The gates of Eldoria rose like stone giants under the midday sun — towering walls of grey granite etched with protective runes, flanked by guard towers flying the baron's crimson banner. The caravan rolled through without issue; Harlan flashed his merchant seal, and the guards waved them in after a cursory glance at Ethan's sword.
Inside, the city exploded with life.
Cobblestone streets teemed with merchants hawking spices, enchanted trinkets, and gleaming weapons. Dwarven smiths hammered in open forges, sparks flying. Elven traders in flowing robes bartered silks from distant enclaves. Beastkin mercenaries — wolf-eared and cat-tailed — lounged outside taverns, tails flicking. The air carried roasted meat, incense, and the faint tang of mana from street mages performing minor illusions for coin.
Ethan walked between Mira and Elara, arms casually around their waists. Both women wore simple traveler cloaks over revealing dresses he'd insisted on — low-cut bodices that barely contained their heavy breasts, skirts slit high for "easy movement."
He kept them on edge the entire time.
As they passed a bustling fountain, Ethan's hand slipped under Mira's cloak, fingers tracing the curve of her ass before pinching hard. She gasped, stumbling slightly, cheeks flushing.
"Master…" she whispered, pressing closer.
Elara watched with jealous heat. Ethan rewarded her by sliding his other hand between her thighs from behind, brushing her already damp folds through thin fabric.
"Behave," he murmured loud enough for only them. "Or I'll bend you both over that market stall and claim you in front of everyone."
Mira bit her lip, thighs clenching. Elara whimpered softly, nipples hardening visibly against her dress.
They continued like that — subtle teases turning the city tour into torturous foreplay. A thumb circling a nipple here, a whispered filthy promise there, fingers dipping just inside panties when no one looked. By the time they reached the Adventurer's Guild — a massive stone hall with a roaring lion emblem — both women were breathing heavily, eyes glazed with need.
The guild interior was chaos organized: long counters for registration, quest boards plastered with parchments, adventurers of every rank boasting over ale. Bronze plaques hung on lower walls; silver and gold higher up.
Harlan parted ways with thanks and a fat purse for Ethan's protection. "Find me at the merchant quarter if you need work."
Ethan approached the registration desk, Mira and Elara trailing like obedient shadows.
A bored clerk looked up. "New blood? Name, skills, proof of capability."
"Ethan. Sword specialist. Healer support." He nodded to Elara.
The clerk smirked. "Everyone claims specialist. Trial ring's free. Beat the bronze-level construct or last three minutes against a veteran. Pass, you start bronze rank. Fail, pay fee and try again tomorrow."
Ethan grinned. "Lead the way."
The trial arena was a sand-circled pit in the guild basement, ringed by spectators. A magical golem — man-shaped iron construct enchanted for combat — stood ready for newbies. For veterans, live spars.
Ethan chose live. The crowd murmured.
His opponent: a cocky bronze-rank swordsman named Torak — broad, scarred, mid-30s, dual short blades and heavy armor. "Fresh meat," he laughed. "I'll go easy."
The bell rang.
Torak charged with a flurry of strikes — fast, experienced. Ethan danced back, Combat Flow activating. Time slowed; trajectories glowed in his vision.
He parried the first blade, sidestepped the second, countering with a precise slash that rang against armor. Torak pressed, blades whirling.
Ethan let him come, reading patterns. Then he exploded.
A feint high drew Torak's guard up; Ethan dropped low, sweeping legs while thrusting upward. Torak leaped back, but Ethan was already inside — pommel strike to the helmet dazing him, followed by a disarm that sent one blade flying.
The crowd hushed.
Torak roared, swinging wild with the remaining sword. Ethan caught the wrist, twisted — bone cracked — and drove his elbow into the man's throat. Torak dropped, gasping.
Ten seconds total.
Silence… then eruption.
Cheers thundered. "Who is that monster?!"
"Bronze? He's silver material!"
"Never seen a newbie dominate Torak like that!"
The guild master — a grizzled woman with a mythril badge — pushed through the crowd, eyes sharp. "Name?"
"Ethan."
She nodded. "Direct bronze promotion. Potential silver trial if you want it now."
Ethan glanced at Mira and Elara — both squirming, thighs pressed together from his earlier teasing. "Later. Rewards first."
As he turned to leave, a noble procession entered the hall — Baron Vortigern inspecting new recruits, his wife at his side.
The Baroness.
Late 30s, raven hair in elegant braids, porcelain skin, crimson gown hugging an hourglass figure that rivaled Mira and Elara's — massive breasts, tiny waist, wide hips. Her violet eyes scanned the room… and locked on Ethan.
Free Claim stirred.
She faltered mid-step, cheeks flushing, a soft gasp escaping painted lips. The baron didn't notice.
Ethan held her gaze a beat longer, smiling predatorily.
Her nipples hardened visibly against silk.
The seed was planted.
Mira leaned in, whispering huskily, "She wants you already, Master."
Elara nodded, voice breathy. "Take us somewhere private… please."
The chapter ended on that promise — the real reward waiting upstairs in the guild's premium inn.
To be continued…