Chapter 18: George the Artsy Youth

After slamming the door shut with a satisfying bang, Gima gave it a defiant middle finger and stomped down the stairs with purpose.

A strange thought suddenly occurred to her. Why am I so damn angry?

Is George the only man in the world? Do I absolutely have to suck on his personal supply of lust? What a joke! The only reason I targeted him before was because we were in the Holy Sanctuary and he was the only viable option. Now that we’re out in the real world, men are a dime a dozen.

It’s a pity, really. A certain impotent virgin won’t have the profound honor of being the stepping stone for my glorious return to power. There’s a whole buffet of stepping stones right downstairs.

Maybe by the time I’m strong enough for my grand revenge, he’ll still be a virgin. I’ll tie a female goblin to his bedpost and let him finally end his pathetic, miserable virgin life. Hehe.

Gima was deeply moved by her own profound, humanitarian spirit. Lost in these charitable thoughts, she reached the bottom of the stairs.

A wall of noise immediately crashed over her. The tavern was at its liveliest in the evening. At every table, sweaty adventurers were loudly boasting, trying to inflate their goblin-slaying records into epic tales of dragon-slaying glory. They competed to see who could shout the loudest, glaring at the neighboring tables. They slammed their mugs down with thunderous force, trying to drown out the competition's bullshit with sheer volume.

With a triumphant roar, a Gwent card was slammed onto a table by a gambler. "I win! I win!" the red-faced man screamed, his eyes bloodshot with greed.

The noise was as loud as having rock music blasting at full volume directly into a pair of headphones. Gima rubbed her ears, frowning as her golden eyes scanned the room, searching for her prey.

There was absolutely no need to search. The adventurers were mostly men, all in their prime age of aggression and excitement, their base desires easily stirred by a little cheap ale.

The fat tarven keeper carried a tray of mead and waddled into the throng of tables. Gima watched with her own eyes as, in just one trip through the crowd, the tarven keeper’s barrel-like rear end was groped no fewer than seven times, even though her apron was as dirty as a well-used dishrag.

Gima swallowed hard, her resolve wavering. But the all-consuming pursuit of power quickly won out. She moved closer to the tables. A shirtless, brawny half-orc immediately noticed her.

His leering eyes roamed up and down Gima’s little face, and a grin full of yellowed teeth spread across his brutish features. He raised a full mug of mead, tilted his head back, and poured it into his mouth. The pale yellow, urine-like liquid streamed down the corners of his mouth and onto his grimy, food-stained brigandine armor. It looked as though ale, sweat, dust, and blood had all contributed generously to the thick, protective layer of filth on his body. And he, horrifyingly, was one of the more hygienic-looking ones in the crowd.

THUD!

The half-orc slammed his wooden mug on the table, pointed a grimy finger at Gima, revealing a patch of greasy black armpit hair, and laughed. “Hey! Little girl! Come over here. Uncle wants to tell you a story.”

Gima felt as if a wad of sweaty, unwashed armpit hair had been stuffed directly into her mouth. She didn't move an inch.

The other adventurers heard the half-orc’s booming voice and all turned to look. Their eyes landed on her, and a few lewd whistles echoed through the tavern. The half-orc’s companion slapped him on the shoulder. “You beast! Look, you’ve scared the little girl! Be careful her daddy doesn’t come over here and spank you.”

“What do you mean, scared?” the half-orc bellowed. “She’s just stunned by my powerful, manly aura! Can’t you see the look of pure admiration on her face?”

Calm down, Gima. Just make a few slightly suggestive moves. You won’t even have to touch these greasy, low-level cannon fodder. For the sake of becoming stronger, this small, disgusting sacrifice is worth it.

Just overcome this ridiculous mental block. I’ve already sold my lewd service to the damn virgin. They’re all just men, right? How different can they be?

Gima took a deep breath. The foul, choking smell of the tavern almost made her turn and flee. She suppressed the urge, put on a sweet, saccharine smile, tucked a strand of inky black hair behind her ear, and said:

“Mister weirdo, you look…”

She didn’t even get to finish her sentence. The sound of her childish, feminine voice fell upon the ears of the assembled men, and many of them had an immediate, powerful, and very visceral reaction. A pungent, stinging wave of lust rushed towards her, enveloping her completely.

If George’s lust was a fine, light wine with a faint, elegant peach fragrance, then this was like cheap, fiery liquor mixed with a puddle of thick, yellow urine and left to ferment in a hot sewer for a week.

Gima took one careful, tentative sniff, and the intense, foul flavor of the lust stung her tongue. She was so horrified that she immediately shut down her succubus senses, otherwise she would have vomited on the spot. Naturally, she couldn't get out the rest of her sentence.

She had never expected that her every move, her innate, passive charm, would have such a powerful and disgusting effect on a group of men with testosterone practically leaking from their pores.

Gima took a few steps back. Just then, her stomach started to ache with hunger again, the gnawing sensation tearing at her nerves.

Hungry! So hungry she heard another, darker voice in her head. Eat it! Eat it! You had a similar reaction when you started eating George’s lust. It’s all shit anyway. If you eat this, not only will you be full, but you’ll also level up! Do it!

No, no, this is different! Gima vehemently denied. Even if it’s all shit, I’m used to the virgin’s premium, artisanal shit. I won’t disgust myself further by trying to get used to this mass-produced, gutter-grade shit!

She immediately turned and ran, fleeing towards the stairs as a wave of boisterous, mocking laughter followed her.

After reaching the staircase, she leaned against the wall, panting. She stared at the door to her room with a complicated expression and took a deep, shuddering breath.

It’s better to just deal with the virgin. He was portable, always available for a meal, and his flavor was good. And later, for her glorious revenge, she could reveal her true Demon Lord form to him and tell him that it was thanks to his lust that she was able to regain her strength. Imagine how shocked the virgin would be! He might even commit seppuku out of sheer, soul-crushing regret.

Having mentally prepared herself, Gima calmed down and began to think about how to target George specifically.

For a great, righteous, and proper bad guy like George, carnal desire probably didn't have much of an appeal. Otherwise, he wouldn't still be a virgin. (For Gima, anyone who harmed her in any way was, by definition, a bad guy). From his stubborn insistence on "redeeming" her, she could see that he pursued a certain kind of moral, and perhaps intellectual, satisfaction. For him, moral and intellectual satisfaction was the foreplay. Without the proper foreplay, he wouldn't have a reaction.

Hehe. I can work with that. I’ll satisfy his high-minded moral cravings.

An idea came to Gima. She opened the door.

In the room, George was kneeling, his hands clasped under his chin, meditating with his eyes closed. It might have been a trick of the light, but a faint, holy aura seemed to surround him.

He heard the door close, opened his eyes, and asked, “Gima, you’re back so soon? I thought you were going to have some fun downstairs.”

Gima walked over, full of a newfound confidence. “I had a question just now, about our little disagreement this morning.”

With that, she sat on the bed. She saw an open book lying there and glanced at it curiously. The page was filled with the words “spanking,” written over and over again. She couldn't help but clench her butt cheeks.

George smiled gently. “Don’t worry, I’ll be happy to clear up your confusion. I definitely won’t spank you.”

Does this Demon Lord look like someone who’s afraid of a sore butt?

“I’m not a child anymore,” Gima said, casually closing the book and tossing it aside. She then asked with an air of deep philosophical inquiry:

“Can goodness and justice really determine victory?”

“No,” George said simply. “Usually, strength is what determines victory.”

This answer was a bit unexpected. “Then why still choose to be good?” she asked, genuinely curious. “The adventurers we met this morning were so greedy they wanted to rob us. Because you were good, you spared their lives. Not only were they completely ungrateful, but they also framed us and almost ruined our mission.”

“And that disgusting overseer! He knocked the beef jerky we gave away into a filthy mud puddle! You could have easily taught him what respect means under the pretext of a formal duel.” Actually, it would have been better to just kill him. A clueless, ungrateful cannon fodder like that deserves to die.

“But because you were good, you gave him a gold coin instead. He was grinning from ear to ear. I bet in his heart he was laughing, thinking he’d met a real sucker today, someone who would pay him even after being insulted.”

George was quiet for a moment. He didn’t answer her question directly, but instead asked one of his own.

“Gima, would you rather be friends with someone like me, or with someone like a Demon Lord?”

“You, of course.”

Gima’s answer was unusually, and surprisingly, sincere. As a former Demon Lord, when she interacted with other Demon Lords, she had to spend a great deal of energy guarding against them and… well, plotting against them. A tool as useful and endearingly stupid as George was a true treasure of the mortal realm.

“That is my answer as well,” George said with a gentle smile. “I choose to be good because I wish to be friends with people who have goodness and justice in their hearts.”

“I see. Thank you.”

Gima’s understanding of George deepened. Unlike those idiots who could only shout high-and-mighty, empty slogans, this guy was an idiot with a firm, unshakeable set of values. If you can’t do whatever you want and your thoughts aren’t free, what’s the point of becoming strong?

Although she disdained his philosophy in her heart, she put on an expression of profound, sudden realization.

George nodded in satisfaction. “I’m glad to have met you.”

“I’m very glad too,” Gima said with a radiant smile.

Now that the intellectual foreplay is done, let’s get to the main event. She picked up a book and began to ask a barrage of deep, probing questions.

“George, the protagonist in this story disregards his own family to help the poor. Why is it written like that? Isn’t that irresponsible?”

“Why does the Lord of the Morning encourage inexperienced youths to go out and illuminate the dark, dangerous world?”

…

They sat together on the bed.

Gima’s questions came one after another. George patiently, and quite thoroughly, answered each one. Gima naturally leaned against George’s sturdy body, the book open on his lap, her pale white tail swinging back and forth with feigned boredom.

She nitpicked her way through the book with the attitude of a professional scholar, finding a mountain of questions, all of which George managed to answer without breaking a sweat.

“Any more questions?” George asked, showing no signs of fatigue whatsoever.

Her mouth dry from all the talking, Gima smiled and asked, “Uncle George, just how many dragon girlfriends does the Saint Dragon’s Envoy have in his harem?”

George knocked Gima on the forehead. “Gima, I told you not to rummage through my private books.”

The Dragon’s Envoy was a harem smut novel Gima had found hidden in George’s room.

Gima clutched her head, rolled around on the bed dramatically, and said cheerfully, “Nope, no more! All my questions have been answered!”

With that, she reactivated her succubus senses.

We spent so long having an intellectual and artistic exchange. The foreplay is definitely done. There must be a huge amount of lust now, right?

Filled with hope, Gima took a gentle, expectant sniff.

In the air, there was only a peach fragrance as faint and disappointing as water. This little bit of lust was barely enough to soothe her rumbling stomach.

YOU DAMN VIRGIN!

Hours of arduous, painstaking intellectual lewd-selling had resulted in absolutely nothing! Gima was so angry she almost exploded. Her tail whipped out forcefully in a fit of rage, and the tip accidentally hooked onto a wooden cup full of milk.

The cup flew towards Gima, and the white milk splashed all over her.

“Aah!”

She cried out as the cup fell to the floor with a clatter. The milky white liquid ran down her face, and the wet fabric of her tank top clung to her flat chest. Milk dripped from the tip of her upturned tail.

George froze for a moment, his eyes wide. Then, a rich, powerful peach fragrance emanated from his entire body. Gima took one deep, satisfying breath and felt completely full.

THIS DAMN VIRGIN! When all is said and done, you still just like cheap, low-brow, vulgar fan service! You horny, dirty, despicable idiot! If I had known, I would have just poured the damn milk on my tail to begin with!

Gima ground her molars in a silent, seething fury.

“Ahem. I’ll go get someone to bring a towel,” George said, his voice suddenly hoarse. He stood up quickly and practically fled the room.

A moment later, he returned with a towel and a large jug of steaming hot water.

Gima’s mood had already stabilized somewhat. She took the hot water George handed her, a look of deep confusion on her face. “What’s this for?”

“Drink more hot water,” George said with sincere concern. “You’ll feel better.”

Gima clenched her fists, almost smashing the heavy jug on the floor.

After wiping away the white, unharmonious liquid and tidying herself up, Gima put her hooded robe back on, covering her horns, wings, and tail. She strode out of the room, saying, “I’m going out to ask for directions to Salem City.”

BANG!

The door was slammed shut forcefully behind her.

“Even stranger. Could it be that she’s really not on her period?”

George picked up 21 Days to a Well-Behaved Child: From Beginner to Expert and stared thoughtfully at the page filled with the words “spanking.”

Meanwhile, Gima had gone downstairs. Standing in an inconspicuous corner, she activated her “Eyes of Desire.” Like a falcon scanning its hunting ground, her gaze swept over the crowded tavern, preparing to find a suitable, and hopefully less disgusting, experience farm.

“Let’s see who the lucky adventurer is tonight,” she muttered to herself, a small, predatory smile curving her lips.