The air itself was trembling around them, saturated with the stench of sweat, fear, and the promise of incoming violence.
Iron didn't think.
He didn't have the luxury to think.
All he had was a filthy, primal instinct:
Run or die, ass-out, in the middle of a merciless plain.
He turned and ran — completely naked — his legs stumbling against the damp earth, his exposed body whipped raw by the freezing wind. Behind him, the roar of the ghoul Zara rang out, mixed with the growl of the wolf, and the sound of wild grass being trampled under massive feet.
He had never run like this before — bare, trembling, trapped between two monsters out for his flesh:
One wanted to suck him dry to the marrow.
The other wanted to tear him apart and swallow him whole.
A thorn gashed his knee. Blood burst from the wound — he didn't stop.
"Shit, shit, shit..." he panted, tongue dry like it was glued to a desert.
A red system window popped up:
[Warning: Critical physical state. Running speed: 65% below average.]
[Friendly Note: You could always die with a bit more dignity.]
"Go to hell..." he spat toward the dumb system as he leapt over a shallow pit.
His balls bounced violently — two pure nuggets of instinctual fear.
Behind him, the ghoul roared again — then suddenly, a crash. Bones snapping.
A glance over his shoulder showed him the scene:
Ghoul Zara, in all her savage glory, was locked in brutal combat with the wolf Garol. Her bare arms gripped his massive jaws as the beast's fangs snapped at her throat. Blood splashed, and the plain's grass clung to their twisting bodies. The whole thing looked like some twisted wildlife documentary — one made for the dead and the depraved.
"Good luck, you crazy bitch…" Iron muttered, and ran like hell.
But he knew luck wouldn't last.
Just as he thought of veering off, he caught a glint among the blood-soaked grass — a spear.
Zara's spear.
Long, fierce, its black leather grip and polished bone shaft stained with old gore.
It was only a few meters away.
His eyes flicked to the ghoul — she was still tangled with the beast. Her bare shoulders gleamed under the pale sun, and the ragged wrap clinging to her body barely covered anything anymore.
With each motion, the fabric flared, revealing a bare waist, an almost-naked chest, and a dark pair of panties pulled taut between her thighs like curved blades ready to kill.
Her legs glistened with sweat and dust, her taut stomach trembled with each roar, and her chest — nearly bare, the remnants of cloth barely covering her nipples — bounced with every hit, like a living rebellion against death itself.
Zara, in her feral nakedness, wasn't just a fighter.
She was raw instinct incarnate.
Iron swore under his breath.
The wolf? No chance. He'd be eaten alive.
The ghoul? Crazy, deadly… but injured.
Half her wrap was torn, her shoulder bleeding.
Maybe — just maybe — if he helped her, she might let him live.
Or at least… give him a few seconds to speak before crushing his skull.
"Think… be smart. This creature's brain is half on fire."
"But she's bleeding. Maybe she can be reasoned with… even for seconds," he thought, teeth clenched.
The system had said the chance of negotiation was 5%.
Five isn't zero.
In his state, that was worth more than gold.
…But the raw truth was something else entirely:
That body. That shameless, blood-soaked nudity.
It stirred something ancient inside him.
Desire. Hunger. A survival-lust hybrid.
And the lie he told himself — that he was analyzing the situation —
was just a mask for a screaming instinct:
"Help her… and maybe she'll let you touch her."
"Don't be stupid… she'll kill you."
"But if she doesn't...?"
His exposed manhood rose like a soldier seeking glory.
That moment… wasn't mercy.
It wasn't heroism.
It was an unspoken promise:
If they survived...
maybe he'd get his share of that hell-forged womanhood.
He dashed toward the spear, body sliding through blood-slicked grass.
The cold wind struck his skin like knives of fear and arousal.
[New Skill Acquired!]
[Seductive Touch – Lv. 1]:
Increases the chance of seducing touch-compatible creatures by 10% upon direct physical contact.
Always active upon contact.
(Note: Other skills detected but not yet unlocked:
[Lure Scent – Lv. 1], [Whisper of Temptation – Lv. 1].)
He ignored it.
Now wasn't the time for mental masturbation.
He grabbed the spear — hand trembling.
Heavy… but balanced.
This wasn't a whore's weapon — this was a killer's.
He ran.
The sounds of battle ahead were primal screams from a broken earth —
A waterfall of blood, echoes of raw savagery.
Garol — the brutal beast — had sunk its fangs into Zara's shoulder, ripping flesh and bone, burying its snout like a hyena at a feast.
Her blood erupted — like a life artery torn open by force.
But she didn't scream like a victim.
She howled like she was pulling death out of its own throat.
Like the pain aroused her.
Iron focused — this was his window.
Everything inside screamed: Now or die.
He ran.
The spear sliced air ahead, his heart drumming tribal war rhythms, sweat pouring down his back.
Garol, deep in Zara's flesh, exposed a vulnerable side —
Sharp black spikes thinned near his rib.
Then —
He lunged.
The spear tore through hide,
then thick muscle,
then something soft — like a festering liver.
The howl was a symphony of rage and sudden agony.
Garol twisted — too slow. Pain was faster.
His spikes shook — one slashed Iron's cheek as he yanked the spear back with brutal force, spraying blood.
Zara turned.
Hair matted to her face.
Her eyes burning with battle.
Just one moment.
No words.
Then —
She charged.
She leapt onto the wolf's back, blood pouring from her shoulder.
Her bare legs coiled around his neck like a lover's trap.
With her chest half-exposed and a blood-soaked wrap clinging to a taut, perfect ass —
She screamed and smashed her elbow into the beast's head.
Once.
Twice.
Then drove both knees into his throat.
Bones exploded.
She grabbed his skull —
And snapped it.
His spine shattered like a branch under a devil's boot.
The wolf collapsed.
Dead.
Spikes twitching... then still.
Iron, still gripping the spear buried in the beast, dropped to his knees.
Breathing like he'd just survived a bloody, pussy-scented hell.
Zara stood above him.
Her hair fell to one side of her face.
The wrap was shredded — her right nipple fully exposed.
Her blood-smeared stomach pulsed with each breath.
And her panties — dark navy, tight as sin — clung between her sculpted asscheeks like a demon's ribbon.
Soaked in blood and sweat, they clung to her skin like a pornographic tattoo.
And her blood — dark, thick — dripped from her shoulder, sliding across her breast and pooling on her naked nipple like a wicked ink drop.
She sat down — on the wolf's corpse.
No smile.
No growl.
Just a stare.
A long, heavy stare —
As if looking through him,
Or as if she was staring at something long dead and forgotten.
Then she spoke.
"Urgh… Zara nish… Gha-roo-nada…"
Her voice was the purr of a dying animal — breath bleeding between words, but filled with something strange…
Like a spell she didn't understand herself.
Iron didn't get a word of it.
And somehow, he felt like he didn't need to.
He looked at her shoulder — the blood wasn't stopping.
Her eyes flickered between lucidity and madness.
She was bleeding to death.
And she sat like she wasn't planning to fight it.
Suddenly, all that arousal, all that proud erection, all those twisted fantasies he'd entertained just moments ago —
evaporated in a cloud of cold, bitter ash.
He felt sick.
At himself.
At his body.
At the idiotic thought that he could ever get something from her.
She wasn't a body.
She was a walking scar.
A breathing weapon.
A thing not of this world —
And definitely not for a half-naked, half-coward, half-man like him.
But then…
A small devil in his chest — slick, smirking, dirty — whispered a thought.
Laughing like a child who broke a toy and thought about tossing it into fire.
"…Should I kill her?"