The world stirred.
Whispers of a legendary-grade potion surged like wildfire, igniting the globe with its mere presence. And that very night—chaos brewed.
Headlines dominated the news the following morning.
It was revealed that the staggering 20 billion used to acquire both vials at the auction had come from none other than Ibrahim Ishaq, an African prince known for his eccentric wealth and unyielding pride. And by morning, he announced his intention to sell just one of the two potions—for a staggering 50 billion.
Such a move was unprecedented.
As expected, the decision sent shockwaves throughout the continent, shaking not just public interest but also igniting a storm within the Hephaestus House—one of the continent's most formidable potion guilds. They demanded to know: Who created it? Who supplied it?
Yet the house remained silent.
Not a word. Not a clue.
Elsewhere, in a quiet corner of the city, Snow Quincy reclined on his couch, a warm cup of coffee in hand, eyes lazily watching the headlines flash across his tablet. His expression was unreadable—until a faint smirk tugged at his lips. He took a slow sip of his drink.
His phone buzzed.
He reached for it and answered.
"Hello," he said.
⎯⎯|| Hey. Do you have free time? ||⎯⎯ came a familiar female voice.
"I do," he replied without much thought.
⎯⎯|| Good. I'll be at your place in five. ||⎯⎯
The call ended before he could reply.
"...Alright," he said under his breath.
Snow leaned back, his thoughts flickering to her. He remembered their last argument—brief, sharp, unresolved. Though he had received a clear quest reward the previous night, he couldn't shake the feeling that her visit had little to do with that.
He sighed.
Once, he would have jumped at the chance to please a woman—gone out of his way to win favor, to impress, to love. But not anymore.
He had sworn never to simp again. The cost of emotional entanglement had been too high. From now on, he would never lower himself—not for affection, not for validation. If there were to be women in his life, it would be for fun. Nothing more.
Still... he liked her. He wanted her close—but not as a lover. Not anymore.
With that thought, he stood and prepared a light snack, something quick. Five minutes passed. Then—
Ding-dong.
He opened the door.
"You're right on time," he said calmly.
But before he could say anything more, Ruciel stepped forward and pressed her lips to his.
His eyes widened. "W-What was that for?"
She said nothing.
Instead, she pushed him back into the room and closed the door behind her. The silence between them hung thick—until she reached for him again, this time with her arms coiling around his neck. She kissed him with more urgency.
Caught off guard, Snow stumbled slightly as she led him to the bed and pushed him down to sit. Her jacket slipped from her shoulders, revealing the black pants, white blouse, and heels beneath.
Then she straddled his lap.
Her fingers were already tugging at the buttons of his shirt when Snow caught her wrists.
"S-Stop," he said, confused.
"Scarlet, calm down!"
But she wasn't listening.
Snow frowned. Something wasn't right. Her movements were uncoordinated, her cheeks flushed—her breath warm and laced with the scent of toxins.
He exhaled sharply and shifted their position, flipping her gently onto the bed with himself above her.
"Ruciel... what's going on?"
Still, she said nothing.
Only tears fell silently down the sides of her face, slipping into her ears as she stared at the ceiling. Her lips trembled. Her expression was unreadable—somewhere between sorrow and relief, rage and regret.
Snow hesitated.
Then, gently, he traced her lips with his thumb.
"Are you calm now?" he asked quietly.
No answer.
The sight of her broke something in him. Whatever walls he had built, whatever bitterness he'd held onto... crumbled, if only for a moment.
He leaned down and kissed her—softly.
Then pulled away.
"Take a shower first," he said gently.
She didn't speak, but her eyes widened faintly in surprise as Snow scooped her up in his arms and carried her toward the bathroom. He set her down and began unbuttoning her shirt, never once averting his gaze.
She stood bare before him.
Yet Snow—composed, steady—focused only on helping her step into the warm water. As the bath enveloped her, she visibly relaxed, the weight of her exhaustion melting away in the steam.
He stayed with her, kneeling beside the tub as he washed her carefully—like one would tend to an injured bird. He ran the sponge gently across her skin, rinsed her hair with slow, deliberate motions. And all the while, she stared at him. Quiet. Watching.
When the bath was over, he dried her off, helped her into one of his shirts, and guided her out to a stool placed before the mirror.
Ruciel sat, wrapped in silence. She didn't speak.
"Yikes... your hair's gotten even redder," Snow said with a smirk, teasing as he ran his fingers through her freshly washed strands.
He picked up the hair dryer and dried her hair carefully, as if each movement were part of some silent ritual between the two. When he was done, he brought the dessert he had prepared earlier and placed it in front of her.
"Here," he said. "Try this."
Ruciel took the plate quietly, her movements delicate. As she ate, Snow stood behind her once again, weaving his fingers into her hair to braid and style it with precision. With every touch, she felt the tension ease from her shoulders. When she finally looked in the mirror, even she was taken aback.
"...Is that really me?" she whispered, a little dazed.
"You look more yourself now," Snow said gently, leaning forward just enough for his voice to reach her ear. "Seems like you've sobered up too. Care to tell me what happened?"
Her eyes dropped to her hands. "Why aren't you mad at me?" she asked softly.
Snow blinked. "What do you mean?"
"I wronged you," she said. "I mocked you, belittled you, judged you unfairly... and yet, you're still here. Treating me like this. Why?"
Snow let out a small chuckle, his gaze calm. "You're a piece of work, I'll give you that. But I expected as much. There's no reason to be mad when I saw it coming."
He stepped closer and reached for her cheek, pinching it lightly with a grin. "I already told you the deal—become my woman, and I'll give you everything you want."
"You don't need to love me. Just stay by my side. That's all I ask."
Her heart gave a subtle ache at those words. "Is that your condition?" she asked.
"Unless you're taken—married or engaged—then yes, that's the only condition. Otherwise, we keep things strictly professional."
"...What if other girls approach you? Just because you're nice?" she asked, her voice small.
Snow smiled faintly. "Who would bother with a guy like me? Besides, I only give my time to those I choose. If someone else comes along, I hope you won't get jealous."
"You're serious," she said.
"Do you disapprove?"
She looked at him and said nothing, but her heart was no longer unsure. Her earlier doubts and stubborn pride had been softened by the evening's events—and by him.
"I'll let you think about it," he said, kissing her gently on the lips before heading over to the bed, where he sat back and leaned into the pillows.
Snow reached for his phone and started scrolling through it idly.
Ruciel watched him silently, her lips curling into a faint scoff. Then, with quiet determination, she rose from her seat and crossed the room to the bed. Without a word, she climbed onto the bed beside him and crawled into his space, making him look up in surprise.
She took his phone and gently set it aside, then leaned in to kiss him—slowly, with no hesitation.
Snow reacted a moment later, wrapping his arms around her waist as she settled on his lap. Their kiss deepened, and the quiet intensity between them grew with each second.
She pulled back slightly, her breath warm against his skin, her gaze unreadable. Snow stared at her, unsure of what she was thinking—but he could feel it. Her resolve.
He shifted, easing her onto the bed beneath him, careful not to break the moment. He leaned down and kissed along the line of her neck, his lips trailing lower, toward the collar of her unbuttoned shirt.
Each kiss, each breath against her skin, made her shiver.
She arched slightly beneath him, soft sounds escaping her lips as he kissed the curve of her shoulder, then lower still.
Snow paused, looking into her eyes.
"You sure?" he asked quietly.
She nodded, unable to say anything, but her answer was clear in her touch.
He kissed her belly, hands fondling her breast, before claiming her lips again.
His hands traced her body, eliciting a moan as they found her. He teased her clitoris, his kisses slow, her pleasure punctuated by moans.
She squirted, soaking the bed. Snow saw the moisture on his hand, causing her embarrassment. She flipped them, straddling him, her head above his cock, his above her wetness.
The room hushed, their sounds amplified. She freed his half-erect cock and sucked on it. They continued until Ruciel flipped them again, still on top.
She grinded against him, but Snow, captivated by her face, sat up, plunging into her with a forceful kiss.
Her gasp was silenced by his mouth as she slowly rode him. Every movement brought pleasure, moans replacing words. Sucking her breasts intensified her grinding.
Seeing her tiring, Snow pushed her back, kissing her deeply as he re-entered her. Their pleasure-filled moans filled the room.
Snow, striving for gentleness, was overwhelmed by her beauty. He quickened his pace, penetrating deeply. Ruciel quivered, multiple squirts escaping.
Snow watched her body tremble, almost fainting from his intense movements. He kissed her, then turned her over, her ass raised.
He slowly entered her, then slammed in and out, forcing her upper body up. He embraced her from behind, gripping her breast and neck while thrusting deeply.
Her loud, sexy moans drove him wild, an addiction he couldn't resist.
Pleasured and exhausted, she collapsed onto all fours. Snow, on the verge of climaxing, pulled out and released onto her ass.
He gasped, exhausted. He gazed at Ruciel, passed out with his cum on her.
He was in disbelief, having just had sex with a world-renowned S-Rank, who had now agreed to be his.
Snow gently pulled the wrinkled shirt from Ruciel's resting frame and used it to wipe away the last traces of their shared intensity. Once done, he tossed it into the waste bin without a second glance. With a warm towel, he made sure to clean her skin thoroughly and with care, his movements gentle and precise.
After changing the bedsheets and fluffing fresh pillows, he lifted Ruciel into his arms and laid her back down onto the clean bed. He slid his spare pajama top over her shoulders, buttoning it with a soft sigh. Even as she slept, she looked so peaceful it made him pause for a moment, watching the subtle rise and fall of her chest.
Satisfied, he turned his attention to the rest of the apartment. Every trace of disorder was handled swiftly—he wiped down surfaces, aired the room, even lit a faintly scented stick of incense before finally making his way into the bathroom.
By the time he stepped out of the shower, towel drying his damp hair, the sky outside had darkened completely. Night had crept in.
He climbed onto the bed in his own set of pajamas, ready to relax beside her—only for his phone to buzz the moment his back hit the mattress.
Snow glanced at the screen and smirked. "Guess it finally came in," he muttered.
He set the phone back on the nightstand and let his gaze wander to Ruciel's sleeping face. Her features, relaxed in slumber, were soft and unreadable. He couldn't quite tell what had changed in her—or why. A part of him remained on guard, wondering if she carried intentions she hadn't spoken aloud.
Still, he decided not to worry. As long as she didn't cross a line that would make him see her as a threat or a traitor, he would help her—so long as the system allowed.
With that thought, he sat upright and retrieved something from his inventory.
A dagger appeared in his hand, the air around it pulsing faintly with power.
========================
[EQUIPMENT STATUS]
NAME: Dagger of Truth
GRADE: Legendary
DURABILITY: ???
DESCRIPTION:
Forged as a gift for the soul once known as Pathfinder, this blade is a perfect fit for its chosen wielder. It can shift into any form the user desires and boasts a unique skill for executing enemies in silence—before they even know they've been marked. The Dagger of Truth can reveal hidden realities about objects or people once targeted. Remarkably, when a piece of the blade is broken off, it can be consumed as a substance that forces any individual to confess their truths.
SKILLS:
Blade Wave of Aeonia (Active)
Shapeless Form (Unique Skill)
Shattered Strike (passive skill)
NOTE:
To regenerate a broken fragment, the dagger must "feed" on a hidden secret from a slain enemy.
=========================
"A broken weapon in every sense of the word..." Snow murmured, turning the dagger slowly in his palm.
It was beautiful—its black blade curving like a crescent moon, elegant and deadly. Veins of glowing energy ran from the center outward like cracks in tempered glass, giving the illusion of fragility when the weapon was anything but. The hilt was sculpted like the head of a dragon, and it sat comfortably in his grip, almost as if it had been made just for him.
He admired it a moment longer, the weight of it both real and symbolic in his hand.
"Well then," he said with a sigh, eyes drifting back to the woman sleeping beside him. "I suppose it's time to move on to the next quest."
-----------------------------------
to be continued...