The howl sliced through the pre-dawn gloom, and Damask's balls gave a hard, painful clench that had nothing to do with lust. A moment before, a low, pleasant throb had pulsed in his scrotum, a lingering echo from the functional fuck that had pushed him to a precarious Half-Stage Raw Solid. The Gristle Seeds he'd forged in Petunia's tight heat still felt warm inside him, a gritty, satisfying weight. But the hunter's cry extinguished that sated heat, replacing it with the icy chill of imminent danger. A pathetic Tier 3 on the grand scale of sixty, but it was a foothold. It would have to be enough.
He glanced at the Fem beside him. Petunia, a C-Apt 5 treasure. A living forge whose boundless potential was both their greatest asset and most alluring bait.
Focus, damn it.
The hunt had ignited something primal in him, transforming the broken heir into a feral survivor. His mind, once a canvas for grand strategy, was now honed razor-sharp by the Testament's ruthless creed: adapt or die, or get fucked into submission. Every rustle of the unnaturally twisted leaves, every snap of a twig in the distance, was a potential threat, a whisper of their own impending doom.
They crouched deep in the wild fringes of Ivy territory, the Grove's grand illusion shattered, leaving only threadbare pilgrim disguises from Milky's bunker to cloak their vulnerability. Petunia, his devoted Fem, pressed against his side. The boy was a living paradox, a creature of silk and steel that made Damask's cock stir despite the mortal danger. His small body radiated that sweet, intoxicating nectar-scent, a biological beacon that marked him as both salvation and destruction. His eager holes were the crucible in which Damask could reforge his power, yet that same alluring scent could draw their hunters to them like flies to honey.
The howl came again, closer this time, laced with a Bitch-mana that vibrated through the air like a dominant's command. It promised a chase and a brutal, carnal claiming at its end.
Damask yanked Petunia behind a moss-choked boulder, his rough hand clamping over the boy's soft, plump lips. Warm breath puffed against his palm, a forbidden jolt shooting straight to his groin.
"Quiet," he hissed, his voice steady. "No sound."
His tactical mind, stripped of its mana but not its edge, raced. A small pack. Efficient. He could feel the distinct signatures slithering through the undergrowth. Two Type-M Bitches, their kinetic energy a sharp, aggressive spike. A Sow for support. And a Fem... damn it, a scout. Their probing mana felt like invasive tentacles groping for his weakened signature. Pros. Dispatched by that thorny bitch, no doubt. The thought of Thorn, her ambition a sharp, ugly thing, sent a fresh wave of cold fury through him.
Time bled out like cum from an overstimulated cock. The dense forest canopy blocked wyverns and scry-orbs, a small mercy, but the pack was closing from the southwest, following their initial path. Dawn's light, filtering through the leaves in teasing, dappled patterns, could expose them raw or drape them in saving shadows. They had to move.
He roughly grabbed Petunia's small shaft through his robes, giving it a firm, functional stroke. The boy jolted. Terror warred with a deeper, more profound instinct. This was his purpose. To be the tool, the key, the offering. A wave of heat, shameful and undeniable, washed through him even as a whimper of fear escaped his lips. The rough, calloused grip was not a lover's caress, but it was his Dom's touch, and his C-Apt 5 body answered with a gush of sweet, potent nectar. Damask ignored the sound, his focus absolute as he coaxed more of the fluid from the trembling flesh. The sticky, alluring liquid coated his fingers, its scent a potent, weaponized perfume. He smeared it onto a thorny branch, the sweet aroma a stark contrast to the earthy decay of the forest floor.
"We're creating a false trail," he whispered against Petunia's ear, feeling the boy shiver with a mixture of fear and a strange, thrilling excitement. "Then we double back north to the mana-spring. It will mask us in a haze of false lust."
They moved with carnal rhythm, zigzagging like thrusting hips, using terrain to tease and evade. Damask dragged the nectar-soaked branch eastward toward a corrupted ravine, a beautiful, deadly trap that would hopefully slow their pursuers. Then he shoved Petunia toward the north, their bodies pressed close as they navigated the treacherous, root-choked ground.
His inventory was pathetic. His shrunken cock was still a throbbing mana processor, his balls swollen with aching Gristle Seeds. He had a single nectar vial from the bunker and a few enzyme tabs for a quick, messy boost of energy. Milky's teleportation seal had been a one-shot, now just a piece of fried, useless jade. They were self-reliant. Raw.
He looked at Petunia. The boy's pale, smooth body was too clean. It stood out like fresh Sow tits at court, a beacon of vulnerability that begged to be marked. Damask scooped up a handful of slick, earthy rot-mud, the decay of the Grove a potential camouflage, and a strange, perverse aphrodisiac.
"Smear this all over," he ordered, tossing the muck.
He watched as the boy obeyed, his hands sliding over his own soft curves, spreading the dark, cool slime across his pale skin. A soft whimper escaped Petunia's lips at the cold, wet touch, a sound of pure, unadulterated submission that made Damask's balls tighten with a hot, possessive heat.
The mana-spring bubbled with a dangerous, aphrodisiacal essence. It was a risk, but a necessary one. Its icy, intoxicating taint could leave them both hard and aching, their own desires a potential liability, but it would mask their mana signatures in a haze of false arousal, a psychic chaff against the hunters' probes. Damask plunged in first, a sharp gasp tearing from his throat as the electric, cold water hit his fevered skin.
"Strip if you have to," he commanded, his voice a low growl as he watched Petunia's eyes widen. "Mirror me."
The boy's robes fell away, revealing the lithe, androgynous form that had been Damask's forge through their darkest hours. Even now, with hunters closing in, the sight of that pale, vulnerable flesh sent a fresh surge of blood to his cock. Those were the holes that could refine his mana, the sweet flesh that could amplify his power. But they were also the vulnerability that could get them both collared, claimed, and broken.
Their destination pulsed like a distant beacon in his mind: the ruins, six to seven days northeast, where he could feel the faint, thrumming echo of Kestrel's loyalty. Petunia would slow them, his soft ass jiggling with each step, a constant, maddening distraction. But Damask knew, with a certainty that was as deep and fundamental as his own will to survive, that the Fem was not a burden to be discarded. He was the forge, the devoted hole essential for reclaiming his power.
The thought of using him as bait, a sweet-scented sacrifice to save himself, whispered cold and tactical through his mind. But he crushed it with a savage, internal snarl. A Dom did not sacrifice his most valuable tool. Not when that tool gazed up at him with such perfect, unwavering adoration, his eyes glazed with a submission that made every risk, every danger, worthwhile.
The old Sovereign fire, the arrogance of an heir who had never known true fear, had been burned away, leaving a hyper-focused lust for survival in its place. Doubts slithered in like venomous snakes: missed mana-echoes from his scattered pride, the possibility of the ruins being compromised, a trap of writhing, hostile bodies waiting for them. But he crushed them with a force of will that was a power in its own right. The Testament ruled his thoughts: one deep, claiming thrust at a time.
He pulled Petunia close, his hand sliding possessively to the boy's ass for a hard squeeze that drew a muffled gasp. Water dripped from their bodies, the spring's essence making every touch, every point of contact, electric with a raw, dangerous potential.
"We'll make it, Pet," he growled, the words a promise forged in the fires of his own ruin. He meant it because he had to. Because failure meant collars and submission, and he had too much power left to reclaim. "Stay close. Follow my lead. And keep that sweet nectar ready. We might need it again."
They moved out into the pre-dawn wilderness, their bodies pressed together for warmth and a fragile, shared courage. The forest's ever-present threat fueled a raw, desperate undercurrent of tension between them. Behind them, the false trail beckoned their hunters toward corruption and delay. Ahead lay six days of perilous travel, a journey where every step could mean discovery, every moment of weakness could end in a brutal, carnal claiming.
But for now, they were ghosts in the wilderness, predator and prize moving as one through shadows that could hide them or expose them with equal ease. The hunt was far from over, but the first move belonged to them.
The Testament's wisdom echoed in Damask's mind as they disappeared into the treacherous beauty of the wild: Survival is the ultimate seduction, and only the cunning get to fuck another day.