Day 33, 2:30 PM

“Improvidus, apto quod victum.”

— Scholarly for, “Fake it ‘till you make it”

“You have handled the situation masterfully,” Manuella says, smiling as excitement mixes with happiness in her face, making her look ravishing.

The hormones get me, and I wish to say, “You’re beautiful,” but I don’t.

“I want to feel your screaming orgasm,” I say instead, mortified even as the words leave my mouth.

She looks at me, just as shocked. Luckily, we’re inside an empty tavern, preparing for departure.

“I’m sorry.” I relax, but Blunt keeps hammering away. “I meant that.”

God! Kill me! I’m starting to regret my skill choices.

“But I won’t force you into anything,” I conclude of my own free will, and at least I feel a bit better because I didn’t say, “Bend over.”

For a moment, I’m afraid those two words will escape my mouth, but they don’t. There is only silence for several long moments.

“I do not mind.” She blushes, her reaction so genuine my heart races. “You are obviously competent, you are driven, and you are keeping your word beyond what I could have dreamed. You may have me whenever you want, however you want, I will not say a word of complaint. But I will be honest with you. My heart quivered when I listened to your speech. I think you are very close to where you want to be, and I want you to get there. Honestly. With another woman, maybe, just maybe, a good… screaming orgasm, as you called it, would have brought you where you want to be, but I am not such a woman. I do not know if I ever was.”

She draws a deep breath, and I realize I have been holding mine while clenching my fists so hard my bones creaked.

“You can do whatever you want with me,” she repeats, “as long as you do not demean or hurt me, and I think I will be fine with it. I think I will not resent you. But I cannot make any promises.”

My heart gallops like a wild horse on cocaine. My pants feel tight, and I gulp before shaking my head.

“No. I don’t want to ruin it.” I’m out of breath, and my back is slick, as if I just sprinted two back-to-back marathons.

Her lips draw into a smile, revealing beautiful teeth. “You really love me.”

Her hand moves down, and I can feel her finger sliding, following the hard outline down to my crotch.

“I’m sorry,” she says, then grabs the back of my head and plants a kiss. It’s not a flimsy peck like last time. It’s deep, passionate, and I can feel the hint of lava flow between us.

That’s the feeling.

Just like before, only weaker. Every inch of me burns with the desire to tear her clothes and pound her until she screams, but somehow I disentangle myself from her.

I gasp. “Please don’t do that again. I barely controlled myself.”

“You are a good man,” she says with a small, sunny smile, perfectly innocent. “I would not have walked out and revealed myself for someone lesser. It was not the most intelligent thing to do, given our circumstances, but the thought of someone ridiculing you while you are pursuing justice for my sake made me…” she pauses.

“Made you what?” My hands are trembling. I’m gripping my right with my left, still fearing I might assault her.

“It made me angry,” she says, and I guffaw.

I peck her on her confused lips and almost slap her ass, but I stop myself in time.

“You love me,” I say.

“Maybe,” she says, nodding thoughtfully. “Or maybe I think you are a great man, and lesser men should not drag your name through the muck while you are doing the right thing.”

I shrug. I grew up in a democracy and spent the better part of my life with internet access. I’ve seen people drag plenty of real saints through cesspools, what could a rural town possibly do? Say, ‘poop’?

“That’s their right. I’m dragging their children to war. Some of them might die, some may return eyeless, armless, or legless. They have every reason to loathe me, even though I wish to keep minimal casualties.”

She furrows her brows in confusion and opens her mouth to say something, but a knock comes from the door.

“My Lady,” Varren says. “We are ready. We packed all the goods and are ready to march.”

Over the course of five hours, we bought the slaves willing to follow us, negotiated the price for food, footwear, and clothes for our followers. We equipped them with swords and leather armors confiscated from the viscount’s mansion and mail taken from the guards, but we left the details of getting everyone ready to the seven veterans who joined us. Ron, Varren, Filthy Three, more widely known as Jude, and four vets from The Rickety Stool, Garny, Bibby, Krid, and Schalk.

We rallied one hundred and forty men in total. Surprisingly, only fifty slaves. Twenty women decided to join us, but they aren’t a part of the armed forces. We don’t really need them right now, but cooks and seamstresses have their worth, and once soldiers start getting injured, they could nurse them. Who knows, love, families, and humans might get born because of this.

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

But even if all that comes to naught, one woman has an extremely high value. Gerta, the previous viscount’s daughter we freed from the dungeon, is with us. She’s thin and weak from her imprisonment, but she said she would pick up arms once she grows fit enough. Her mother didn’t make it, her father and brothers are dead, and she has nothing but hate left in this world.

It finally hits me that the magnitude and implications of what we are doing are colossal.

I gulp. I feel like a scammer forced into going through with what was originally just his scam. Imposter syndrome, I believe it’s called.

And I’m doing it for love. It’s a romantic thought, but deep down I’m a cynic.

She’s just a piece of ass. There are safer ways to level up, my self-doubt tells me, trying to push me into giving up, into taking the easy way out. But that’s how I originally ended up in hell. The thought crossed my mind often, ever since I increased my intellect and wisdom. Now I believe I did not end up in hell for killing people. I went there because of inaction. Because I condemned myself and the half-assed way I did things.

I shudder and tuck my happy, clucking chicken under my left arm, then grab Manuella’s hand with my right.

“Let’s go.” I grin, and she smiles back. She trusts me so much she never even asked about the chicken.

We walk together to the door, then I let go of her hand, I take Batsy, and like a true gentleman, I walk into the unknown first.

“We march to Harkgord!” I shout and half of our one hundred and sixty followers cheer.

There’s no point lying about our destination. Potential spies and snitches already know where we are heading, and they must have already set off to warn the viscount. What they don’t know is my secret plan.

Manuella and I lead the ragtag company out the western gate, down the road for Harkgord. Our plan is to conquer five towns and villages. Depending on how things work out with our first conquests, we will either use the same strategy, or prepare to assault Eaglegord, ruled by Sir Gohen the traitor.

After twenty minutes, we’re a mile away from Holgord.

“Everyone, keep walking while I explain the real plan,” Manuella says. We came up with the plan together, but I insisted she should be the one to explain it. She needs to establish herself. She needs to be the leader and the ruler in the eyes of our followers.

“We will march twenty miles a day and reach Harkgord in three days. Hopefully, there will be no fight. Tomorrow morning, General Aang will run ahead of us. He will assassinate the traitor Parren, just like Marken. Then he will rally support for our cause and wait for our arrival with the open gate and another troop ready to join us.”

I glance back and the seven vets nod. Their faces are like stone, the gesture firm and full of gratitude. The slaves also seem relieved, but the youths are disappointed. I grin, wink, and turn back.

But muttering and complaining immediately starts behind our backs.

“Shut up,” Varren growls. “You will thank Sir Aang one day, when you wise up.”

We walk until sundown. We don’t have camping gear, but we light four large fires and cook potage with meat, grain, and vegetables. The mill slaves took turns carrying the heavy cauldrons, and I can already see the first problem with campaigning.

It’s like Manuella had said, the logistics of it are horrible.

“Women who sew, please gather round, I would like to ask you to make some things.”

I explain pockets and backpacks to the thirteen of them. We have ample thread, and we are carrying spare cloth. Not much, but enough for a bunch of experimental pockets. I donate the new tunic I bought to replace the slashed and bloodied one I wore yesterday, and explain where I want pockets, how big and how sturdy they should be.

They stare at my muscular figure, the scars and the freshly bandaged wounds on my shoulder and side. I ignore them and go gather the soldiers.

“Some of you already know this, but I need to say it for everyone’s benefit,” I say, pointing at the scars. “These look cool. They make me look dangerous. They look like this when they are young and green, before they turn ripe.” I point at the bandages, then tap my temple thrice.

“I got them because I’m dumb and bad at fighting. If you are smart and good at fighting, you don’t get wounded. You don’t risk dying like an idiot. I hope you guys are smarter than me.” The vets nod with crossed arms, the greenhorns stare without understanding what I’m getting at.

“If they don’t get it ‘till morning,” I address the vets, “Demonstrate it tomorrow evening unarmed. They have to understand, otherwise they will die.”

The vets nod with steely gazes and ugly smiles.

“Ron, may I have my chicken back?”

The soldier hands me back my chicken. I tie its legs and head for Manuella.

“My Noble Lady,” I call and she turns, nearly tripping from shock. “If you don’t mind, I need half an hour of your time while the rest of the company prepares dinner.”

Suddenly everyone is busy, several men dragging away the denser ones to open space for us.

“I have protected you and done what we agreed. My bodyguard duty is over. Do you agree?”

She gulps, I can see the confusion in her eyes and her breathing quickens. “Yes?”

I check the screen, and just as expected Select Principal shows none.

“In that case, I propose a new contract,” I whisper, holding back a smile as her face brightens. “If you promise to kiss me on the cheek, I will protect this chicken from all harm tonight.”

Her jaw goes slack. “What?”

“Indulge me, please.”

“Fine, I promise.” She bites her lip, uncertain, yet she trusts me.

Select Principal turns selected.

“Thank you.” I smile. “Ron! I need you to lend your sword to our Noble Lady!”

Ron trots over and hands his sword to one very confused Manuella, then trots away.

She gives me a ‘what now?’ look.

“Kill the chicken with the sword.”

She keeps staring.

“Come on, it’s not that hard! Swing the sword and kill it.”

An odd game starts. She swings the sword at the chicken, I block with Batsy whenever I feel the phantom sensation from my principal being in danger, which is about forty percent of the time. Meanwhile, the chicken screeches in distress and flaps its wings, but can’t move because of its bindings.

Two minutes pass. No matter how much Manuella tries, she can’t hit a vital. No matter how hard I try, I can’t really sense the type of attack and the direction from which the blow will come. All I know is where it will land.

I thought you could hit it once.

“Pardon my insult, but you need to practice more,” I finally say when she starts sweating. “It’s important for your self defense. Ron, come here and show our Noble Lady how it’s done.”

The vet is beaming with pride. He strikes a heroic pose, swings once, and I barely block his sword before it beheads the prone chicken.

[You have leveled up.

Select a skill within sixty seconds or a random one will be assigned to you.

Initial Emergency Treatment - You are able to treat wounds.

Burst of Speed - You are able to run twice as fast for a short period of time depending on your physique.]