The word hung in the air like a localized storm cloud, dark and heavy with a pressure Tristan wasn't prepared to handle.
"Are you a virgin?"
Tristan's brain, already operating on the "IQ 1" setting, simply stalled.
It was as if his internal processor had hit a fatal error and was stuck in a reboot loop.
In his previous life as Masaru, this was a question that existed only in the realm of cruel internet memes or late-night self-loathing.
To have it asked by a living, breathing woman—a 3D woman who was currently so close he could see the amber flecks in her brown eyes—was a level of psychological warfare he hadn't trained for.
He stared at her, his mouth opening and closing like a landed fish.
His heart wasn't just hammering; it was performing a frantic, irregular drum solo against his newly-mended ribs.
"I... I..." he stammered, his voice cracking twice in the span of two vowels.
He took a deep breath, trying to summon the "Silverbrook" mask, but it felt like trying to hold up a stone wall with wet toothpicks.
"I have amnesia, Selene. I told you. Everything is... blank. How would I remember something like that?"
It was a safe play. A logical play. The amnesia card was the ultimate shield.
Selene didn't pull back.
If anything, she leaned in further, her smirk widening into something more predatory, more knowing.
She reached out, her fingers trailing lightly over the bandages on his chest, a touch that sent a jolt of pure electricity through Tristan's nervous system.
"Memory is a funny thing, Tristan," she whispered, her voice a low hum that vibrated in the small space between them.
"The mind might forget names, dates, and faces. But the body? The body has a different kind of memory. It remembers how to breathe, how to walk... and how it feels when it wants something."
She tilted her head, her chestnut hair brushing against his shoulder.
"And right now, your body looks like it's screaming. I don't care about your past, Silverbrook. I don't care if you were a saint or a scoundrel before you hit that alleyway. What matters is right now."
She paused, her gaze dropping to his lips before snapping back up to his eyes.
"Tell me. Do you want it?"
Tristan's world narrowed down to that single question.
Panic, cold and sharp, clawed at his throat.
This was the moment where the old Masaru would have faked a heart attack, or crawled under the bed, or simply died of sheer embarrassment.
The anxiety was a physical weight, making his hands tremble beneath the silk sheets.
He felt exposed, vulnerable, and utterly out of his depth.
But then, a memory flickered in the back of his mind.
Not a memory of his own, but the memory of the cold cobblestones of the alleyway.
The sound of his "Eschaton" blade shattering like cheap glass.
The feeling of a thug's boot crushing his ribs.
Strength: 1. Mana: 1. Durability: 1.
If he didn't do this, he was going to die.
He wouldn't just be a loser in one world; he'd be a corpse in this one.
The System had laid out the rules of engagement with brutal clarity.
To survive, he had to evolve.
And to evolve, he had to cross the one bridge he had spent his entire life avoiding.
He looked at Selene.
She was beautiful, she was real, and for some inexplicable reason, she was offering him the key to his own salvation.
He swallowed the lump of terror in his throat.
He forced his hands to stop shaking, clenching them into fists at his sides.
He met her gaze, his silver eyes flashing with a desperate, frantic sort of courage.
"Yes," he whispered.
It was a measly, fragile sound, but it was the most honest thing he had ever said.
Selene didn't hesitate.
She lunged forward, her hands cupping his face as she kissed him with an intensity that knocked the remaining air out of his lungs.
It wasn't a gentle, fairy-tale kiss.
It was hungry, demanding, and tasted faintly of the sweet herbal tea she had brought him.
The world vanished.
The room, the guild, the legend of the Silverbrooks—it all dissolved into a white-hot blur of sensation.
Selene's mouth devoured his, tongue sweeping deep, claiming every hesitant inch he offered.
Tristan groaned into the kiss, hands finally moving—clumsy at first, then desperate—as he gripped her waist and yanked her flush against him.
She broke the kiss only to rip his shirt over his head in one impatient motion, nails scraping down his newly-sculpted abs as she shoved him backward toward the bed.
He stumbled, caught himself on the edge of the mattress, and she was on him again—straddling his lap, grinding down hard enough that he felt the slick heat of her drenched entrance through their remaining clothes.
A ragged sound tore from his throat.
"Fuck," he gasped, the word foreign and perfect on his tongue in this body.
"There he is." Her fingers worked his belt open with practiced speed, shoving trousers and smallclothes down in a tangle.
His shaft sprang free, thick and painfully hard, already leaking at the tip.
He grabbed her hips, flipped them so she landed beneath him with a surprised huff that melted into a moan when he tore her tunic open.
Full breasts spilled free; he latched onto one nipple, sucking hard while his hand dove between her thighs.
She was drenched—slippery folds parting easily around his fingers as he pushed two inside her, curling them against that spot that made her back arch and her thighs clamp around his wrist.
"Tristan—" Her voice cracked on his name, hips rolling to meet every thrust of his hand. She clawed at his shoulders, urging him higher. "Inside. Now."
He didn't need to be told twice.
He lined himself up, notched the head against her entrance, and drove in with one long, relentless stroke.
He drove into her—deep, punishing thrusts that slapped skin against skin, bedframe creaking in protest.
Selene met him stroke for stroke, legs locked around his waist, heels digging into his ass to pull him deeper.
Her nails raked bloody trails down his back; he welcomed the sting, used it to anchor himself as pleasure coiled tighter and tighter in his gut.
She came first—clenching so hard around his shaft that stars burst behind his eyelids.
Her cry was sharp, broken; he swallowed it with his mouth as he kept driving into her through the spasms, chasing his own release.
When it hit, it was brutal—white-hot, blinding.
He buried himself to the hilt and pulsed inside her, spilling thick ropes of seed until it leaked out around his shaft with every shallow grind.
They collapsed together, slickand trembling, his softening shaft still nestled deep as aftershocks rippled through them both.
-------------------------------
The golden light of the afternoon had shifted into the deep, bruised purple of twilight by the time Tristan's brain finally rejoined his body.
He was lying flat on his back, staring up at the dark wooden canopy of the bed.
He was naked, his skin slick with a fine sheen of sweat, his chest rising and falling in heavy, ragged gasps.
Every muscle in his new body felt like it had been put through a professional-grade tenderizer.
He was exhausted—utterly, completely drained—but it was a different kind of exhaustion than he had ever known.
It wasn't the heavy, stagnant lethargy of sitting in a gaming chair for sixteen hours; it was a vibrant, humming glow that seemed to radiate from his very bones.
Holy... mother of...
Masaru's internal voice was screaming, a chaotic mess of disbelief and revelation.
In his old life, he had spent thousands of hours chasing the "heat moments" in digital novels.
He had lived vicariously through pixels and prose, thinking he understood what pleasure was.
He had been a "gooner," a master of the solo marathon, convinced that the digital fantasy was as good as it got.
He had been so, so wrong.
Compared to this, the digital smut was like a flickering candle next to a supernova.
This was visceral.
It was tactile.
It was the difference between reading a menu and eating a ten-course feast.
His 16K reality had just upgraded to something beyond human comprehension.
The weight of another person, the heat of skin, the way his new, athletic body had responded with a strength and stamina he didn't know he possessed—it was a revelation.
Beside him, the sheets shifted.
Selene was draped across his chest, her head resting on his shoulder.
Her breathing was steady, a soft puff of warm air against his skin.
She looked peaceful, her usual playful smirk replaced by a look of quiet satisfaction.
Ping.
The sound was sharp, cutting through the post-coital haze like a bell.
Tristan winced, instinctively trying to reach for a mouse that wasn't there.
He focused his eyes, and the blue screen shimmered into existence, floating in the dim light of the room.
[ ENCOUNTER VALIDATED: SELENE BRIGHTWOOD ]
[ SOCIAL STANDING: B- (GUILD MAGE) ]
[ BASE POINTS EARNED: 50 ]
[ CONGRATULATIONS! FIRST ENCOUNTER COMPLETED. ]
[ 50 STAT POINTS HAVE BEEN ADDED TO YOUR POOL. ]
Tristan stared at the number. Fifty.
It seemed so small compared to the 1,200 potential points of the Princess, but to him, it was a fortune.
Fifty points meant he could quintuple his Strength.
He could decuple his Mana. He could finally become something other than a target.
He felt a surge of genuine, giddy excitement.
He wanted to jump out of bed and start allocating the points immediately, to see if he could feel the power surging into his muscles.
He wanted to summon the Eschaton and see if it was still a toothpick or if it had grown into a proper dagger.
But as he started to sit up, a pair of slender, warm arms wrapped around his waist, pulling him back down into the pillows.
Selene shifted, pressing her body against his.
She was still naked, her skin soft and smelling of lavender and him.
She looked up at him, her eyes heavy-lidded and twinkling with a newfound respect.
"Stay," she murmured, her voice a sleepy purr.
She reached up, running a hand through his tangled silver hair, her fingers lingering on the nape of his neck. "Where are you going in such a hurry, Silverbrook?"
Tristan looked down at her, his throat dry. "I... I just... I felt a surge of energy. I thought..."
Selene chuckled, a low, throaty sound that made Tristan's heart skip a beat. She leaned up, nipping playfully at his earlobe before whispering into his ear.
"You really are a Silverbrook, aren't you?" she teased.
"I thought the stories about your family's... endurance... were just exaggerations meant to make the nobility sound more impressive. But you?"
She pulled back just enough to look him in the eye, her grin returning in full force.
"You even exceeded my expectations, Tristan. For a 1st Circle mage with amnesia, you certainly know how to command a room. Or at least, a bed."
Tristan felt the familiar heat of a blush rising to his cheeks, but for the first time, it wasn't accompanied by the urge to run away.
He looked at the blue screen hovering over her shoulder, then back at the woman in his arms.
He was a 28-year-old shut-in in the body of a legendary hero.
He was a fraud, a liar, and a coward.
But as he felt Selene's heart beating against his own, he realized that for the first time in two lifetimes, he wasn't just watching a story.
He was the one writing it.
"I'm just getting started," Tristan whispered, his voice surprisingly steady.
Selene smiled, pulling his head down for another kiss.
"I certainly hope so, Savior. I certainly hope so."
[ CURRENT UNALLOCATED POINTS: 50 ]
[ WOULD YOU LIKE TO ALLOCATE NOW? Y/N ]