Chapter 55: Overflowing with Passion

Morning sunlight, filtered through the city’s haze, tickled Gima’s ears. She blinked awake, feeling incredible—utterly, spectacularly refreshed.

It was the kind of post-coital bliss she used to feel after an all-night marathon with the twin maids and the other maid sisters, followed by a solid ten hours of dreamless sleep. Pure, top-tier rejuvenation.

Gima sat up, the thin blanket slithering down her smooth shoulders and pooling at her waist, revealing… everything. Her head whipped around. George was still a motionless lump on the floor. She let out a relieved sigh.

Phew. The kid didn't get a free show.

“You’re awake?” George’s voice rumbled, deep and sleep-gravelly.

“I’m not wearing any clothes.” .

“There are clothes folded at the head of the bed. See if they fit.”

Ever the prude, he didn’t turn around. Gima looked down, and her eyes immediately fixed on two new, small mounds on her chest. Her feelings were… complex. She was torn between celebrating her upgrade from “fried eggs” to “perfectly poached eggs,” and collapsing in a heap to wail, “But I’m a man! Waaah!”

She gave them an experimental poke. Not much of a feel.

Her whole body had changed though. Her waist was impossibly slender, and her legs were long, lean, and corded with the muscle of a gymnast. Not an ounce of fat.

She stood, unable to resist running a hand down her own thigh. Bending over, her fingers easily brushed past her toes. Intrigued by her newfound flexibility, she sat down on the floor and slid into a perfect split without even trying.

Giddy with delight, she hopped up, ready to attempt a backflip—

“Gima. Stop playing.”

“Oh.”

She grabbed her old clothes. The panties felt like a medieval torture device. Useless. In fact, everything that had once been form-fitting was now comically small. The only garment that wasn't indecent was the hooded cloak.

She peered into the mirror. The girl staring back was a good half-head taller than yesterday’s model. She’d gone from elementary schooler to a well-developed eighth-grader overnight. With a sigh, she snatched a bath towel, knotted it around her chest, and threw the cloak on over it.

“Okay, I’m decent.”

George turned. The cloak offered a decent amount of coverage, provided she stood perfectly still.

“I suppose that will have to do,” he said. “You’re growing too fast.”

“My wings are getting cramped in here, don’t even get me started on my tail,” she grumbled, her tail-tip flicking against her newly plump toes.

“After my morning prayers, we’ll buy you new clothes.”

“Fine.”

George turned his back again and set up his divine statuette for his unshakable morning ritual.

Bored, Gima eyed a bedpost. The top was barely wide enough for the ball of her foot, but a giddy impulse told her she could nail the landing. So she did. A light spring, and she landed silently on the post, perfectly balanced.

With another push, she leaped to the opposite post, her cloak fluttering open to flash the lamb-like curve of her back and bottom. For her grand finale, she launched herself from the foot of the bed, did two full spins in mid-air, and landed flawlessly on the headboard post.

She struck a dramatic, eagle-like pose, tail held high. The bed groaned and shuddered, but she was rock solid.

“Gima,” George’s voice was strained. “Your… towel…”

She looked down. The pristine white towel was lying in a heap on the mattress below. Her cloak was doing a very poor job of concealing her long, bare legs.

“Oh.”

She hopped down and bent over to retrieve it, completely oblivious to the five-star, all-access view she was providing.

George sighed heavily and turned his head away again as she rustled around.

“George, I’m more agile than a monkey!” she chirped happily.

“The bed is going to collapse.”

“Oh.”

Gima took a deep, satisfied breath, the air thick with the scent of peach blossoms. A faint blush dusted her cheeks.

It’s just too easy. Play the part of the ‘innocent, clueless child,’ and the energy practically harvests itself. Heh. Men.

She re-tied the towel, feeling smug.

Just then, a knock.

The inn servant and a skinny colleague of his stood outside, having just heard the suspicious creaking of the bed.

The skinny one gave his friend a knowing, lewd grin. “That girl’s so young, but already so… active,” he whispered. “Imagine what she’ll be like when she’s older—”

“Shut your mouth,” the main servant snapped. “Don’t spread filth you can’t prove.”

The skinny one looked at him, baffled. If he remembered correctly, just a few days ago, this same guy was the one spreading rumors that the knight kept the girl named Gima locked in the room, doing unspeakable things to her all day, hence all the crying. 

And he was acting very strange today. He was wearing his best black suit, an outfit he usually kept locked away and refused to even let anyone borrow. This morning, he even insisted they serve the knight together.

“What’s with you today?”

“Nothing.” The servant recalled the dream and nervously straightened his collar. “Just… try not to laugh, okay?”

“Please. Nothing makes me laugh.”

With that, the skinny servant knocked. “Sir, your breakfast has arrived.”

Hearing the knock, Gima immediately sat primly on the bed, her hands folded in her lap, showing nothing but her ankles. She remembered bits and pieces from the dream world last night. A key discovery: using her Nightmare abilities only consumed her own mana, unlike her Apostle of Desire powers, which required harvesting lust. Harvesting still helped her recover mana faster, though.

“Coming.”

George walked to the door. Gima hopped off the bed and padded silently across the carpet behind him.

The door opened, revealing the two men. The moment Gima saw the main servant, she knew he’d had the honor of participating in last night’s “human experiment.”

The servant’s face was a little red. He looked at George with a deeply conflicted expression.

Okay, what was the prank again? I can’t quite remember. But I’m a mature, rational Demon Lord. I’m sure it was very subtle and not at all ridiculous.

Gima stared at the servant, waiting. She needed feedback from her test subject to determine the advancement requirements for her Nightmare class.

The servant handed the tray to George. “Sir, thank you for your… tolerance.”

George nodded, taking the tray. “I believe kindness begets kindness.”

The servant suddenly took a ragged breath. Then, in a single, fluid motion, he ripped off his shirt, dropped to the floor, and lunged. George reacted instantly, his leg coming up for a kick before he checked himself—the man was unarmed, and a full-plate boot could be lethal. He stepped back instead.

The servant dove like a starving wolf, wrapping both arms around George’s greave. He puckered his lips and planted a loud, wet, resounding SMOOCH right on the steel toe-cap.

George froze. The skinny servant’s jaw dropped. “Are you… gay?”

Oh, gods, what did I DO last night?! Gima clapped her hands over her face, her skin burning with a level of secondhand embarrassment she hadn’t thought possible.

“What are you DOING?!” George roared.

“You wouldn’t understand!” the servant scrambled up, his face the color of a ripe tomato. He bowed stiffly to George, then to Gima. “My apologies for the disturbance!”

He snatched his shirt and dragged his stunned colleague out of the room.

The moment the door clicked shut, a triumphant grin erupted on the servant’s face.

Hahaha, didn’t see that coming, did you, Sir Knight? I have stolen your glorious destiny! I am now the Son of the Sea! All thanks to the Sea God!

He pumped his fist in excitement.

“What the hell was that?” his friend asked,  looking at him as if he’d grown a second head.

“Just pretend I’m insane.” A look of pity crossed the servant’s face. He suddenly felt a profound sense of superiority. He was in on the secret. He was destined for greatness.

“Ahahahaha!” the skinny servant suddenly howled with laughter. “I’m sorry, I… I know it’s not funny, but… I just… BWAHAHAHA!”

The sound of hysterical laughter echoed through the hall.

George turned to Gima. “Is there some kind of practical joke holiday in Salem City that I’m not aware of?”

“No idea.”

“Then why are you covering your face?”

“Because I’m cringing so hard my soul is trying to leave my body.” Goosebumps prickled her legs. She dropped her hands and took a deep breath. “Can we please go buy clothes now?”

“Yes,” George agreed. “And I think we should change inns.”

After breakfast, they headed to the same dress shop.

On the way, the memories of last night’s dream came flooding back to Gima in horrifying detail.

She had terrified the servant until he was a quivering mess. Then, on a whim, she had spun a ludicrous tale about how George was secretly the Son of the Sea, his blue eyes containing the ocean, the protagonist of this era. She’d told the servant that if he maintained a respectful facade, he could steal George’s destiny through a secret ritual. The ritual required him to, in one surprising motion, kiss George’s toe—audibly—with a friend as a witness.

The clarity of the memory was so mortifying she wanted to cover her face again.

But the experience was informative. As a Nightmare, she now knew her dream memories would fade upon waking, only to return later. Having received her… embarrassing feedback, Gima felt she had taken a small step forward in mastering her powers.

And her powers had grown. She checked her status.

“DM: You have advanced a minuscule amount on your path of progression.”

Well, it wasn’t a bad start for her first try.

At the shop, the owner mistook the newly-matured Gima for her own older sister, and gushed about George’s incredible charm in snagging “a pair of lovely sisters.” George’s attempt to correct her was steamrolled by Gima happily playing along.

She caught a familiar whiff of peach blossoms.

Heh. Men.

The next day, the day of Liz’s banquet, finally dawned.

They both knew it was a setup, designed to “get even” and humiliate George.

George, however, was dressed to kill in an impeccable suit. With Gima in a simple white dress, he looked like a prince on his snow-white celestial warhorse. They turned heads all the way to the Noble District, where the guards waved them through without a word.

There was just one small hitch.

An attendant bowed. “Sir, the banquet is on the boat just ahead. It’s about to begin. Enjoy.”

George stood at the docks, staring at the lively flower boat in the distance. After a long silence, he said, “She didn’t say it was on a boat.”

“Oh? You don’t have a vessel, sir? What a coincidence. There happens to be a boatman right here.”

Following the attendant’s gesture, the two of them—and the horse—saw a decaying, tar-black skiff bobbing in a corner of the docks. The boatman, dressed in rags and covered in grime, gave them a wide grin, revealing a full set of shockingly white teeth.