; silver rings pierced both of her nipples, actively lending a sharp, predatory edge to her superficially innocent, girlish silhouette.
“Salvation is here!” she announced brightly, completely and unbothered by her total nudity.
She bounded back into the boiling water with a huge splash, holding the ceramic vessels high above her head to ensure not a single, precious drop was spilled.”He who drinks shochu, lives a long and prosperous life!”
“What exactly is this shochu?
Some local variety of sake?” Perval inquired.
“It is exactly like sake, but vastly more sake!” Duria replied cheerfully, shooting him a conspiratorial wink.
The thick steam steadily rose from the boiling water, actively dancing in the freezing night air, mingling with the sharp, potent aroma of the distilled rice liquor.
The scalding water effectively leached the deep tension from their battered muscles, while the shochu systematically leached the lingering stress from their exhausted minds.
Duria, floating lazily on her back with the small ceramic cup perfectly balanced on her flat stomach, finally broke the comfortable silence, staring up at the glittering stars.
“Kanpai!
(Cheers!)” she called out, raising the cup.”To the impressive fact that our heads are still firmly attached to our necks.
And to the agreeable fact that this water is boiling hot.”
“To the fact that blood actually washes off!” Zedora shouted, brutally clinking her own cup against the vampire’s.
She downed the potent contents in a single gulp, not even bothering to wince as the strong alcohol burned a fiery path down her throat.”Good.
It burns almost as fiercely as the midday sun down South.”
Perval, lounging incredibly comfortably with his arms spread wide along the stone rim of the pool, took a long, appreciative pull directly from the carafe, thoroughly savoring the complex flavor.
“Absolute harmony, my ladies.
A roaring fire in the belly, boiling fire in the water, and biting ice in the air.”
He closed his eyes.”Though I must openly admit…
nothing burned quite as fiercely today as our dear necromancer.”
At the mere mention of Yerga, Zedora actually snorted with genuine laughter, which was an exceedingly rare occurrence for the stoic barbarian.
“I already knew she was dangerous.
I’ve witnessed exactly what she can do to an enemy on multiple occasions, with or without her magic,” she admitted, idly tracing a calloused finger over the dark tribal ink on her submerged thigh.
“But that?
That was something entirely different.
Pure, unadulterated, primal frenzy.
She looked ready to tear that spider apart with her bare hands.
I respect that.
She looked exactly as if she had swallowed the bloody sun and actively wanted to vomit it back up onto that monster.”
“Sugoi (Incredible),” Duria giggled, generously refilling her companions’ cups.”And all of that over a ruined scrap of cloth!
She demolished a heavy cart and actively incinerated half a city block purely because the Jorōgumo splashed some mud on her favorite dress.”
“That wasn’t merely a dress,” Perval noted philosophically.”That was wounded pride.
And pride mixed with potent death magic is a cocktail vastly more explosive than those lances the temple guard were wielding.” He slowly shook his head in deep appreciation.
“She actively crushed that skeletal cat construct to fine powder and didn’t even blink.
When her necrotic aura abruptly shifted color…
for a brief fraction of a second, I genuinely felt as though I were standing directly beside a feral goddess of total destruction.”
“And Neira…” Zedora abruptly changed the subject, her rough voice dropping slightly, becoming noticeably raspier.
“I actively felt it through the hafts of my axes.
When she casually strolled out into that freezing blizzard, practically naked…
I honestly thought she was going to freeze solid in seconds.””And what did she do instead?”
“She spectacularly bloomed,” Perval finished, smiling warmly at the vivid memory.”It was entirely fascinating.
She is usually so remarkably calm, so composed.
But out there?
She actively radiated such intense, searing heat that the frozen earth was boiling beneath her bare feet.”
“She is a succubus,” Duria stated simply, idly toying with her empty cup.”She actively feeds on intense emotions.
In a bustling brothel, in the middle of a brutal skirmish…
wherever the atmosphere is incredibly intense, she becomes incredibly strong.
Her magic wasn’t ‘holy’ in that dreadfully boring, traditional sense.
It was…
incredibly sticky.
Cloyingly sweet.”
“It was effective,” Zedora cut in with brutal pragmatism.”My acid burns entirely stopped hurting, and my steel axes carved through that spider chitin exactly like a hot knife through soft butter.
If that is exactly how her specific Goddess operates, then I might just build her a small altar.
As long as she doesn’t demand that I pray on my knees.”
Perval choked on his shochu, but rapidly managed to transition the violent coughing fit into a deep, incredibly throaty laugh.
He aggressively wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and shot the barbarian a expressive, meaningful look.
“Well, I greatly fear, Zedi, that within the specific Cult of Lust, the kneeling position is precisely the one that is…
most generously rewarded.
And it exceedingly rarely requires the use of any actual words.”
Duria giggled brightly, immediately catching the blatant innuendo and very nearly spilling the remaining contents of her cup.
Zedora narrowed her dark eyes, glaring intensely at the monk, while the corner of her scarred mouth twitched dangerously.
“Tread very carefully, monk,” she growled, though there was no genuine malice in her raspy voice.”Before I actively decide to test exactly how well you handle enforced humility.”
A comfortable silence fell over the hot spring, broken only by the vampire’s occasional, bright snorts of amusement.
The only other sounds were the freezing wind actively rustling through the canopy of the stunted trees and the quiet, rhythmic lapping of the boiling water against the stone.
“Do you honestly believe this is over?” Perval finally asked, staring intently up at the ominous crimson moon.
Zedora slowly shook her head.
The boiling water streamed off her short, chopped dark hair and actively cascaded down her shoulders.
“No.
The dried prune explicitly stated they actively attacked the entire city simultaneously.
That wasn’t a mere coincidence.
That was a coordinated test.
Or a bloody prelude.
The shadows never strike this openly unless they feel incredibly confident.”
“Or unless they are starving,” Duria added, her cheerful, girlish tone abruptly hardening to solid steel for a fraction of a second.”Bakemono (Monsters) always return.
It is their fundamental nature.”
“But we are currently here as well,” the monk noted, raising the carafe in a confident toast.”And as tonight’s brutal skirmish so clearly demonstrated…
we currently boast a furious necromancer, a aroused priestess, a dwarf carrying a literal hand cannon, and a remarkably ancient vampire with a distinct penchant for silver in our ranks.”
Duria proudly bared her prominent fangs in a smile that was every bit as charming as it was unsettling.
“I actively enjoy it when it hurts a little,” she said, slowly and deliberately running her tongue over her pale lips.”And do not forget the lethal barbarian whose only genuine fear is running out of high-proof alcohol,” she added, shooting Zedora a conspiratorial wink.
The fierce warrior scoffed loudly, but the corner of her scarred mouth definitively twitched upward.
“I fear nothing.
But…” she aggressively thrust her empty cup directly toward Duria.”…I dislike it when my cup is empty.
Pour, pale lady.
We can actively worry about the encroaching shadows tomorrow.
Tonight, let us actively worry about ensuring the wine doesn’t run dry.”
“A magnificent toast!” Perval concluded heartily.”Or rather: Kanpai!”
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