The three-day leave evaporated in a blur of gray skies and leaden hearts.
For Richie, the concept of a holiday had become a hollow mockery. While his squire’s uniform allowed him to roam Glasslovar unmolested, the city was now choked with a suffocating, martial atmosphere. The Old District was under a state of semi-siege, and the residential wards had fallen as silent as an ossuary.
The outskirts, once favored for spring picnics and lazy summer strolls, were now scarred with fresh trenches and foxholes. The riverbank, where shade-trees and wildflowers had once thrived, was cordoned off with heavy timber stakes and rusted iron chains—barriers intended to snag the propellers of enemy transports.
This was total war.
Before the Varedin incursion, Richie had thought of war as a grand, distant game of steel and glory. Now, standing in the cold heart of it, that delusion lay thoroughly shattered.
On the dawn of the fourth day, Richie arrived at the camp early and headed straight for the mess hall. The floor was no longer cluttered with the usual sacks of grain or crates of local produce. Since the day he had successfully baked a cake while encased in the agonizing rigidity of the Training Armor, he had passed his first trial of discipline.
"You're ahead of schedule today."
There was someone already in the kitchen. Outside of scheduled meal times, that someone was inevitably Lady Merlin.
Richie felt a sharp surge of heat at the sight of her, followed quickly by a flustered, juvenile uncertainty. He didn't know how to act after the night in the cave; the memory of her screams was still a vivid, pulsing thing in his mind.
"I... about those few days in the mountains... I promise my lips are sealed," Richie whispered, leaning in close enough to catch the scent of her hair.
Merlin gave him a small, enigmatic smile, but her eyes remained focused on the prep table. Several massive fish, each weighing over a dozen pounds, were laid out on the zinc surface. They were still alive, their gills fluttering with a rhythmic, desperate pulse.
"Get into your Training Armor," Merlin commanded. She plucked a slender, foot-long filleting knife from the rack and drove it into the cutting board with a sharp *thud*.
Richie didn't think much of the task at first. But once he was encased in the heavy, unlubricated joints of the suit and tried to lift one of the fish, he realized the trial was far more daunting than it appeared. The fish were fat and rounded, their flesh firm, their scales coated in a slick, frustratingly stubborn mucus.
His first stroke slid harmlessly off the scales. Not only did the blade miss its mark, but the fish squirmed through his armored fingers and flopped onto the wet floor with a wet smack.
"Precision is not the same as force," Merlin teased, watching his struggle with an amused, superior glint in her eyes.
Richie flushed. It was a pathetic failure. Since he couldn't direct his frustration at the Vice-Captain, he poured it all into the next fish.
"No unnecessary force," Merlin warned, her tone sharpening to a razor edge. "This is training, not butchery. If you want to survive the next week, you’ll follow my hand." She could see the irritation bubbling in him; a clouded mind was a corpse in the making.
Fortunately, Richie was a quick study. He carefully retrieved the fish—though it took three attempts because of the slime.
"What exactly is this meant to teach?" Richie asked, staring at the jagged, ugly gouge his first attempt had left on the creature’s back.
Merlin stepped forward and took the knife. She positioned a fresh fish toward her, angling the blade at a perfect twenty degrees. She held the handle with only two fingers—her thumb braced against the spine of the hilt and her middle finger against the front bolster.
In a flash, her hand blurred. With a single, elegant stroke that hummed with Aura, the fillet was separated from the bone. She flipped the fish, reversed her grip with a flick of her wrist, and repeated the motion. The second fillet fell away just as cleanly, the bone beneath picked white.
"An heirloom method from my father's house," Merlin explained. "It is designed to hone the 'micro-precision' of one's strength. On the battlefield, your Magitech suit is a blunt instrument. This training turns it into a surgeon's blade."
Richie understood instantly. This was a family secret—a bloodline technique. A Knight’s power was inherited, but their methodology was a closely guarded legacy. Such secrets were almost never shared with squires, let alone outsiders.
Knowing this, Richie felt the true weight of the lesson.
Merlin continued, her voice softening, "We are both Defensive Knights. My techniques are far more suited to your constitution than anyone else's in the squad. I cannot break tradition by teaching you our secret Arts directly, but I can give you the foundation. You must forge your own style in the fires of your own experience. In that, no one can help you."
She handed the knife back. Richie took it, feeling the cold steel through his gauntlets. He pulled another fish toward him.
He took a slow, measured breath, relaxing his arms and wrists as Merlin had demonstrated. He tried to 'see' the fish not with his eyes, but with the pressure sensors of the suit and his own nerve endings.
Sensing the grain of muscle through a wooden handle and a steel blade while encased in inches of alloy was a feat of near-impossible sensitivity. He doubted he would achieve it even by the time he reached Merlin’s age; she had been filleting these beasts since she could walk.
The first fish was a disaster. The blade caught the finger of his gauntlet, and as he jerked back, the knife flew out of his hand and clattered across the floor. Richie stole a glance at Merlin, relieved to find only steady encouragement on her face.
*Lady Merlin truly is a saint,* he thought.
Compared to his other mentors, she was a goddess of patience. Lady Dana’s method was 'survival through trauma'—leaving him to drown until he figured out how to swim. The 'juice-squeezer' Lina was a better teacher, but her patience was non-existent and her tongue was a barbed whip; even when he succeeded, all he got was a backhanded insult. And the three sisters... they were simply demons.
He regulated his breathing, calming the static in his mind. He pulled another fish toward him.
This time, he didn't strike immediately. He spent several minutes simply feeling the fish. It was incredibly slippery—not just because of the scales, but because of the viscous, sliding mucus. It reminded him of the slickness of a woman’s core during the heat of the act—the fluid of lubrication.
The thought made his focus waver, his blood thickening, but he ruthlessly pulled himself back.
Suddenly, a spark of inspiration flared. It wasn't exactly what Merlin was teaching, but it was a bridge to the Deflected Strike he had been practicing. The key to a deflection was to redirect an enemy's force, but its success depended entirely on reading the angle of impact.
Feeling the slick scales, he had a radical thought. What if his armor wasn't just a rigid shell, but something slippery and elastic like the surface of this fish?
But as he looked at the knife, he saw the counter. Merlin’s technique was designed to find the grip in the slickest of surfaces. It was the predator’s answer to the prey’s defense.
Richie made a tentative stroke. To his surprise, the blade bit deep and stayed true.
"Good. Your intuition is... formidable," Merlin praised from the side. "Flip it. Prove it wasn't a fluke."
Richie followed her lead. Another stroke. This time, he caught the sensation—the exact nanosecond the blade found the bone. It was the same principle as his deflection training. Before, he had sensed the direction of an enemy's force to redirect it; now, he was sensing the grain of the muscle to guide the steel.
He grabbed the next fish. He didn't even pause. *Swish.* A clean cut. The sensation was crystalline now. It felt like a perfect harmony of his deflection training and his Rubbing Step.
He stared at the two fillets. The blade had stayed flush against the bone—just as the Rubbing Step stayed flush against the earth, the distance kept to an absolute, frictionless minimum.
He stood frozen before the table for a long time, savoring the realization. He had just discovered a technique of his own.
Before the feeling could fade, he worked through the remaining fish with an almost manic intensity. *Slice, flip, slice.* Three clean pieces. He tried again, this time without even flipping the fish, cutting through from the back. The cuts weren't as pretty, but they were efficient—deadly.
Merlin watched in silence, her surprise morphing into something closer to awe. Her family was a large one, and many of her cousins had spent years trying to master the 'feel' that Richie had just intuited in minutes.
In a heartbeat, the table was covered in fillets. Richie, caught up in the momentum, began to slice the meat into paper-thin strips. He angled the blade, following the grain perfectly. Just as he reached the skin, he pivoted the edge, sliding it flush against the surface.
It was a beautiful display of raw talent, though the execution was still rough. Some slices were thicker than others, and the skin was occasionally nicked by his enthusiasm.
Merlin watched closely. She recognized the foundation, but the execution was alien to her family's style. She realized then that he was adapting his Rubbing Step into a blade technique—a fusion of movement and strike.
"It’s a fine technique," she noted, her voice cutting through the hum of his concentration. "But I don't see how you'll use it in a cockpit. We fight with cannons and heavy blades, not scalpels."
Richie blinked, the trance breaking. He hadn't thought that far ahead.
An enemy Iron Crusader on the battlefield wasn't a dead fish on a zinc table. Knight duels were either long-range wars of attrition or decided in a single, explosive kinetic strike. No one was going to let him close enough to start filleting their armor plates.
"Don't let it discourage you," Merlin said kindly. "Perhaps one day you'll find an opening no one else sees."
As she spoke, she moved in front of him, her back turned. She slowly lifted the hem of her tunic. Richie stared in confusion at her rounded, muscled buttocks, but his eyes nearly popped out of his head as she pulled a small silver latch on the seam of her trousers. With a sharp *click*, the seat of her trousers fell away, transforming them into open-crotch leggings.
"Consider this your reward," Merlin whispered with a playful, low laugh. "A reward for your remarkable intuition—and for your commitment to our little secret."
Richie had no words for that.
The Training Armor didn't have its heavy front plates, so there was nothing blocking his path. He reached out to pull Merlin to him, intending to take her with the same feral intensity he’d shown Randy.
"Don't you dare touch me with those fish-stinking hands," Merlin warned sharply, though her voice lacked any real venom. She braced herself against his armored shoulders and climbed into the cockpit herself.
She took the same cramped position—legs drawn up, heels against her rear. They didn't need a manual. Merlin knew Richie had a dark, somewhat ruthless side despite his age, and she was curious. She wanted to know what it felt like to be taken in a position where her lower body was pinned—a sensation that felt dangerously close to being violated.
Richie saw the hunger in her eyes and knew he didn't need to be gentle. He reached down and found her already drenched, her heat radiating through the cramped space.
He drove himself into her with a single, uncompromising thrust.
The space inside the Training Armor was even more restricted than his combat suit, and Merlin’s legs were longer and fuller than Randy’s. They were wedged together so tightly that he couldn't manage long, deep strokes. But he knew she loved the feeling of him bottoming out against her cervix—her pleasure was buried deep, in the pressure.
Since her upper body was outside and her trousers were only open at the seam, his options were narrow. He focused all his attention on her mound and her lush, twitching buttocks.
In truth, Merlin’s body was the most perfect he had ever seen. The only flaw—the thick forest of hair—had been resolved; she was now smooth and slick to the touch, her full labia soft and resilient. But his favorite part was her clitoris, which was swollen to the size of a peanut. When he pinched it with even the slightest pressure, her whole body would shudder.
Richie hammered into her again and again. His other hand began to wander, his middle finger grazing the tight, puckered edge of her anus. Merlin’s passage clamped down instantly, but she didn't pull away.
Silence was the ultimate consent. Richie’s finger began to probe within.
Just like before, a chorus of muffled, intoxicating moans—"Mmm... ah... ah..."—filled the room as her internal muscles began to twist and grind around him with a strength that rivaled the suit’s hydraulics.
"Ngh..." Richie threw his head back, the pleasure nearly overwhelming his heart. He looked up, trying to see her face, only to find she had stuffed a kitchen towel into her mouth to muffle her screams.
He didn't care. He drove into her depths again and again, his finger twisting and probing her rear. Her juices flooded them both, soaking their clothes in a mixture of salt and heat.
Merlin had unbuttoned her tunic, exposing her full, heavy breasts. She kneaded her own nipples as her head thrashed from side to side, her muffled moans echoing in the kitchen. Her movements grew frantic, her fingers pulling at her own flesh with desperate, starving hunger.
Eventually, her body went taut. She let go of her breasts and gripped the table behind her, her knuckles turning white. Her face was a mask of beautiful, distorted agony, her back arched like a crescent moon. With a series of sharp cracks, her fingers began to sink into the wood of the table, leaving deep, permanent gouges behind.
Richie groaned, his throat working. This was the moment of peak sensation—and peak frustration. He was at the absolute brink, yet he couldn't release.
Finally, the fire began to fade. The storm passed. Merlin, unlike Randy, possessed the strength to pull herself out of the cramped cockpit even with trembling limbs. She rinsed the towel, cleaned herself up, and then tossed the damp cloth to Richie.
Richie sat there, absorbing the fresh life energy. He had been with her twice now, and the difference was stark: he received far less energy this time. He realized then that the first time truly was special—the gift of a virgin’s life-force. It was a shame such opportunities were so rare.
He caught the towel, its slick dampness fueling his wandering thoughts. A sharp tap on his forehead brought him back. Merlin stood over him, her face a mixture of irritation and lingering shame. Richie gave her a sheepish grin as he used the towel to wipe down his still-throbbing manhood.
The cold towel provided some relief, but it wasn't enough to quell the beast. Merlin reached down and gave the massive head a playful, almost clinical flick.
"It seems your inability to finish isn't just a matter of age," she noted, her voice returning to its usual composed tone. "It must be related to that Discipline of yours. Rosa really went too far this time... such a dangerous game."
She tapped his forehead again, harder this time. "And you... so young and already so lecherous. If you weren't so driven by your loins, you never would have fallen for it."
"You... you all know?" Richie asked, mortified. He sighed inwardly; living with a group of intelligent women meant no secret was ever truly safe.
At dinner, Richie and Merlin acted as if nothing had happened. The others moved in silence, filling their trays and heading back to their rooms.
But Rosa, ever the observant brat, spotted the finger-marks on the table. She gave a small, wicked laugh. "Merlin, why were you clawing the table earlier? Did the fish fight back?"
The room went still. Rosa was impulsive, but she wasn't stupid. As the words left her mouth, she realized exactly what those marks meant. She had been with Richie too; she knew what happened to furniture when things got intense. She stared at Merlin in wide-eyed shock.
The others saw it too. Not a soul in that kitchen was a fool. The atmosphere became suffocatingly awkward.
Lina was the first to move. She approached with a knowing, predatory smile. She glanced at Merlin, then gave Richie a sharp look and snatched him by the ear.
"Come with me. We need to have a little chat."
Richie was dragged to Lina’s room—a place he knew well. It was a chaotic mess, unlike a typical woman’s quarters. Designer clothes and expensive handbags were strewn about like garbage. Even on his first visit, he had realized Lina’s family must be wealthy—nobility, or close to it. One of the bags in the corner was identical to the one Aunt Ling guarded like a holy relic.
"I have something for you." Lina’s voice was uncharacteristically serious. She pulled a small, leather-bound manual from a drawer and tossed it to him.
Richie opened it to find a Discipline. A quick skim revealed it was a refined version of what he had been practicing—a Method based on dual cultivation.
While Richie studied the text, Lina devoured her dinner with a speed that belied her refined manners.
Richie read with mounting alarm. Compared to the crude, unfinished Art he had been using, this manual was a masterpiece. Every step was documented, every reaction from both partners detailed with clinical precision. It listed taboos, risks, and common mistakes.
His face paled as he reached the end. According to the manual, he had made a critical mistake from the very beginning. Every symptom he was experiencing was listed as a sign of an incomplete or faulty initiation.
"See? Now you understand," Lina said, a mocking grin on her face. "Rosa confessed everything. It was a prank. She took you to a place meant for 'theoretical and unproven' Arts. She didn't expect a fool like you to actually try it, let alone keep it a secret."
She gave his cheek a sharp pinch. "You were too greedy and too clever for your own good. If it weren't for me... you'd be a cripple by now."
She pinched harder. Richie yelped but didn't dare fight back.
"Fortunately," Lina continued, "the crude thing you were practicing wasn't entirely wrong. Many have tried shortcuts like this over the centuries. This Method is safer and more complete. It should harmonize with what you’ve already built."
Richie nodded vigorously. He believed her. He had already suspected Rosa’s motives and the validity of his training. Lina’s version was clearly superior—and it wasn't a parasitic theft of energy, but a mutual exchange.
Seeing his concentration, Lina’s mocking tone returned. "Don't get too excited. Even if you master this, it’s no miracle. There’s a reason most people give up on these Methods."
She didn't wait for him to ask. "These Arts have a fatal flaw: they start fast, but they eventually stall out completely. The theory is that because the energy is shared, there’s always a loss during the act. When you're weak, the gains outweigh the loss. But as you grow stronger, the loss grows until it equals the gain. At that point, you'll never progress another inch."
Richie listened, but the warning felt distant. For him, the rapid initial progress was all that mattered. He just needed to survive the war.
He closed the manual and tried to circulate his Aura according to the new instructions. It worked seamlessly, just as Lina had promised. His old energy didn't fight the new path, though a small portion of it remained stubbornly in its original circuit. After five cycles, the new path was established—the Discipline had taken root.
He opened his eyes to find Lina unbuckling her belt. She kicked her trousers aside, but unlike her usual provocative displays, she looked almost solemn.
Richie followed suit, his length already rock-hard. It was a Pavlovian response at this point—entering Lina’s room meant combat.
"I’m in control this time," Lina said, her voice firm. "Don't try anything clever. This is training, and there’s no room for error."
Richie stared at her. He felt as though he were looking at a stranger. It was absurd—he knew every inch of her body—but the woman standing before him now possessed an aura of undeniable nobility. It wasn't an act; it was something that came from her very core.
She took his hands and placed them on her buttocks. "I know your hands can't stay still, but keep them where they are. If you move a single finger, I’ll chop it off when we’re done."
She straddled him, guiding him to her entrance. She didn't need to use her hands; she simply lowered herself, seating him fully within her. She didn't move. She simply let the head of his cock rest against her cervix.
She took a deep breath, and Richie felt her cervix open like a small, welcoming mouth, pulling him deeper. Then her entrance clamped shut, locking him in place.
Then, she lowered her head and kissed him.
Lina had never kissed him before. To her, sex was a physical release, something she gave freely. But a kiss was sacred—it was for someone she loved, and Richie hadn't reached that level yet. But now, she gave it to him.
Richie was lost. He had kissed Isabella, Aunt Ling’s daughter, Rosa, Randy, and Merlin... but this was different. Why was it so beautiful? Why did Lina suddenly seem so ethereal, so regal, that the thought of sex seemed almost like a sacrilege?
A wave of pure, refined life energy flowed from her into him. It wasn't the violent theft of a climax, but a steady, continuous stream. It circulated through his body, being refined and tempered, before flowing back into her.
This cycle was purely for Richie’s benefit, though it was far less draining for Lina than his previous 'thefts'. And as they continued, they both discovered a new kind of pleasure—not the explosive friction of before, but a deep, soul-stirring comfort that permeated their very beings.
It was like a fine wine, growing richer with every breath. Lina curled into him, her body shuddering as the pleasure reached her core.
"Mmm..."
The long, drawn-out moan was a world away from her usual raucous screams. Richie felt the 'mouth' within her open wider and wider, seemingly swallowing him whole.
They stayed that way for a long time, two souls entwined in the quiet of the room.
When they finally separated, Richie felt a strange sense of displacement. Which Lina was the real one? The noble Knight who had just held him, or the raucous vixen of before?
One thing was certain: it had been their longest session yet. The sun was setting as they entered the kitchen.
Most of the squad was already there. Only the cross-dresser Robin and the quiet Nora were missing. The large table was piled high with food—delicacies Richie had only heard of in stories. Oysters, black caviar, Sabran sausages...
"Is this a celebration?" Richie asked, his eyes lighting up. He had heard Aunt Ling brag about high-society banquets for years and had always wanted to see one.
"It’s a celebration of sorts," Captain Calli said. The task of delivering the news usually fell to Dana, but his mentor couldn't bring herself to do it. "But more importantly, it's a farewell."
Richie felt as if he’d been struck by lightning. The food suddenly lost all appeal.
"Why? Did I do something wrong?"
Calli raised a hand to calm him. "You’ve done nothing wrong. In fact, most of us... almost everyone here... thinks you’ve done a remarkable job." She caught herself before including the abrasive Robin. "We’re sending you away because this is no longer a place for a squire. Glasslovar is about to become a battlefield. It's too dangerous for someone at your level. You’re being evacuated to Peines along with the other junior recruits."
Richie looked at Calli, then at the others. They all knew. He realized then why Merlin had shared her family secrets and why Lina had spent the whole day training him.
A heavy lump formed in his throat. The food sat untouched on the table. Even the three sisters looked conflicted; after all, he was the 'man' who had taken their first time.
"Take this." Lady Dana placed a letter before him. "It's a letter of recommendation for the 7th Knight Corps. They’ll take you in."
Richie’s jaw dropped. The single-digit Corps were the elite of the elite. Every Knight dreamed of joining them. He wondered how Dana had the influence to make such a recommendation, and why she wasn't in an elite unit herself. This squad truly was full of mysteries.
Since no one had an appetite, most of the food was packed for Richie to take home. He didn't want it, but then he realized he’d have to say goodbye to his family too. If his mother and Aunt Ling stayed while he left, it might be the last time they saw each other.
To his surprise, his father was home when he arrived. He looked thinner and more weathered, his face covered in stubble, but he wore a new NCO’s badge on his sleeve.
"Dad! You're a Sergeant now!" Richie said, setting the food on the table.
"Look at this! Caviar! Oysters! My favorite sausages!" Aunt Ling and his cousin squealed in delight. His mother looked on with a pride that bordered on arrogance—as if her son’s achievement was her own.
His father’s eyes lingered on the food for a moment before he turned to Richie. He gave his son a firm punch to the chest. "Good man. You look like a true Knight now. Your mother says you've been taking care of the house. I'm proud of you."
Then his father gave him a sheepish look. "And with that uniform on, I suppose I should be calling you 'Sir'."
Richie laughed. "Don't be ridiculous, Dad. I'm just a handyman in that camp."
His father gave him a sharp cuff to the ear. "Handyman or not, you're in. I’d sweep the floors of a Knight camp if it gave me the same chance."
His mother wasn't having it. she swatted his father’s head. "Don't you hit him! And get some plates. You're the one acting like a guest in your own home."
The father was silenced and sent to the kitchen. Richie’s mother even went downstairs to borrow more chairs, though Richie suspect it was mostly to show off her son’s bounty to the neighbors.
His mother’s vanity was a force of nature. It reminded him that his mother and Aunt Ling were more alike than they’d admit—perhaps that need for status was in their blood too.
"Mom, Aunt Ling... do you know about the evacuation?" Richie asked.
The three women shared a look. Finally, his mother spoke up. "We're not going, son. I won't leave your father. And where would we go? Aunt Ling and your cousin have already lost everything once. They’re staying with us."
"Then I’m staying too," Richie declared.
"No, you’re not," both parents said in unison. His father explained their plan.
"Son, I’m tied to the army. I can't leave. This family needs someone on the outside. Things aren't dire yet, but if they get worse, your mother and the others will need a place to go. You’ll go first, with the school. You’ll have your classmates to help you. Your job is to find us a place to stay in the rear."
Richie looked at their faces, seeing the trust and hope in their eyes. His heart wavered. He wanted to stay with Rosa, Lina, and the others, but the weight of his family was heavier. He had no choice but to go.
"And what about you, Dad?"
His father looked out the window at the city he had called home his entire life. "I'm a soldier, Richie. A soldier has his duty. I’ll only leave if I’m carried out—and let's hope it doesn't come to that."