The sun was just beginning to rise over Belzerg, its golden rays glinting off the polished plates of Selvara 'Darkness' Draymore' armor. With her usual upright posture and heavy, measured stride, she walked proudly down the cobblestone road toward the Adventurers' Guild. Her long platinum-blonde hair caught the light, fluttering behind her like a banner.
They called her Darkness, a name born from the proud words of her house: "From darkness comes the light." It was meant as a crest of honor, yet in her case it had become something else—an identity, a banner under which she carried both her stubborn courage and her strange hunger for challenge. Few remembered the name Selvara Draymore anymore; Darkness was who she had become, and who she wished to remain.
Her body was a contradiction of elegance and raw strength. She was tall, her figure commanding even without armor. Broad hips and powerful thighs carried her stride, balanced by a narrow waist that only sharpened her silhouette. Her chest was full, heavy enough to draw the gaze of strangers even when strapped beneath plates of steel. Long silver hair fell like a pale curtain down her back, gleaming faintly whenever the light touched it, and her golden eyes burned with a mix of resolve and defiance.
There was something magnetic about her presence—an aura of reckless allure. She moved with the grace of a warrior and the temptation of a woman who seemed always on the edge of danger. To her allies, the nickname had started as jest, but in battle, when her figure stood unflinching before monsters and men alike, Darkness felt less like a mockery and more like a destiny.
Today, she was to meet two new companions — a man and a woman chosen to form a balanced party with her. The thought made her heart race; not with fear, but with anticipation of the pain, the danger, and the trials that surely awaited them.
"Ah… I shall protect them," she murmured aloud with dramatic fervor, pressing one gauntleted hand against her chest. "Even if it means throwing myself before the cruelest of blades, even if my body must endure what others cannot… such is the noble duty of Selvara Draymore!"
Her words rang out proudly, though most townsfolk who heard them only shook their heads, muttering that she was eccentric at best, insane at worst. Yet she strode forward undeterred, her destination in sight.
And then—
The air shifted. The sky above her shimmered as though a veil had been torn away. The sound of the guild's bustling hall and the chatter of adventurers faded, replaced by silence heavy enough to press against her ears.
From that silence came a voice. Deep, playful, and mocking.
"Selvara Draymore… knight of misplaced pride, vessel of humiliation… you amuse me."
Her eyes widened, and she gripped the hilt of her sword. "Show yourself, cowardly fiend! How dare you address me so familiarly—unless… you are no mortal voice at all…"
A laugh echoed in her mind, confirming her suspicion.
"I am a god," the voice declared. "And you, ridiculous though you may be, are chosen. The world you walk now has no need of you. But another — torn by ruin, consumed by darkness, overrun by creatures who thrive on cruelty — cries out for one such as you."
Before she could protest, the ground vanished beneath her boots. Light swallowed her vision, searing and absolute. She fell without falling, her noble oath caught in her throat.
When the brilliance faded, she found herself standing in the middle of a dirt path. Around her stretched a small, battered village: wooden houses blackened by fire, fields wasted by neglect, and villagers who looked with weary eyes upon a stranger in gleaming armor.
The smell of smoke lingered in the air. Somewhere in the distance, she heard the howls of goblins.
Selvara lifted her head high, her noble voice breaking the silence:
"Fear not, pitiful denizens! For though I know not how I came to this place, I, Selvara Draymore, shall endure every torment, every humiliation, every agony for your sake! Your suffering is now mine to bear!"
The villagers only stared. Some whispered. Others crossed themselves as though warding off an omen.
But then, the god's voice slithered back into her ears, low and mischievous:
"Do not be too hasty, knight. You should know this land does not follow the rules you once knew. Here, battles are fought in two ways: by steel… and by flesh."
Her cheeks warmed. "By… flesh?"
"Yes," the god continued. "This world is bound by an ancient law of combat — the Westling Sensual. It is not mere debauchery, but a duel of stamina, spirit, and desire. Warriors clash not only with blades and shields, but with bodies and touch. Victory comes not only by felling the foe, but by forcing them to yield in exhaustion, drained of will and strength alike."
Selvara trembled, her gauntleted hands tightening as a shiver of shameful excitement passed through her spine. "A-a battle… fought in such a way… to resist… or perhaps to endure…!"
"You, masochistic child of pride, are perfect for this role," the god whispered, almost lovingly cruel. "Your armor shall mend itself, your body shall not break, but your spirit will be tested again and again. Monsters here will seize you, challenge you in both ways. To survive, you must master both forms of battle. To lose is not to die… but to drown in humiliation, spent and powerless. Do you accept these terms?"
Her lips parted, her voice trembling between shame and exhilaration. "I… I accept! For what greater honor is there than to bear such torment in the name of others?!"
The god laughed again, booming and merciless. "Then go forth, Selvara Draymore. Your body is your blade, your shame your shield. Embrace both pain and pleasure, for they shall carve your legend in this wretched land."
And as his laughter faded, so too did the weight of his words — but not the truth of them.
Her heart pounded. A new world. A new stage.
And countless new pains to embrace.