Ritchie began thrusting. Last night, he'd relied on instinct, brute force. Now, he had some experience.
His training taught him that a woman's climax was key to siphoning life energy. The manual detailed ways to get her there. Most techniques were beyond him, but he could manage the basics.
His hands roamed, seeking Rosa's sensitive spots. The booklet listed over two hundred erogenous zones on a woman's body, most on the surface, each with specific techniques to spark desire.
Ritchie hadn't memorized all the techniques, just the main thirty or so.
His efforts quickly took effect. Rosa's body trembled, her thighs slick, her tight pussy stretched full. Each thrust was so forceful it felt like it might pierce through her.
This was nothing like her first time. It was even as thrilling as Lina had described.
But alongside the pleasure, there was discomfort. Something itched at her heart, restless and irritating. Worse, her pants, bunched at her knees, felt like shackles, trapping her legs.
Rosa tried to kick them off, but Ritchie, whether on purpose or not, grabbed her legs, pinning them to her chest.
Now she couldn't move at all. His thrusts grew fiercer, like a hammer driving deep.
A sudden, unbearable itch surged from her core. Rosa let out a soft "Ah…" and tried to arch her back, but Ritchie's grip held her fast. Her struggle only drove his cock deeper.
"Mmm… ah… ah… ah…" Rosa moaned, hating the sound but unable to stop. It felt necessary.
"Let go, it's too tight," she complained.
Ritchie eased his grip, but his thrusts quickened, more intense.
"Ohh… ohh… ohh…" Her moans sped up, sharp and rapid.
Ritchie's hips moved faster, his cock pistoning, slapping loudly. Waves of pleasure made him groan low.
Rosa's layered, textured pussy felt incredible. The faster he went, the better it got.
Suddenly, Ritchie roared low, and Rosa screamed high-pitched. They climaxed together.
Rosa felt an overwhelming numbness, like soaring or plunging into an abyss. Her body shook as if electrified, her pussy convulsing, gushing wetly.
Ritchie felt her tight grip on his tip, his cock trembling, aching to release but finding no outlet. A warm current flowed from her, flooding his body, merging with his fighting aura. His faint aura sprouted, growing. The restless heat in him melted into it.
For thirty seconds, they didn't move.
As the passion faded, the flow stopped. They relaxed.
Rosa's heart raced, a shy flush rising. She glanced at the half-crooked door… someone was peeking. She loved pranks, not scandal. Unlike Lina, she wasn't shameless. Doing this with Ritchie was fine, but being watched wasn't.
Annoyed and resentful, she pushed Ritchie off and slid from the tank lid. Pulling up her pants, her face burned. Her thighs were wet and sticky, but she ignored it.
Stepping back to distance herself, Rosa suddenly felt dizzy, her waist aching, a bone-deep lethargy hitting her. She'd fought for hours on battlefields and never felt this drained.
She cycled her fighting aura to recover, but gasped. Her aura had weakened!
Confused, she'd only heard of pregnancy from sex, not aura loss.
Then it hit her: sex could lead to pregnancy.
Rosa wasn't a child. She knew how pregnancy worked. She undid her belt again, reaching down to check. It was wet and sticky, but no milky semen.
"You didn't come?" she asked, surprised.
Ritchie nodded.
Her slender fingers traced circles over his crotch, teasing. "You're impressive."
Ritchie leaned closer, whispering, "Can I…?"
"You want to fuck me again?" Rosa laughed, her playful mischief back. She dodged his question. "Come back to camp. It's about time."
Ritchie snapped to reality. This was his superior, not Isabella, who he could use freely. He'd also need an excuse for the captain and quartermaster.
Glancing back, he hesitated. What if those thugs returned while he was gone?
"Worried about your little girlfriend?" Rosa saw through him. Childish as she could be, she wasn't dumb.
She pulled a yellow strip from her pocket… an army cordon marker. Once set up, no one dared approach, let alone tear it down.
...
Under Glasloval's grim night sky, a shadow flickered like a ghost.
The figure slipped silently into a small house, cramped with five people: a couple in bed, three sons on the floor.
The shadow approached one, moonlight revealing their face. Confirming the target, the figure moved. Slowly at first, then lightning-fast. One hand cradled the man's cheek, the other twisted his neck.
A soft crack. Like a twig snapping, the neck broke.
The man was dead. The others in the room slept on, oblivious.
The shadow retreated and vanished into the night.
...
At camp, the clanging of metal echoed, punctuated by sharp reprimands.
Ritchie wielded two heavy shields, fending off Miss Diana's relentless attacks.
He'd improved since starting. His moves weren't fluid, but he could counter and block her fierce strikes, provided she didn't use combat techniques.
His shields didn't just block her staff; they tilted slightly. Each hit made the shield dip or angle, usually without effect, but sometimes it deflected her staff aside.
Ritchie was practicing near-hit deflections, though full close-combat was still beyond him.
Morning training ended at six. Starving, Ritchie bolted for the kitchen.
Miss Marilyn, the deputy captain, ran it. No one else in the squad had the patience or interest.
Greeting her, Ritchie rushed to the stove, where two army pots simmered.
"Braised beef!" he exclaimed, thrilled. Even in the knight order, this was a rare treat.
"Wash your hands first," Marilyn said with a smile.
Ritchie always listened to the gentle deputy captain, Marilyn. Of the whole squad, only she gave him the warm, comforting feeling he used to get from his mother.
A tray of bread sat on the stove. Ritchie piled his plate with beef and grabbed six hard rolls, settling at the nearby table.
The kitchen doubled as a dining area, but he ate alone. Everyone else took their meals to their rooms. Knights, male or female, had monstrous appetites. This pot, enough for fifty in another regiment, barely fed ten here.
Even the icy Captain Carrie cared about her image, as did the others, so they hid away to eat.
The kitchen grew lively as others came for their portions.
As Ritchie savored the rare treat, a stack of papers landed in front of him.
Captain Carrie, cold as ever, tossed them without a word and turned to get her food.
Ritchie knew what they were. He folded them carefully, tucking them into his inner pocket. These were his targets for tonight.
By day, he was a regular student in the morning, a knight apprentice and errand boy in the afternoon. By night, he was an executioner in the shadows.
Over thirty lives had ended by his hand; Glasloval's lowest scum, thugs, and vermin who preyed on the weak. Their crimes, like mob beatings, were minor enough to dodge heavy punishment. The police were helpless, sometimes too scared to act. Higher-ups turned a blind eye.
Ritchie wasn't stupid. He sensed someone powerful was behind this. Otherwise, how could Carrie get such detailed files, containing names, ages, addresses, physical descriptions, even sketches?
Clearly, the higher-ups despised these pests but lacked a way to deal with them. Now that Ritchie was willing, they were all too happy to let him.
...