In the captain's office, Diana glared at Carrie, displeased.
"Why do this? You're turning my apprentice into an executioner."
Carrie ate calmly. Ritchie was wrong about one thing: the female knights didn't mind other women seeing them eat. It was men they cared about, even one as young as him.
"Answer me. What are you and the higher-ups thinking?" Diana pressed, her anger rising.
"You really want to know?" Carrie glanced at her deputy. "It's wartime. One more knight is valuable. The higher-ups think trading scum for a knight is a fair deal."
She nodded toward the window, where Ritchie could be seen swinging his bag, heading out.
"You've noticed, haven't you? His strength has grown unimaginably fast. I've seen so-called geniuses. None compare to him. You know what that means, don't you?"
Diana fell silent. She knew exactly what Carrie meant.
The world sometimes showed a flicker of fairness. Incomplete knights often had a standout strength.
For Ritchie, it was his growth potential.
Natural talent mattered for a knight, but potential was king. A gold goblet held less than a clay jug.
While Diana and Captain Carrie discussed Ritchie's potential, he was scheming how to seduce Rosa again. Others might not know why his strength surged, but he did. That encounter with Rosa outdid months of grueling training.
The life energy he siphoned from her had only recently fully merged with his fighting aura. Two days ago, it ran dry, and his aura's growth slowed noticeably.
Rosa was a headache. Unpredictable and capricious, she might agree easily like last time or flat-out refuse. Worse, she could tease him, promising only to prank him later.
Distracted by these thoughts, Ritchie couldn't focus in class.
Since his night with Isabella, he'd unexpectedly been welcomed into her circle of pretty girls, likely because she'd vouched for him. This earned him the envy of the boys, but he didn't care. The quartermaster's words stuck with him: Knights and ordinary people can't be together.
At noon, Ritchie grabbed his bag and bolted. Near the school gate, he spotted taller boys pacing.
When they saw him, they closed in.
Ritchie had no patience for them. Thugs feared the law, skirting its edges, knowing when to back off and chasing only profit.
These students, though, cared only about pride. Hotheaded, they'd do anything, like the ones Ritchie had already killed.
He didn't slow down, barreling straight into them.
Starting a fight by bumping was their go-to move, but they'd met their match. Ritchie collided deliberately, using his half-mastered deflection technique.
With a subtle shoulder twitch, he redirected their force. He wasn't one to take a hit without giving back. As he parried, he slammed into them, returning their own strength.
He did it again with the next, breaking through effortlessly.
Glancing back at the boys groaning on the ground, Ritchie felt a spark of satisfaction. He hadn't used knightly strength. This was pure skill.
Those collisions felt clearer than sparring with Diana all day. Her strikes were too fast, her control too precise. These guys were sloppy, instinctive, slow as snails.
An idea formed. He could hone his deflection technique by fighting regular people, then test it against Diana.
The more he thought, the better it seemed. He sprinted out the school gate.
After class, Ritchie always stopped home first. School and his house were both in the old district, so he could drop his bag before heading to camp.
As he reached the upstairs door, he froze. Women's laughter and chatter spilled out.
Were the wealthy women from the lower three floors visiting? Ritchie found it hard to believe. Those families looked down on his, and two had clashed with them during the sale. Even now, they ignored each other on the stairs.
Pushing the door open with suspicion, he saw his mom on a chair. Two women, a mother and daughter, sat on the room's only sofa. The mother was elegant, dressed in a deep purple gown, her head draped in a black mesh veil under a wide-brimmed hat adorned with ostrich feathers. She looked younger than his mom.
"Ritchie, why didn't you knock? So rude," his mother scolded, her usual stiffness surfacing around guests.
"This is your Aunt Grace and cousin Katherine. They'll stay with us for a while. Mind your manners," she added, her warning sharp.
Ritchie knew he had two aunts, but they lived far away and rarely kept in touch. Aunt Grace, his mom's youngest sister, had married a leather merchant but became a widow soon after her daughter's birth. His mom often said Grace was formidable, not only keeping her husband's business afloat but expanding it.
"If I'd known you were coming, I wouldn't have sold the lower floors," his mom said politely. "Now you'll have to squeeze in with us. Ritchie's got the attic. Katherine's about his age, so they can share it. We sisters will take this room. Ritchie's dad is in the reserve corps, only home one day a month."
Ritchie stole a glance at his cousin. A half-year older, she was well-developed, likely from her affluent upbringing. She was curvy, unlike Isabella's slight frame. Her demeanor was haughty. Her tightly curled, glossy black hair and wheat-colored skin marked her as no sheltered maiden. She was beautiful, no doubt.
His head throbbed. Sharing a room with her promised tantalizing views but endless trouble. How could he slip out at night for his executioner's work?
He chuckled inwardly. Lately, he was drowning in women, like he'd fallen into a kingdom of them.
...
At camp, Ritchie bolted for the kitchen. If breakfast was braised beef, lunch would be just as good.
At the kitchen door, the rich aroma of lamb stew hit him, making his mouth water.
No one was there. He was usually the last to eat at noon. Lifting the pot lid, he found plenty left, likely saved for him.
Bread was unlimited here, though he couldn't take it home. He tossed two rolls into the stew, his favorite way to eat.
As Ritchie waited for the bread to soak, footsteps approached. Someone entered.
It was Miss Lina, clad in a thick, tight fencing armor that hugged a woman's curves perfectly.
Ritchie couldn't help but stare, his throat bobbing, mouth dry. The heat he'd suppressed flared up again.
Lina, here for one thing, lifted the pot lid to find it empty.
She glanced at Ritchie, catching his eyes lingering between her legs.
"Naughty little guy," she teased, sauntering over, her walk dripping with sensuality.
In the camp, Lina wasn't the prettiest but oozed femininity. Only Marilyn rivaled her. Marilyn's charm was homely, wife-like; Lina was a bedroom vixen.
Her frame was average, not voluptuous but balanced, with long, captivating legs. Her features could only be described as sultry.
Ritchie lowered his gaze, but inside, he wished she'd strip for him to feast his eyes.
The thought made his cock stir, growing thicker.
Lina didn't let up. She sat beside him, her left hand slyly grazing his crotch. "What's this? A little mouse?" she giggled, feeling him clearly through the fabric.
Lina, no stranger to men, knew his size with one grip.
Suddenly, Ritchie's ear tingled. Lina had slid beside him, her chin on his shoulder, licking his ear and blowing softly into it.
"Feels good, huh?" she purred. "Want it to feel even better?"
Ritchie wasn't a saint. He'd been eyeing Lina since morning. He pulled her close.
"Not afraid your master will see?" she whispered.
Her words were a bucket of ice water. If Diana, or anyone but Rosa, who'd already fucked him, caught them in the kitchen, he'd be done for. At best, a beating and kicked out of the squad.
He let go.
But Lina slithered closer, her voice teasing. "Diana's coming to drag you to training. Think we have time for anything?"
She nibbled his earlobe, giggling. "How about this: train with me this afternoon. You'll have hours… to learn."
The vixen pressed against him, grinding her hips against his bulge. It wasn't the real thing, but his heart raced.
...