Vael didn't pray, mostly because he hadn't believed in gods a minute ago. But he did silently beg his nervous system to stop treating his ribcage like a drum. The greatsword's edge at his neck wasn't just sharp; it was cold. A shockingly, aggressively cold piece of steel wielded by a woman who looked like a fiery statue of death.
This is seriously how I die? By an angry, over-armored redhead, because I accidentally landed in her flower patch?
But just as the panic reached a five-alarm fire level, the ridiculous, undeniable power God Aethel had given him kicked in. It wasn't bravery. It was a compulsion. An intense, undeniable itch to write.
His trembling fingers fumbled for the pen. This was it—the ultimate test of his divine "cheat."
He didn't have time to write an epic. He needed a bomb. A targeted poetic missile to shut down this warrior's murderous mood before she decided his neck was the perfect place to practice her cleaving technique. He scrawled furiously onto his leather-bound journal, the words flowing out faster and better than anything he'd ever written back on Earth.
Meanwhile, Captain Astra's patience was thinner than the paper he was writing on. She was a professional soldier. This was an insult.
"Halt your pathetic scribbling, trespasser," she growled, her voice a low rumble from beneath her visor. "This world does not care for your little songs. Your time is now."
Vael gulped, his eyes squeezing shut. He didn't just read the words; he spat them out—raw, dramatic, and charged with that bizarre, divine energy.
"I find no keenest edge in that cold steel,
For in your eyes, I saw my destiny revealed.
Why choose the blade to end this fragile breath,
When your single, scorching glance already promises death?
Strike now, or take me hence—I swear upon the sky,
My soul is bound to the captivating fire of your eye."
BZZZZZT.
Astra froze. It felt like someone had poured lukewarm honey mixed with high-voltage electricity straight into her brain. The words weren't just heard; they were experienced.
Her duty? Muted. Her threat assessment? Non-existent. Her desire to cut him in half? Replaced with the urgent need to hug him.
The massive, deadly sword—a weapon forged to split plate mail—started to shake in her grasp. She saw Vael, the pathetic man holding a twig of metal (what was a 'pen'?), and she saw him through new, terrifyingly romantic eyes. He wasn't a threat; he was the poetic embodiment of her entire lonely life.
He knows! Her mind was doing frantic, disorganized backflips. He saw the sorrow! He saw the fire! And he wants to die for it! Oh, the sheer, beautiful, reckless gall of this man!
Astra's hand spasmed, yanking the greatsword back as if it had burned her. It landed tip-first in the dirt next to Vael's foot with a very un-Captain-like 'thunk.'
"T-The fire..." Astra stammered, peeling off her heavy, intimidating visor to reveal a fiercely beautiful face and wild, flame-red hair. Her amber eyes, usually hard as granite, were now swimming with confusion and a bizarre, puppy-dog earnestness. "Did you... did you just write a poem about my gaze?"
Vael felt the panic subside, replaced by a surge of nervous adrenaline. It worked! Holy cow, it actually worked!
"Captain," Vael said, trying to stand a little taller, channeling the inner confidence of a drama club major. "That sword is a lie. It is designed to distract. Your true power is the captivating truth of your eyes, which speak volumes more than any battle cry."
[Divine Power Effect: Charm Level 2 - The 'Melting' Point]
Astra actually put a gauntleted hand over her chest, right where her heart should have been cold and professional. The compliment hit her hard enough to crack her emotional foundation. No one had ever focused on her. Always the rank. Always the Legion. Always the duty.
Vael, seeing the flicker of vulnerability, knew he had to close the deal. God Aethel hadn't asked him to date; he'd asked him to acquire.
He dropped onto one knee again, but this time, it was less surrender and more a proposal pose. "I seek only a master, Captain. A life dedicated to writing verses that only you inspire. I need a woman whose fire can burn away my past and whose heart I can honor with every line."
He could see the exact moment the poem and the words combined to flip the last switch in her military brain. Her expression shifted from confusion to a focused, almost frightening possessiveness.
"Get up, fool," Astra commanded, but her voice was low and rough, like dry velvet. She quickly stripped off her heavy gauntlets, revealing powerful but graceful hands. "You will not write for a 'master.' You will write for your wife."
Vael blinked. "Excuse me?"
Astra ignored him, her amber eyes burning with a sudden, possessive heat that was far more dangerous than the sword had been.
"I am Captain Astra, bound to honor and duty," she stated, then grabbed Vael's collar and yanked him roughly to his feet. "My duty is now clear. I cannot let a man who sees my soul wander around without my protection. You are my Consort. You will come to the Fortress with me. You will write those intoxicating, lying words only for me."
Acquisition One: Secured. And surprisingly fast.
Vael managed a weak nod. "A-As you command, Captain... Astra."
She didn't let go of his collar. Instead, she leaned in, her gaze intense. "Do not confuse me with your 'Captain' title, little poet. You are mine. Now, put that silly pen away. We march. I want to see if this poetry thing works on anyone else we meet."
Wait, what? Vael thought, his terror returning, but mixed with a very male, very nervous thrill. She's already thinking about the next 99? This is going to be a long life.
Astra didn't wait for a response. She simply took Vael's hand in her large, calloused one, picked up her greatsword like a walking stick, and started dragging the newly-minted, terrified Consort toward the path leading to her Legion's Fortress