Thorne Blackfang's brow furrowed as he leaned toward Liora, voice low with genuine concern. "Madam, those ten thousand knights Kai is about to face… they are not ordinary knights."
The scene shifted.
Elara stood before a pair of massive iron-bound doors, thick and ancient, etched with the scars of countless battles. She rolled her neck once, cracking it sharply, then planted her palms against the cold metal. With a grunt of effort, she pushed. The doors groaned open inch by inch, revealing a cavernous hall beyond.
Thorne's voice carried across the cut: "They have spent their lives on the frontier, fighting demons in battles where every moment is life or death. Their killing intent is forged in blood."
Inside the hall, Elara stepped forward—and staggered.
The air hit her like a physical blow. A tidal wave of concentrated slaughter-lust rolled over her, thick enough to taste—iron, ash, and unrelenting malice. Her knees buckled; vision swam. Beads of sweat sprang to her forehead. Even as a member of this elite force, the sheer pressure nearly drove her to the ground.
She clenched her jaw, forced mana through her veins, and steadied herself. "Damn it," she muttered, wiping her brow with the back of her gauntlet. "Even for me, this is too much."
The scene snapped back to the study.
Thorne cleared his throat. "Ahem. I'm worried about Kai."
Liora didn't lift her gaze from the border report. Her tone was flat, almost bored. "If my son wants to spar against ten thousand, let him. If he asks for queens and empresses as concubines and princesses as maids tomorrow, let him have that too."
Thorne hesitated. "I'm just concerned that if he loses—"
"Of course he's going to lose, you idiot," Liora cut in, annoyance sharpening her words. "And that is exactly why it's perfect. It'll give me the excuse I need to train him properly."
A hint of ruthlessness crept into her voice on the last words—cold, eager, almost hungry.
The temperature in the room seemed to drop. A collective shiver ran through every retainer, knight, and aide present. Even Thorne, the demon of the battlefield, felt ice crawl down his spine. He wiped his brow and muttered under his breath, "Kai… you'd better prepare yourself, boy."
Elara strode through the fortified corridors toward the instructors' command post, her boots striking the stone with sharp, purposeful echoes.
All around her, the fortress thrummed with grim preparation for the coming hunt. Knights in full battle gear sharpened blades until the whetstones sang. Small groups huddled over maps, voices low and urgent as they debated formations and demon weak points. In quieter corners, men and women sat alone at rough tables, quills scratching across parchment—final letters to wives, children, parents. Words they hoped would never need to be read.
One such letter caught her eye: a young knight sealing his note with wax, his hand trembling just enough to betray him.
The sight struck like a blade to the gut.
Her own parents—slain by demons years ago, their bodies never recovered from the border ashes. She could still smell the smoke in her nightmares.
Elara's fists clenched until her gauntlets creaked, knuckles white beneath the metal. "Damn it," she spat under her breath, venom lacing the words.
We bleed, we die, we fight just to survive another day and keep our families safe.
And some pampered, pill-fed rich second-generation brat thinks he can treat ten thousand of us like training dummies—stepping stones for whatever selfish whim he's chasing today.
Kai.
The name burned in her mind like acid.
Her stride lengthened, shoulders squared with fresh resolve. She would make sure the instructors understood exactly what was at stake. And when that spoiled young master stepped onto the field, she would personally ensure the knights gave him the beating of his privileged life.
He wouldn't walk away unscathed.
Not if she had anything to say about it.
I strolled across the vast emerald grassland, practically skipping, a carefree tune humming from my lips as the warm afternoon breeze tousled my hair. The staff in charge of the fields greeted me with deep bows and murmured respects—"Young Master Kai"—and I waved lazily, stretching like a contented cat under the sun. Warhorses grazed peacefully around me, tails flicking, their powerful frames a reminder of the fortress's might.
Meanwhile, Elara entered the command tent where the lead instructor—a hulking, ox-shouldered veteran with a scarred face and arms like tree trunks—sat reviewing maps. He glanced up casually. "What is it, Elara?"
She stood at attention. "Commander Liora's direct order."
From her belt, she produced a fist-sized communication crystal, its surface gleaming faintly. The moment it was revealed, the instructor shot to his feet, spine ramrod straight. Every knight in the tent—mid-conversation, mid-sharpening, mid-meal—rose in perfect unison. The air went deathly still; you could have heard a pin drop on the grass outside.
The crystal flickered to life, projecting Liora's crisp, commanding voice into the silence.
"My son wishes to spar. Arrange ten thousand knights at his level."
The instructor saluted sharply. "Yes, ma'am!"
Then her tone shifted—cold, ruthless, edged with dark anticipation. "Break his bones. Humiliate him thoroughly."
Back in the study, Thorne Blackfang opened his mouth to protest, concern flashing across his grim features. Liora's sea-blue eyes flicked to him once—sharp as a blade—and he clamped his jaw shut, words dying unspoken.
In the tent, the instructor's face went slack. Elara's eyes widened. The surrounding knights exchanged stunned, speechless glances, the silence now thick with disbelief.
Who in the gods' names ordered their own son to be broken?
Oblivious to it all, I was busy flirting with the staff member overseeing the horses—a stunning mature beauty in her late thirties, sun-kissed skin, generous curves straining against her practical tunic, and a knowing smile that promised experience.
I pointed one finger playfully at her chest, the tip hovering just shy of brushing the prominent outline of her nipples through the fabric. "Tell me," I teased, voice low and husky, "are these magnificent things natural… or the work of some clever potions?"
She flushed a deep, appealing crimson, but her eyes sparkled with mischief rather than offense. "Young Master Kai," she murmured shyly, yet with clear invitation, "if you'd like… I could show you. Personally."
She tilted her head toward the secluded horse-feeding stables nearby, the implication hanging delicious in the air.
I licked my lips without thinking, a slow grin spreading. "Nice. Very nice."
I led Mira into the secluded horse-feeding stables, the heavy wooden door creaking shut behind us with a satisfying thud that sealed us in dim, golden light filtering through the slatted walls. The air was thick with the earthy scent of fresh hay, warm horse musk, and the faint tang of leather—private, intimate, perfectly hidden from prying eyes. Bales of straw stacked high formed natural walls around us, and the distant snort of a stallion outside only heightened the forbidden thrill.
Mira's cheeks burned a deep crimson as she turned to me, her late-thirties curves straining against her fitted tunic, those full, heavy breasts rising and falling with nervous breaths. She bit her plump lower lip, voice husky with a mix of embarrassment and eager submission. "Young Master Kai… what do you want me to do?"
I stepped closer, eyes locked on hers, letting the tension build until I could hear her ragged breathing. "I want a titjob," I said low and commanding, "while you suck my cock like the greedy slut you are."
Her eyes widened, a fresh wave of blush flooding her neck, but she nodded without hesitation—slow, obedient, her thighs pressing together as arousal soaked through her.
I leaned back against a sturdy hay bale, the prickly straw scratching faintly through my clothes as I unfastened my pants. My cock sprang free, thick and veined, already rock-hard and twitching angrily in the cool air, the swollen head glistening with thick strands of pre-cum that dripped slowly down the shaft. The sheer size—longer and girthier than any man she'd likely taken—made her gasp sharply, a mix of shock and raw approval flashing in her widened eyes. "Gods… it's enormous," she whispered, licking her lips unconsciously.
She sank to her knees in the soft straw, the motion graceful yet hungry, and reached for the ties of her tunic. With trembling fingers, she pulled it open, revealing no bra beneath—just those magnificent, natural breasts spilling free: full, pendulous double-Ds (maybe bigger), pale skin flushed pink with excitement, capped by dark, pebbled nipples already stiff and begging for attention. They swayed heavily as she shifted closer, the faint scent of her arousal mixing with the hay.
Warm, callused hands—softened by years of gentle work yet strong from handling reins—wrapped around my throbbing shaft, sending electric jolts up my spine. She guided me between the plush valley of her tits, pressing them together until my cock vanished in that hot, silky cleavage, the friction immediate and maddening.
We both spat at once—thick, wet globs landing on my shaft and her skin, mingling with the steady ooze of my pre-cum to create a slick, obscene lubricant. The wet sounds started immediately as she began to move: slow at first, then building rhythm, sliding her massive breasts up and down my length with firm, deliberate strokes. Each pump squeezed me in velvet heat, the soft flesh molding perfectly around my girth, veins pulsing against her skin.
Every upward thrust exposed my swollen cockhead, angry red and slick, and she didn't waste a second—her hot mouth descended, tongue swirling greedily around the tip, lapping up the salty pre-cum that beaded there before sucking hard, cheeks hollowing as she teased the sensitive slit. The dual sensation—her tits milking my shaft while her lips and tongue worshipped the head—was pure, overwhelming bliss, building that aching pressure in my balls faster than I expected.
I groaned low, fingers tangling in her hair, guiding her pace as the stables filled with wet, rhythmic slaps, her muffled moans vibrating around my cock, and the promise of the explosive release coiling tighter with every filthy second.