Skill: Heart Weaver
Current Mastery: Rank 4
Progress to Rank: 77%
This skill allows you to subtly yet powerfully influence the affection of others. The more intimate and emotionally resonant your interactions with a person, the more effectively you can increase their Love Gauge towards you.
Yeah. That power. That secret, slow-building storm licking at the edges of my soul—it was always there. I'd honed it without even realizing, tuning it like a forbidden instrument each time I kissed and lapped between her thighs, each time I suckled at the tips of her breasts until her nipples pulsed against my tongue, stiff and helpless.
I wanted my mother. That wasn't some phase or fantasy. It was obsession spun through bone and blood, and I believed, down to the marrow, that I could claim her. I only needed time, and patience. And a little luck.
Fate? She smiled on me in the dirtiest way.
[Isabella Eindoral] Love Gauge: [25%] 🩷
The gauge didn't lie. A visual chart of how far I'd twisted her affections—one pixel at a time. It began innocent, maternal, unshakeable. That first 90% was what any devoted mother might give her son. Unconditional. Pure.
But something strange happened at the threshold. Past 100%, the counter didn't explode. It circled back. Restarted. A new gauge, with a single pink heart beside her gauge. That heart wasn't there before.
🩷 It glowed soft, yet obscene.
That heart meant her love had bifurcated. Split. Some new part of her soul had branched off from that safe maternal devotion—and now walked a darker path. A path toward true love. Not mother to child… no, this gauge tracked something raw. Personal. Intimate. Taboo.
And sure, twenty-five percent doesn't sound like much. But when you start from zero? Every inch upward was a revolution. Every point, a shift in how she saw me. It meant something had changed behind those eyes, deep in the labyrinth where her body stored touch, taste, the ghost of lips between her thighs.
A year ago I'd almost stopped. The fear of discovery, the crushing guilt, all of it threatened to smother me. I told myself I'd stop sneaking into her bed. I couldn't keep waking with my face buried between her legs, the scent of her orgasm still fresh in my mouth. She had strange suspicions and she might have discovered.
But then the skill awakened. The gauge. And I realized: this wasn't just something I wanted. This was something I could win.
So I pressed forward. Night after night, I kissed her there. Worshipped her there. I drank from her, and the taste got stronger, sweeter. I buried my face between her thighs and mapped every twitch, every sigh, every wet shiver that pulsed through her muscles. I started to know her better than she knew herself.
She never woke. Not fully. But something stirred.
Unconsciously, at the very core of her dreaming mind, she knew. Not logically—God no, she would've recoiled in horror. But some image lingered. A shadow. A silhouette. She might not have recognized me consciously, but the sensation haunted her. A forbidden craving anchored in the warm heat of some nightly phantom she could never remember clearly.
She never pushed me away. Not even once.
Some nights she'd moan softly, hips curling, legs parting for me without thought. Her thighs would twitch around my head, her hand would rest on the back of my skull like she wanted me to keep going. Her body accepted my worship like she deserved it, like she'd always deserved it and someone had just… forgotten to give it.
And I gave it to her. God, did I give it.
My tongue worked in slow circles, curling, flicking, dragging up the slick petals of her pussy while her breathing hitched in the dark. I memorized every reaction. How her breath stuttered when I licked just beneath the clit. How her body jolted when I sucked that stiff little nub between my lips and teased it with the very tip of my tongue. I'd suckle softly, lips sealed around her like a mouth on a pacifier. I could feel her heartbeat there.
And above? Her breasts—round, heavy, maternal perfection. Nipples the color of strawberries and velvet, darkened slightly from years of nursing but still perky, still sensitive. I'd push her nightgown up and flick my tongue over them, sometimes grazing them with my teeth just to watch her chest rise in her sleep. And when I'd suck, pulling them deeper into my mouth, her hand would sometimes twitch to cup the back of my head. She never pushed me away.
Never.
That gauge kept climbing. Slow, but inexorable. 21%. 23%. 25%. Each percentage point made me bolder. I began teasing her even when she was awake—just little things. Innocent smiles. A lingering hug. My hand brushing the underside of her breast when she reached for the top shelf. A whispered compliment about how beautiful she looked in her nightgown.
One time, she blushed.
That's when I knew the second gauge wasn't just ticking—it was bleeding. Dripping down from her dream-body to her waking mind.
Obviously, Isabella had never consciously realized what her son was truly doing to her, but her body had begun to betray her in ways that left her confused and unsettled. Over the past year, each casual touch from me seemed to awaken something within her—a warmth that spread through her limbs, a quickening of her pulse that she couldn't quite explain away as maternal affection. Her flesh had memorized the feeling of his hands, responding with an eagerness that both thrilled and horrified her.
Today had been no different. When my fingers had barely grazed her backside as she bent to collect the fallen herbs, her entire body had jolted as if struck by lightning. The reaction had been immediate and undeniable, sending heat coursing through her veins and leaving her breathless. She'd tried to mask her response, but the way her skin had flushed and her breathing had quickened told a story she wasn't ready to acknowledge.
"I'm sorry, mother," I said as I crouched beside her. But as he reached for one of the larger pieces, I deliberately let my finger catch on a particularly sharp edge. The glass bit deep, and crimson droplets immediately began to well up and fall to the floor.
"Harold! Be careful!" Isabella's maternal instincts overrode everything else as she quickly grasped my wounded hand. Her healing magic flowed through her fingertips without conscious thought, the familiar warmth spreading from her core through her arms. The cut sealed itself instantly, leaving only a thin line of dried blood as evidence it had ever existed.
I kept my eyes downcast, the perfect picture of a chastened child. "I just wanted to help."
Isabella's expression softened immediately, her free hand coming up to cup my cheek. "Oh, sweet boy, it's alright. You can't help me here." The irony of her words wasn't lost on me—I could help her in ways she couldn't even begin to imagine, and on some level, I suspected she was beginning to sense that truth herself. But she was protective, always had been, never wanting me to take unnecessary risks.
"Should I call big sister?" I asked, though I already knew the answer.
"Oh, your sister is training with Isadora," Isabella replied, and despite everything, her face lit up with maternal pride.
Isadora.
She was the most powerful mage in our village—hell, probably in the entire region—but she was also a recluse who spent most of her time in a stone house she'd built herself near the edge of the Greenwood. The villagers said she didn't care for company, preferring the silence of her studies to human conversation. Isabella had told me stories about the woman's incredible magical abilities, but also about her cold, distant nature.
I'd caught glimpses of Isadora on her rare visits to the village—tall, wearing a mask. Every time I'd sensed her approaching, I'd made some excuse to be elsewhere. It wasn't cowardice, exactly, but self-preservation. A mage of her caliber would undoubtedly sense that I wasn't the ordinary boy I pretended to be, and I wasn't ready for that kind of scrutiny. Not yet.
She could probably help me develop my abilities faster than I could manage on my own, but drawing her attention would mean giving up the careful facade I'd spent years constructing. Better to remain unremarkable for now, to train myself in secret and prepare for the day when I'd be ready to reveal my true nature.
"Your sister is quite talented, so she needs proper teaching," Isabella continued, unconsciously straightening with pride. "Otherwise, she might harm herself—or the people around us."
She wasn't wrong about that. I'd hurt myself plenty of times during my own secret practice sessions, usually when I pushed too hard or tried to channel more magic than my young body could safely handle. The burns, cuts, and magical feedback had taught me valuable lessons about restraint and control, but they'd also shown me just how dangerous untrained magic could be.
"She awakened Fire Magic, right, mom?" I asked, though I already knew the answer.
"Yes, dear. And a powerful one at that," Isabella confirmed, her smile growing even brighter.
Rosalune's magical awakening had been spectacular—literally. She'd accidentally set fire to half the barn when her abilities first manifested, and the flames had burned with an intensity that even the village's water mages had struggled to contain. Her Fire Magic was indeed different from mine, rawer and more explosive.
My dear big sister was genuinely amazing, but she wore her power like an ill-fitting cloak, struggling to control forces that seemed determined to consume everything in their path.
I let my shoulders slump and lowered my head, the very picture of disappointment. The performance came easily after years of practice both in this world and my past world.
"It's okay, Harold. You've just reached the common age of awakening," Isabella said gently, her hand stroking through my white hair. "Your time will come."
If only she knew. I'd awakened my first magical ability when I was barely two years old—Healing Magic, of all things.
But I preferred to hide it even from mom.
My mother was already the village healer, already trapped by her gift and the demands it placed on her.
Healing Magic was incredibly rare, perhaps one in ten thousand people possessed even a basic version of it. Those who did awaken such abilities often found themselves little more than valuable tools, used and exploited by those in power until they burned themselves out or died from overexertion. I'd watched it happen to my mother for years—the village chief constantly demanding her services, the way exhaustion lined her face after particularly difficult healing sessions, the way she gave and gave until there was barely anything left of herself.
I had no intention of becoming the village's second healer. Hell, I had no intention of staying in this godforsaken place any longer than absolutely necessary. But for now, I had to maintain the illusion of being just another ordinary boy waiting for his magical awakening.
"I hope so," I said, smiling.
In just a few months, I planned to "awaken" my water magic—the element that had become my greatest strength through years of secret practice. They would be amazed at how naturally it seemed to come to me, how effortlessly I could manipulate streams and droplets with precision that should have taken years to develop. Water magic had surpassed even my fire and wind abilities, flowing through me like a second heartbeat.
But that was still months away—for now, I had to maintain my role as the patient younger son, waiting for his magical awakening like any normal child.
Since mother had firmly declined my help with the herb preparations, I settled myself on a worn wooden stool several meters behind her workspace. My purpose was innocent enough: learning about herbal medicine through observation while keeping her company with idle conversation.
I'd initially thought that my presence might distract her from her delicate work, but Isabella surprised me. She seemed to genuinely enjoy having someone to talk with as she worked, her hands never faltering in their precise movements even as she spoke. Years of practice had made the preparation of tinctures and poultices as natural as breathing to her. She could identify herbs by touch alone, knew exactly how much pressure to apply when grinding roots, and could gauge the perfect timing for each step without even glancing at her work.
"Tell me about the silverleaf again, mother," I said, watching as she carefully separated the delicate leaves from their stems. "Why do you always harvest it before dawn?"
Isabella's lips curved into a pleased smile—she loved it when I showed genuine interest in her craft. "Silverleaf is most potent when it still holds the night's moisture," she explained, her voice taking on the patient tone of a teacher. "The dew contains magical properties that enhance the plant's healing capabilities. Once the sun touches it directly, those properties begin to fade."
I nodded thoughtfully, filing away information I already knew but pretending to hear for the first time. "And the blue flowers we collected yesterday?"
"Dreamheart blossoms," she said, grinding them into a fine powder with her mortar and pestle. "They help with pain relief and can induce restful sleep. But they must be dried exactly three days—any longer and they become mildly poisonous, any shorter and they're ineffective."
Hours passed in this comfortable rhythm of work and conversation. Isabella's knowledge was vast, accumulated through years of training with her own mentor and countless nights spent experimenting with different combinations and preparations. I absorbed every word, every technique, adding to my own understanding of the healing arts while maintaining the facade of a curious child.
The late afternoon sun was beginning to cast longer shadows through our small window when the wooden door of our hut suddenly swung open with more force than necessary. The hinges, which Isabella had been meaning to oil for weeks, protested with a sharp squeal.
"Big sister," I smiled, immediately leaping from my stool and running toward the familiar figure silhouetted in the doorway.
Rosaluna stepped inside, her white hair slightly disheveled from her journey back from Isadora's house, her practice robes bearing scorch marks that spoke of intense magical training.
Her face lit up the moment she saw me, and she immediately opened her arms wide. "My cute little brother!"