[A/N: (*cough cough*) smutty content in the second half of the Chapter]
In the darkness of the night, a shadow blended seamlessly into the void, its gaze fixed on a lone figure sitting upright on the only bed in the dim room.
"My core skill is called [Hand of the Forge]," the figure began, voice groggy and distant. "It’s an active, somewhat berserk skill... It activates on its own whenever I’m inside a forge."
"Why is no one allowed to the surface?" the shadow asked.
"Because Master said so," came the immediate, matter-of-fact reply.
Another silence—tense and unbroken.
"Who is the dead boy?"
This time, the figure didn’t answer right away. The delay dragged long enough to make the shadow question if something had gone wrong. But eventually, the reply came—quiet, hollow.
The silence that followed was longer. Heavier.
Then the shadow spoke again. "Something’s been off with the atmosphere recently. A surge in energy. What is it?"
"I don’t know what the phenomenon is exactly," the figure admitted, his tone laced with uncertainty. "But according to Master, legends say there have been similar events in the distant past."
The shadow leaned in, voice sharpened with interest. "What else do you know?"
"They call it Ascension."
"Yes. It causes some people to transform into abominations. And there’s almost no way to stop it."
"But Ascension... isn’t that how people evolve—move up through ranks of power? How can that be turning people into monsters?"
"That’s all I know," the figure said quickly, almost eagerly—as if unloading a weight he’d been forced to carry for too long. "And... it affects me too."
A long, suffocating silence fell again, stretching until the night surrendered to the first pale hints of dawn.
By then, the shadow was gone.
Elsewhere, while secrets stirred in the dark, desire forged its own truth between two hearts.
Not every night was quiet — and not in every night, did people sleep.
Within a chamber draped in royal opulence and cloaked in shadows, a different kind of rhythm unfolded.
Moans and muffled groans echoed through the dimly lit room, where golden ornaments and ancient sigils glowed faintly.
Two figures performed a certain kind of dance, in the darkness of the night, sweat pooling down their bodies.
They moved in synchrony — a passionate dance under the hush of midnight. Their shadows painting majestic scenes on the walls.
The woman rode him like a cowboy on horseback, her movements fluid, fervent, relentless. Sweat glistened on her bronzed skin, trickling down the curves of her back and onto the man beneath her. Her breath coming in soft, ragged moans.
Her full breasts bounced with every motion, only to be captured and worshipped by his large, calloused hands, that alternated between gentle reverence and hungry greed.
Beneath her, the man watched with glowing eyes of crimson and violet, burning with desire and ravenous hunger.
His fingers roamed her slick, trembling form, tracing every dip, rise and curve, with slow precision, sometimes gripping, sometimes stroking, smacking, squeezing, or simply holding her as if she might vanish from his grasp.
He adored her figure, as if committing every inch to memory.
Her palms pressed against his hard, muscular chest, seeking leverage or perhaps grounding herself from the waves of sensation. Her head tilted back, then forward again, as if torn between surrendering to bliss or seizing more of it.
Her cries grew louder, more fervent, as time slipped by, each movement bringing her closer to the edge. His hands explored her with practiced reverence, sliding upward until his fingers grazed her sensitive peaks, gently teasing them with a light pinch.
She gasped at the sudden attack, her eyes flying open as her body arched in response.
A shudder tore through her, and she lifted her entire body, letting out his name, in a long trembling cry. Pressure surged through her like a breaking tide, and a jet-stream of water, escaped her lower lip, like the eruption of a geyser.
She collapsed against his chest, breath ragged, lips brushing his skin as she whispered his name again, her tone softer now.
He held her close, pressing kisses to her temple, her hair, her cheek—anywhere he could reach.
And yet, they weren’t finished.
Without missing a beat, he shifted gently, reversing their positions with practiced ease, slipping back into rhythm as their bodies moved in perfect synchrony — slow, deep,before picking up the pace.
She welcomed him with arms wide and legs wrapped tight, holding him as if afraid he might disappear. He buried himself in her—body, heart, soul—losing and finding himself all at once.
Their voices blended in the quiet of the room, a shared melody of gasps, groans, and whispered names.
As the intensity built, he fought to hold back, but the fire rising within him was unstoppable. They reflected in his dual-coloured eyes, that shone with burning intent.
With one final movement, he gave in, releasing with a low, guttural sound as she cried out, clutching him tightly, and even clawing at his back, feeling the heat, pour into her.
Sapped of strength, he rolled to the side, chest heaving, then leaned over to press a tender kiss to her forehead. "Thank you," he whispered, voice rough but sincere.
She smiled tiredly in the glow of their shared warmth, curling into his side — her head on his broad chest, drawing comfort from the strength of his presence.
He wrapped his arms around her, protective and gentle, and for the first time in a long while, the weight on his soul felt a little lighter.
His heart felt a lot more free, and at the same time, laboured with a pang of guilt. Guilty that even though she was only a concubine, he had neglected her for too long. And at the same time, feeling like he had betrayed his wife.
Shaking his head, he let those thoughts vanish, embracing the fleeting peace of the moment.
Together, they drifted off, wrapped in one another, as the world outside waited for the coming dawn.