+18 Chapter 24: Dreaming

Evening.

Gima and George were in a high-end inn near the canal in the White Sand District, picking at the surprisingly decent food the inn had prepared.

This establishment catered to wealthy merchants. The facilities were excellent, and they even had dedicated servants to take care of the horses. Gima, using George’s money, had rented their best double room for a full month. The long-term rate was slightly cheaper, totaling a still-exorbitant sixty gold coins—an average of two gold coins per day.

Each room came with a personal servant—or rather, a slave. Hot water was brought up bucket by bucket and poured into a large, inviting bathtub. Gima happily washed herself clean from head to toe, casting her worries aside, planning to go to bed early and not carry her fatigue, or the tavern's stench, into the next day.

But George, the fun police, stopped her. “You haven’t finished your memorization and copying for today.”

Gima sighed with the dramatic flair of a dying opera singer and sat down at the desk to once again battle the great literary evil known as The Sermon Guide, which was filled with page after page of mind-numbing platitudes about being a good person. Before long, under the relentless onslaught of the boring text, Gima wilted like a frostbitten eggplant, slumping over the desk, her body crooked, her little wings twitching in protest, the book propped up by her hands.

Thump.

A sharp pain on Gima’s head made her look up. She saw George, his hand suspended in the air. “Sit up straight,” he said, his voice devoid of any humor. “Otherwise, it will be bad for your physical development.”

Gima put down the book, clutched her head with both hands as if she’d suffered a grievous wound, and whined, “I’m just a kid! Making me sit still all day goes against my playful nature!”

With that, Gima took a good look at George. He had finally taken off his helmet and armor and was wearing simple, casual clothes. His short golden hair was slightly messy, his features were surprisingly delicate, and his complexion was fair. Gima found it a little strange. In her head, she had always imagined George as a simple-minded lunk with thick, manly eyebrows and big, dumb eyes.

George’s back was ramrod straight as he sat firmly in his chair. Gima was certain he had been sitting in that exact, unnaturally perfect posture for the past hour, as if he could sit like that until the end of time. It gave one a sense of his unyielding, and frankly, quite annoying, will. Without good self-discipline, a normal person would always succumb to desire, unable to resist slumping or slouching.

George’s blue eyes were very captivating. They say the eyes are the windows to the soul, and from George’s eyes, one could see the word “FOCUS” written in giant, glowing capital letters.

Gima couldn’t help but look into his eyes. George’s gaze shifted slightly and landed on her. Gima felt as if all his attention was suddenly focused on her, creating a slight, unnerving sense of pressure. But looking at his expression, he wasn’t intentionally targeting her. He was just… focused. He poured all his attention into his gaze. Gima was suddenly, vividly reminded of half a year ago, when she had first met George and he had run her through with his sword. His eyes had been just as terrifyingly focused then.

A phantom pain flared in her chest. Gima looked away, forced herself to sit up straight, and replied meekly, “Mmhmm.”

A piece of white paper covered in neat, precise handwriting was placed in front of her. Gima read the title aloud:

“George and Gima’s Good Behavior Agreement? Lying and deceiving results in a deduction of five points? Ten points or more gets you five spankings on the bottom. Twenty points or more, pants down, ten spankings on the bottom? Why is it all about spanking?!”

“The buttocks have the most fat,” George explained with the seriousness of a seasoned scholar. “It won’t cause any serious, long-term injury.”

“No, no, that’s not what I mean. George, do you… like spanking?”

Gima tilted her head, looking George up and down, deeply suspecting that the seemingly prim and proper Paladin was secretly an incorrigible, butt-obsessed pervert.

“The book says this is the best method of punishment.”

“The author of that book must be a massive butt-con.”

“A butt-con?”

“Can I refuse to sign?” Gima asked, her voice full of dread. “It’s all about spanking my poor, innocent butt.”

George pointed to the rewards section. “If your score exceeds twenty points, you can make one request, and I will do my best to fulfill it. For example, a new doll, a trip to the circus, or perhaps…”

Give me back my harem, offer me your childhood sweetheart on a silver platter, and then kill yourself, how about that? Who the hell wants those things? I’m not a little girl!

“Uh-huh,” Gima replied lazily.

“Is the reward not good enough?”

“It’s boring.”

Gima muttered, then suddenly remembered something. Wait a minute… isn’t this a golden opportunity to get George out of the way?

“Any request is possible?”

“No, it must be reasonable and within the bounds of morality.”

“What if I want a day of freedom?”

“Freedom?”

“If, for one day, I am not supervised and can take a small boat and go wherever I want in Salem City, I would be very, very happy.” I miss the special, high-class services of Salem City.

“It’s too dangerous for you to be alone. Salem City is a slave state. If you are discovered, the consequences would be unimaginable. I will stay by your side. You can go wherever you want.”

“Oh,” Gima replied listlessly. “If I don’t sign, will I be spanked?”

“I can grant your request for a ‘day of freedom’,” George conceded, “but only after I can absolutely ensure your safety.”

“My request for freedom?”

“Yes.”

A heartfelt, genuine smile appeared on Gima’s face. “Thank you, George! You’re the best!”

With that, she eagerly signed her crooked, childish name on the agreement, not even bothering to read the fine print. As long as she had a chance to act alone, that was all that mattered. As for the point deductions, those were for little brats. Having lived three lives, Gima considered herself far too mature and clever to possibly lose enough points to get a spanking.

Two hours later.

“Fifteen pages memorized and copied. Two pages wrong. Minus two points.”

“Drew a large, anatomically correct turtle in the margins of the holy book. Minus two points.” 

“Lied to the innkeeper, asking for… erotic services. Minus five points.” 

“Total: negative nine points.”

George diligently wrote in his little notebook.

Gima knelt on the bed, her head bowed in shame. “I know I was wrong,” she said in a small, pathetic voice.

“You’re one point away from a spanking,” George said, closing the notebook with a serious, final expression. “You’re tired. Go to sleep.”

The alchemy lamp was extinguished.

The thick curtains were drawn. The gentle chirping of crickets and the soft sound of waves lapping against the shore formed a soothing, natural lullaby.

Gima lay alone in the large, comfortable double bed. Her mind finally relaxed, thinking she could at last rest, and she quickly fell into a deep, heavy sleep.

She dreamed of the past. She dreamed she was back in the demon realm, a whirlwind of destruction, stepping on the corpses of her enemies, reveling in the glorious slaughter. Treasures and gold coins flowed past her knees like a river of wealth.

She dreamed she was conquering beautiful women from all over the world. Women of all kinds: a fair-skinned, long-legged demoness with a wicked smile; a dark elf as sleek and dangerous as a black panther; a proud female knight in shining armor; a graceful high elf with silver hair; a magnificent silver dragon princess in human form… willing, unwilling, conquered. So many, many beautiful women.

She felt incredibly, profoundly happy. She dreamed of her own private harem. Surrounded by her maids, she rolled with them on the soft grass. Shapely thighs, absolute territories, half-exposed, heaving breasts, eyes rolling back in ecstasy, taut, trembling calves. Laughter and suppressed, desperate moans coexisted in a perfect symphony of pleasure.

She was at the absolute pinnacle of happiness.

Sex was never just a simple piston movement.

Sex represented conquest. Just as, historically, the Romans had fucked their enemies in the ass after a great victory.

Kima loved to see the expressions on his maids’ faces when, forced by their contracts, they had to submit to his desires. They had been deadly assassins; the family members of his sworn enemies; proud, untouchable noble ladies. Each one symbolized a glorious conquest.

Sex represented the hunt. Every time Kima successfully hunted a beautiful woman who fit his specific preferences, he felt the dark shadows of his past life recede. In comparison, his past life was utterly, hopelessly pathetic. He had been the prey of a two-faced bitch, hunted, squeezed dry, left penniless, and had finally jumped from a rooftop, shattering his own body on the cold pavement below.

Maids, come. Serve me. I don’t care if you love me. I only know that you will please me with your bodies. Yes, just like that. It feels so good…

In the dream, Kima had one woman in his left arm, another in her right. A proud, black-stockinged maid was crawling towards him on all fours.

Kima had reached the peak of happiness.

Suddenly, a shining sword struck at his chest, tearing everything apart along its path. The graceful, beautiful maids all disappeared. The harem shattered. A massive greatsword pierced his chest.

The scene froze on the face of the sword’s owner. He was wearing that stupid bucket-helm. Behind it, a pair of cold, blue eyes shone with a merciless light, the gaze focused into a single, deadly beam that pierced Kima to his very soul.

The world turned a bloody red. A sharp, agonizing pain shot through his chest.

Kima fell backwards, into a bottomless, dark pit. The blue eyes, filled with a righteous, unyielding hatred, stood at the edge of the pit, watching him fall.

Falling, falling. The feeling of weightlessness was just like when he had fallen from the building in his past life. He flailed his limbs, not wanting to experience the failure of his past life again, but he fell helplessly into the darkness, his back slamming into the hard, unforgiving concrete.

His body shattered. Intense pain spread to his limbs. Black blood splattered into the sky, then fell back down, drowning him.

He dreamed again of the day he had committed suicide. He was standing on the rooftop, on the phone. “My parents are seriously ill. Please, just give me back some of the money. I really don’t have any money left.”

A contemptuous snort came from the other end of the phone.

“Please, we used to…”

A cold, mocking laugh. “Haha.”

“I’m going to jump now—”

“Then jump.”

He threw the phone with the cracked screen aside and leaped towards the white concrete below.

Ever since his “career” had taken off in this new world, he hadn’t had this nightmare in a long, long time. Now, it had found him again. He struggled desperately, trying to break free, but the nightmare was like a spider’s web, holding him fast, suffocating him.

In a blur, footsteps approached.

Gima finally woke with a start. She instinctively wanted to open her eyes, but then she remembered: she was Gima now, a girl, hiding her true identity, sleeping in the same room as her mortal enemy.

She opened her eyes just a crack and saw George walk to the bedside. He picked up the thin blanket that had fallen to the floor and carefully, gently covered her with it. He even used a towel to wipe the cold sweat from her forehead.

After doing all this, George turned around, lay down on the rug beside the bed, his back to Gima.

Gima opened her golden eyes, which glowed faintly in the darkness. Although she was awake, the raw pain from the nightmare lingered. Her chest ached faintly, her body felt as if it had been torn apart. Her spine hurt, her limbs hurt.

The phantom pain was so real that she couldn’t help but reach into her clothes. She felt her flat chest, her fingers pressing against her ribs, just to confirm that there was no terrifying, gaping wound there.

George’s back was as solid and unmoving as a wall. Gima looked at him, a pure, venomous malice glinting in her eyes.

She had originally thought she had finally, completely escaped the failure of her past life. In this new world, she had been all-powerful, had conquered many beauties, and had lived a blissful, decadent life. But George had suddenly appeared and run her through with his sword.

It hurt just as much as falling from the building in her past life!

Gima gritted her teeth. She was afraid of waking George, so she could only bite down carefully, her molars slowly, silently grinding against each other. Her gaze became a sharp, poisoned knife, stabbing at George’s back. She wanted to dismember him, to cut him into pieces of flesh and bone. She would personally chew every single piece of his bloody, heroic flesh.

I must have my revenge soon. Revenge…

The thought echoed in her mind as Gima drifted off into a troubled, hateful sleep.