Chapter 72
Written by Bayzo Albion
"What happened to you?" I breathed, my eyes darting between her and the Main Self. "You've let go of the reins. Given in to greed? Or just stopped pretending to be human?"
He regarded me then, and there was no madness in his eyes—only a chilling clarity that unnerved me more than any frenzy could.
"What else was I supposed to do?" He shrugged, his focus lingering on the elf. "When slaves are cheaper than bread, it'd be a sin not to stock up. People are a nation's most valuable resource."
"There's logic in that," I conceded reluctantly. "But you've changed. I can feel it."
"My senses have dulled," he admitted quietly, a hint of regret coloring his tone for the first time. "We're not in paradise. This world... it's like a drug. At first, it grants power, control, ecstasy. Then it drains your soul, drop by drop, until you're hollow inside."
"Then why keep going? Why not dial back the difficulty? Make the world kinder," I pressed, searching his face for remnants of the man we once were, not this puppeteer of fates.
"If I do that," he replied, his eyes hardening with calculated resolve, "everything we've built crumbles. It's too soon. We need the forge's heat for true tempering. Hunger, fear, war—they're the anvil and hammer. Only through them do real gods emerge."
He spoke with the conviction of a strategist, where cruelty wasn't perversion but a necessary tool, honed for precision. It eased my mind slightly; he hadn't lost his sanity entirely. Purpose still burned in him, albeit a grim one. The air grew heavier under the canopy, the silk rustling like whispers of impending doom.
"All the women in the white camp are yours," he said abruptly, tossing the words like a bone to a starving dog.
"Why white?" I frowned, suspicious.
"Because white stains easily. And those marks are hard to erase. White is the illusion of purity. Preserve it if you can—but dirt is always lurking, and it's always stronger."
"So you believe purity can be kept?"
"No," he smirked. "Purity lasts only until the first touch. After that, it's just a battle. Good luck in yours, brother."
He turned back to the elf, his desire plain now, unchecked. "This busty one, though—I'm keeping her for myself."
I couldn't help but grin, a wry twist to my lips. "I'm thinking of ditching capitalism altogether. Maybe we should share the women communally? The elf could be ours, not just yours."
He snorted. "Collectivism doesn't suit you. You've always been the voice in my shadow—watching, judging. Now step into the light and show what you're made of."
"Is that a challenge?" I asked, adrenaline surging like wildfire in my veins.
"Not a challenge. An opportunity."
I locked eyes with the elf. She caught my gaze, nibbling her lower lip seductively, her hand tracing the curve of her breast in blatant invitation. In that moment, I knew: trials awaited, and not all would be battles of steel and spell. Some would be far more intimate, testing the soul's resolve.
I wandered slowly along the white camp, studying the slaves. Their faces were soft, ethereal; bodies pampered and graceful, movements like liquid silk. An almost divine elegance radiated from them, as if they were sculptures come to life under a master's hand. Then I glanced at the black camp—and the distinction blurred. Similar curves, the same languid allure in their eyes, but laced with a raw, untamed ferocity. Primal power simmered there, wild and unbridled. Did that make them lesser? Hardly. If anything, it added a dangerous allure, like a storm on the horizon promising both destruction and renewal.
I refrained from indulging as the Main Self once had—no sampling of their sweetness, no breathing in the enchanted aromas woven subtly into their presence. Observation was enough. I sought to understand what truly separated the "white" from the "black," and why anyone believed they had the right to divide women's lives by such arbitrary shades.
The sun beat down mercilessly, casting long shadows that writhed over the chained figures, turning the heat into something almost oppressive. It pressed against my skin, mirroring the unrest tightening inside my chest.
"To avoid any misunderstandings," the Main Self said, materializing at my side like a ghost, "I've adjusted our tastes. Tweaked preferences. These women won't distract you... at least, not the ones here. But the busty elf—she's mine alone."
His tone was amicable, almost brotherly, but undercut by possessive steel, like a collector guarding a priceless gem.
I smiled mockingly. "The Forest Queen is an elf too, you know. She hides her ears, as if afraid I'll uncover her true nature. But I've seen it: beneath that regal haughtiness lies a wild, almost feral sensuality."
"You think you can tame her?" He narrowed his eyes, appraising.
"I don't want to tame. I want to marvel. Every time, like it's the first."
He nodded, as if conceding a point but reserving judgment. "Then we're on divergent paths. You chase the magic of emotion. I hoard beauty's forms."
"Perhaps we're just playing complementary roles in the same grand drama," I mused. "You as the shadow, me as the light. You acquire. I release."
"And in the end," he countered with a sly grin, "we're both obsessed with women. Just each with our own elf."
"Our own elf..." I echoed, irony dripping from the words. "So you measure paradise by the tally of ears and breasts collected? A gallery where women are mere objects?"
"Isn't that more honest?" He didn't raise his voice; his response was cool, reasoned, like a philosopher dissecting truth. "You cloak it in romance, but the core is identical. You crave the thrill, the touch, the repeated claim of possession. You call it admiration; I call it ownership. But the hunger? It's the same. The difference is semantics."
"You're wrong," I shook my head firmly. "Ownership can be stolen, shattered, lost. Admiration endures even in absence. I can love and respect a woman without chaining her to me."
"Sounds poetic," he scoffed, "but fragile as glass. Women thrive on power dynamics—they want to be chosen, valued, dominated. Loosen your grip, and they slip away. I offer them a cage where they're eternal. You? Freedom that breeds betrayal."
My fists clenched, a storm of anger and doubt raging within, the metallic clink of chains around us echoing my inner turmoil.
"You speak like an executioner convinced the noose saves the soul from sin," I said softly. "But it only strangles."
"And freedom kills swifter," he snapped back. "You believe the Forest Queen will stay forever? Delusion. She'll leave when the world demands her sacrifice again. Women belong to their fears and desires, not us. That's why I collect them—to strip away those masters. I turn them into exhibits, jewels on my chessboard. In doing so, I save them from themselves."
To my horror, his words rang with a kernel of truth. But so did mine—two irreconcilable forces, clashing like thunderheads. The square seemed to close in, the captives' shallow breaths a chorus underscoring our debate.
"You keep them in chains," I whispered. "I want them to dance. You call it illusion. I call it life."
He squinted, as if poised to retort, then held back.
"Then our separation wasn't in vain," he said at last. "You remind me of limits. I show you freedom's cost. As long as we both exist, the world teeters on the knife's edge."
We stared at each other, the air thick with unspoken layers: acknowledgment, defiance, the certainty of future conflict. Not over women, camps, or thrones—but over our very essence.
I turned away, pacing the white camp once more. His words scorched me, but mine had wounded him too. I saw it in the flicker of his eyes. We both knew: this argument was far from over.
The chapter closed, but the game had only just begun.
– – –
The construction of the village had begun in earnest. Thanks to the slaves, progress was astonishingly swift—far faster than I'd ever imagined. Yet, as I watched the walls rise and the foundations take shape, it dawned on me that my role as leader wasn't about grand strategies or meticulous oversight. No, it boiled down to something far more primal: I was the one who had to seed the future of this place. Literally.
And strangely enough, that became my "main quest."
"Sex as a job... Is that a good thing or a curse?" I mused aloud, or rather, the fragmented parts of me pondered it together. "I bet the Core Me is caught up in the same grind. We've both turned into breeding bulls."
Paradise, it turned out, offered little beyond a slow slide into decadence. Everything looped endlessly, like a cursed time trap: day bled into night, night into day, but inside me, nothing shifted. It was all the same hollow routine.
At some point, the mechanical thrusting grew tedious, so I let my partner take the reins. She writhed beneath me, her body twisting with a desperate hunger, as if she were squeezing every last drop of ecstasy from the moment. Her breaths came in ragged gasps, eyes fluttering shut in surrender.
"Food, sex, work, more food, booze, smokes, then sex again... round and round," I muttered, staring into the void beyond her shoulder.