Chapter 91
Written by Bayzo Albion
I wandered the bustling streets, stopping passersby to ask for directions. They eyed me warily, as if I'd clawed my way out of a grave, their faces twisting in a mix of pity and revulsion. Still, they muttered curt instructions, pointing with hesitant fingers toward my destination. Finally, I arrived at a sturdy wooden building crowned by a tall chimney belching plumes of steam into the crisp air. The sauna—my haven for the moment.
I handed over a few coins at the entrance, received a threadbare towel in return, and paused to secure my pouch of gold. Wrapping it in a scrap of cloth, I tied it firmly to my belt. *At least this way, if trouble finds me, my fortune stays close,* I thought, a small comfort amid the uncertainty.
Inside, the air was thick and enveloping, scented with the rich aroma of heated wood, damp stone, and a hint of herbal oils—eucalyptus maybe, or something earthier that soothed the senses. I peeled off my filthy rags, once passable clothes now reduced to tattered remnants caked in grime and blood. For the first time in days, true relief washed over me as hot water cascaded down my skin, rinsing away the layers of dirt, sweat, and crusted wounds. It felt like shedding a second skin, the tension in my muscles easing with each droplet that traced fiery paths over my bruises.
I settled onto a warm stone bench, leaning back and closing my eyes. The steam wrapped around me like a protective shroud, muffling the outside world. The forest's horrors—the beast, the chase, the suffocating silence—seemed distant now, relics of another life. Here, in this humid sanctuary, the city felt like an impenetrable fortress, guarding me from the chaos beyond.
But reality intruded with a nagging thought: I had no spare clothes. None at all. My options boiled down to donning those reeking scraps again—enough to make even me gag—or wandering out bare as a newborn. Washing them? Laughable. I'd sooner face that nightmare creature again than scrub the embedded filth from those cursed threads.
I sighed, pushing the worry aside. *Tomorrow's problem. For now, endure.*
Everything was blissfully serene... until the door creaked open.
I lifted my head lazily—and my world tilted. Four young women strolled in, completely nude, their forms veiled only by swirling tendrils of steam that danced like ethereal veils. They giggled and whispered among themselves, utterly oblivious to my presence, treating me like part of the furniture.
My heart plummeted, then surged into my throat with a violent thud. *No, not this...*
They moved with effortless grace, their skin glistening under the moisture, hair clinging damply to shoulders and backs in dark, seductive curls. Each step, each casual gesture, was achingly alive—curves shifting, laughter echoing softly off the tiled walls. My mind reeled, thoughts melting like ice on hot coals, a dangerous heat building within me that had nothing to do with the sauna.
I bolted upright, snatching the towel and wrapping it haphazardly around my waist. In a blur, I fled, bursting through the door with a resounding slam. I stood in the cool corridor, chest heaving as if I'd just escaped a battlefield. Adrenaline surged through my veins, a turbulent storm of confusion and raw instinct. One more second in there, and I might have lost control entirely, reduced to base urges.
*Damn it... I outran a monster the size of a hound, and now I'm fleeing from a group of naked girls? Terrified all the same. What a pathetic mess I am.*
I slumped against the cold wall, letting my racing heart slow. The towel clung precariously, my gold pouch jingling softly with each ragged breath. And then, unexpectedly, laughter bubbled up from deep within—hoarse, genuine, laced with self-mockery. For the first time in ages, it felt real. Because in that absurdity, I grasped it: I was still alive. That meant time—for enemies, for allies, even for women. Just not today.
Gathering myself, I straightened and stepped outside—still clad only in the towel. The city air hit me like a refreshing slap, cool and invigorating, while startled glances followed my every move.
I ignored the stares, the whispers trailing like shadows. Let them gawk; everyone had their own burdens to bear.
Yet inwardly, I pondered: Why did women unsettle me so profoundly? Like fire to kindling. The answer was etched in memory, a scar from paradise itself. There, a succubus had toyed with me, convinced that ecstasy was the sweetest path to death. She'd nearly proven it, her allure a venom sweeter than any blade. Since then, I'd learned the hard way: soft curves and inviting smiles could kill faster than poison or steel.
Fate, ever the jester, chose that moment to strike. My towel slipped, betraying me with a soft thud as it landed in the muddy street.
I froze, staring at the traitorous cloth like it had personally offended me. Bend down to retrieve it? No chance. Walking naked suddenly seemed preferable to wrestling with that sodden rag.
I snorted, shaking my head, and pressed on—bare as the day I was born—toward the nearest tailor's shop. The street erupted in chaos around me: faces flushed crimson, bursts of laughter, a few clutching their chests in mock horror as if I'd summoned a demon. Whispers turned to gasps, eyes darting away only to sneak back.
Irritation simmered in my gut, a petty failure shredding my composure. But I tempered it with perspective: It could be worse. I could have face-planted into the muck myself. That spectacle would haunt the gossip mills for weeks. A lost towel? Merely an inconvenience.
Memories flooded back unbidden—of my arrival in that idyllic village in paradise. I'd strutted naked then, head high, proudly displaying my... assets to the admiring gazes of beautiful women. Back then, it wasn't mere anatomy; it was a statement, a symbol of vitality and confidence, bold and unyielding.
Now? A glance downward revealed a stark contrast: scrawny, bruised, diminished—like a wilted pod compared to a mighty trunk. No pride to flaunt, just vulnerability etched in every lean line and fading scar.
I chuckled bitterly to myself. The irony stung: When I had nothing to hide, I'd paraded shamelessly. Now, with little worth concealing beyond my frailty, circumstance forced the exposure anyway.
Life's cruel jest.
Reaching the tailor's shop, I was predictably barred. As I approached the door, a portly man with a bushy mustache and a tuft of gray hair atop his head bellowed from behind the counter: "Hey! Stop right there! You can't barge in like that! This is a respectable establishment, not some... whatever you are!"
Behind him, a pair of women and a spindly fabric merchant gaped through the glass window, horror mingling with morbid fascination. One shielded her eyes with her palm—but parted her fingers just enough to peek.
I halted calmly, drawing out my pouch and giving it a deliberate shake. The muffled clink of gold coins echoed like a siren's call, turning heads even on the street.
"I've got money," I announced clearly, projecting for all to hear. "That makes me a customer."
The tailor froze, his face a battlefield where disgust clashed with greed. His eyes flickered, weighing the scales.
"No nudes!" he squeaked, though his voice wavered like a reed in the wind. "You'll scare off my patrons!"
Undeterred, I stepped closer to the window, pressing the pouch against the glass so the gleam of gold caught the light, impossible to ignore.
"Look," I said evenly. "Either I spend this here, or at your rival across the way. I'm sure he won't mind my attire if it smells like profit."
A tense pause stretched. The tailor swallowed hard. The women gasped. A bystander outside snickered: "Open up, you fool, before the gold walks away!"
Finally, the door swung open.
"Quick! Get inside!" he muttered, flushing as if he were the one exposed. "Before anyone else sees this disgrace..."
I entered with the poise of royalty, not a ragged lunatic. My gold jingled softly, my gaze steady and unflinching.
"Alright," I said, striding past the gawking patrons who stared as if I'd descended from the heavens—or ascended from the abyss. "I need clothes. Durable. Clean. And preferably something that covers more than this towel ever did."
The tailor scurried like a cornered rat, piling fabrics, cloaks, trousers, and shirts in a frantic heap. I stood serene, detached, as if this farce unfolded around someone else.
A revelation struck: *This is true power. Not muscle or magic—gold. It opens doors even when you're stripped bare.*
He unveiled a stack of garments, not ordinary weaves but enchanted rarities, shimmering with latent magic.
"Listen, lad," he whispered conspiratorially, as if my coins might overhear. "I've got three exceptional sets. Each one-of-a-kind, priceless in its way."
The first was sleek black fabric, fluid as rippling water.
"This never tears. Cut it, burn it—it mends itself. In battle or out, dirt and blood slide right off. You'll always look pristine, like you stepped from a portrait."
The second gleamed silvery gray.
"Self-cleaning weave. Mud, gore, filth—gone in moments. No stains, no odors. Perfect for staying presentable among company."
The third appeared humble: simple shirt, pants, cloak—unassuming, yet pulsing with subtle vitality.
"This grows with you. Adapts to your size, strength, changes. Buy once, wear for years."
I clenched my fists, each option tugging at different desires.