You ever walk into a place and immediately feel like you shouldn't be there? Not in the "wrong room at a wedding" way, but in the "I've trespassed into an ancient, slippery, sacred bathhouse of sin" kind of way?
That was the Chamber of Lubrication.
It wasn't even subtle. The floor was wet—always wet. The walls glistened like they'd been licked by the gods. Every torch in the chamber flickered against stone engraved with explicit runes so old they predated browsers. The air was thick with incense, sweat, and a kind of reverent shame that clung to my clothes like static.
I feel like I need a towel just to walk through the threshold. And maybe therapy.
There were others here.
Dozens.
Maybe more.
Each cloaked figure sat on a polished mat of obsidian, spaced evenly apart across the vast chamber floor. They sat with legs crossed and eyes closed, hands hovering in the air just above… well, the region of spiritual tension.
No one made a sound.
Except for the occasional involuntary gasp, the kind only a man deep in the Ninth Breath Cycle of Forbidden Retentioncould make.
I have officially joined a cult. No one can convince me otherwise.
At the front of the chamber stood a throne made of ancient stone bottles. Bottles that once held the forbidden oils—those sacred emulsions outlawed during the Great Ban of '89.
And atop it sat the Master.
A towering man with forearms like steel cables and a beard braided into the shape of a downward arrow. He wore no shirt. His chest bore a single tattoo: "Stamina is Salvation."
This… was Master Palmo.
He opened one eye when I approached, and for a moment I could feel him assessing me—my Shame Core, my aura, and maybe my browser history.
"You are the boy who resisted Mrs. Martinez," he said, voice like a boot scraping sandpaper. "Ben Dover."
God. Why does everyone insist on saying my name like it's a punchline?
I bowed.
"Sir. Yes. I—I edged for fourteen hours and didn't spill a drop."
The chamber let out a collective shudder. A ripple of impressed gasps. One guy fainted. Another guy's left hand twitched in sympathy.
Palmo stood.
"You are ready for the next technique."
He turned toward the center of the room, where a circular platform rose from the ground, glistening and smooth. It was etched with seven glowing runes and shaped, unfortunately, like a bottle cap.
"Step into the Ring of Moisture," he said.
There's no way these names are coincidental. Someone is doing this on purpose.
I walked forward.
My shoes squeaked slightly against the polished floor, echoing like a sin through a monastery. I could feel the air grow heavier with every step—like wading through liquid anticipation.
When I reached the center, a beam of golden shame-light enveloped me.
Palmo raised his arm.
"Begin the Form of Dual Lubrication."
Suddenly, images flooded my mind. Ancient movements. Forbidden stances. The secrets of the Ambidextrous Arts.
I dropped into the first stance instinctively—Grasp of Twin Spirits.
Both hands raised, fingers relaxed. Elbows bent outward at an uncomfortable angle. My arms trembled slightly—not from fatigue, but from the sheer embarrassment of realizing I looked like I was doing a slow-motion mime routine in a strip club.
This is it. I'm training my shame-based martial arts in front of fifty other gooners. Grandpa would be proud. Or cry. Probably both.
I exhaled.
The ground beneath me pulsed with warm energy.
And then… I felt it.
Flow.
Not blood. Not ki. Not even mana. This was different. This was shame-energy in its purest, rawest form—Goona. It surged through my wrists like molten syrup, thick with decades of guilt and focus.
Oh no. I'm starting to believe in this crap.
Palmo circled me.
"Your form is erratic. Your hands lack rhythm. Focus your breathing! Let the shame guide you!"
He clapped once, and a panel opened in the wall.
Out stepped a woman.
Tall. Blonde. Wearing a blindfold and minimal armor made entirely out of expired loyalty cards from adult websites. Her aura was cold and mocking.
"This is Mistress Bufferia," Palmo said. "She is the Guardian of Lag. Your task is simple. She will activate a seduction illusion. If you complete the form without losing your rhythm… you pass."
Mistress Bufferia stepped forward.
And the moment she did, the chamber slowed down.
Literally.
She activated her Aura of Buffering.
Every movement she made glitched—just slightly. Her hips swayed in half-frames. Her lips moved out of sync with her voice. Her hair looped in a perfect GIF cycle.
It was unbearable.
The seduction was there, but incomplete. Like loading a video and watching it freeze on the good part every three seconds.
This is hell. Digital hell. She's weaponized lag.
My fingers clenched.
Sweat poured from my neck.
I dropped into the second movement—Twist of Reluctant Mercy—and forced myself not to scream as my knees trembled under the pressure. My inner Core groaned.
But I held on.
I've trained for this. I've lagged before. I've loaded ten-minute previews and memorized every pixel. You cannot break me, Bufferia.
She glitched closer.
My eyes twitched.
But my hands kept moving.
I completed the sequence—Final Squeeze of the Heavenless Palm.
There was silence.
And then a sound like thunder as Palmo struck the floor with his open palm.
"You've done it," he said.
"You have reached Lubrication Level 1."
Something inside me exploded.
No—not literally. That would've been grounds for public execution in Gooner society.
But I felt it.
My Core pulsed violently, then split.
And from the center of my shame energy… emerged a new technique.
A passive skill.
[Skill Unlocked: Infinite Edging – Passive]Description: You can now edge indefinitely. Each second you withhold release, your Goona power increases by 0.5%. Warning: Exponential shame accumulation will occur. Use responsibly.
...Oh no. Oh yes. Oh god, I'm going to destroy the world with this.
Later that night, I sat alone in my quarters—a small stone room with nothing but a mat, a sink, and a motivational poster of a cat hanging from a rope that read: "Don't Let Go."
I stared at my hands.
They trembled.
So this is power. Not flashy swords. Not fireballs. But raw, primal, embarrassing control.
I remembered my father's face.
Bloodied.
Lying in the basement, his body shattered after refusing to hand over the location of the Last Stash—a mythical vault said to contain the last uncensored full-resolution collection of the P-Hub Archives. The Gooners who killed him had no mercy.
I would show them none.
You took everything from me. Now I'll take everything from you—including your ability to bust.
I clenched my fist.
And from deep inside, I felt a new pressure.
A level-up notification in the back of my mind.
Ben Dover. Lubrication Rank 1. Shame Core: Stable. Technique: Infinite Edging – Active.
This was only the beginning.