With Alex and Maria out the door, Luna finally exhaled as the house fell silent. She had been up all night doing what son-cons do and now scrubbing her toys clean, the thick dildo still slick from her pussy juices and the plug warm from her ass, ensuring everything gleamed for when Alex might need her or her own cravings peaked. Thank fuck she had the day off, and tomorrow too, she thought as she stripped off the robe, letting it pool at her feet, opening her closet she pulled out her old nightie, she'd served Harry countless times wearing it and now she would pass the torch to her husband's son. She crawled into bed letting exhaustion take her. Sleep claimed her quickly, dreams swirling with Harry's ghost and Alex's growing form.
Alex twisted the key in the ignition of his beat-up sedan. The engine coughed to life like an old smoker. Maria slid into the passenger seat, her school skirt riding up her thighs as she buckled in. She sat quietly, staring out the window and letting him concentrate on the road. Damn, she was a good kid. She never complained about the rustbucket or the early drive. It made his chest swell with protective pride, especially after everything with Dad.
He pulled into his usual spot in the school lot, the car groaning as he killed the engine. The door stuck as always. Alex yanked it open with a grunt, then circled around to help Maria out. Her hand felt small in his as she stepped down, her skirt fluttering to reveal a flash of smooth leg. They walked together toward the waiting transport, the Association's low-rank goons lounging against it in their crisp uniforms, visors dipped low.
Alex's jaw tightened. This whole setup reeked of tax dollars funneled to overpaid thugs for a "service" that was pure theater. No real threats out here, just a parade to justify their budgets. He had seen the posts online: whispers of staged attacks if anyone pushed back, these assholes clinging to their gigs like ticks. And the way they eyed the girls? Leering through those shaded lenses, scanning skirts and asses like predators. It made his stomach churn. Slavery was supposed to be ancient history, but the stories online painted an uglier truth, the young claimed deceased during job-hunting missions. Corruption festered right under the Associations shiny facade.
At the drop-off point, Alex pulled Maria into a quick hug, squeezing her shoulders. "Stay sharp, sis."
"Good luck, brother," Maria called back, flashing a small smile as she hopped off. Her ass swayed with each step, the short uniform skirt hugging her hips and drawing a few too many glances from the soldiers. She did not notice, or pretended not to, linking arms with her friend Mary waiting by the gate.
Mary clutched her books tight against her chest, the stack a makeshift shield over her blouse. Buttons strained against budding curves that the damn uniform only amplified. The skirt barely skimmed her thighs, the whole ensemble screaming slutty schoolgirl fantasy, and she hated it.
Every leering stare from those Association pricks, or worse back home, her uncles' eyes lingering too long at family dinners, her older brothers "accidentally" brushing against her in the hall. They were not God-fearing, not like Mom preached. No, their faith twisted into excuses for hungry gazes and wandering hands. Mary shivered, hurrying Maria along toward the school building.
Mary only appreciated how the uniform revealed a person's true nature. Her friend's stepbrother Alex met her gaze steadily, offering the respect she deserved. A flush crept up her cheeks, impossible to hide.
She hid her face with her books, unaware that the loose neckline dipped low, revealing the soft swell of her breasts. Quickly, Maria blocked the view, glancing back to try catching her brother staring. Alex had already turned away, kicking a stray rock with his foot, his lips twisting in a sheepish grin that spoke of quiet longing. She could not help but giggle, darting her tongue out playfully in return.
Mr. Mosbie arrived with his usual cheerful wave, greeting the class. A swift head count confirmed all twenty-four students were present, and they boarded the transport bound for the Rank F Dungeon.
Inside, Alex wandered like the rest, peering into the cramped rooms lined with bunks: twelve in total, four cots in each. The final one at the back reeked of stale sweat, thick and musky, laced with the unmistakable scent of sex. He stepped closer, nostrils flaring at the raw intimacy hanging in the air.
A dresser caught his eye, its wood gouged with frantic scratches. He wondered what desperate encounters had unfolded here, the word "help" half-formed. Hearing the call to buckle up, he calmly walked out to sit along the interior bench.
With Mr. Mosbie's nod, the vehicle lurched forward. This low-rank dungeon served awakenings precisely because no one else bothered clearing them, keeping risks low for the newly awakened.
Over an hour later, they pulled into a vast, near-empty parking lot. The Association had encased most gates in fortified buildings for safety. Scattered stalls offered quick bites from food vendors, plus a souvenir shop hawking cheap mementos: crystals mimicking dungeon monsters, keychains shaped like monster fangs. A few might snag souvenirs on the way out, tokens of their first plunge into the unknown.
The interior resembled a museum, walls lined with posters chronicling the Era's descent into chaos. Local heroes stood in faded images, captured alongside one another in glory. Stuffed monster corpses loomed in glass cases, hides stretched taut over twisted forms. Display cases held relics of desperation: guns, kitchen knives, fire axes, hammers, even a weathered brick, all wielded in humanity's frantic stand.
No time for looking around; the group beelined for the reception counter. Mr. Mosbie handled registration for the class while the twenty-four students buzzed with chatter. Alex tuned it out, uninterested in creating temporary bonds.
Snippets of conversations drifted his way: worries about landing a weak awakening class. For Alex, it hardly mattered. Whatever power emerged, he would wield it to help his family.
"Listen up," Mr. Mosbie called. "We're heading to the F-rank gate. Hunters will meet us there. You'll split into groups of four or five, so pair with friends now if you want."
He strode off without pause. "Let's move." The class trailed him past humming Magetech turrets and watchful guards.
The hallway stretched on, bare concrete walls leading to the gate. Barriers stood in front of turrets potent enough to shred F-rank beasts, maybe even C-rank intruders. At last, they reached the auditorium.
Circular and vast, its entrance perched high above the floor. The gate pulsed at the center, a shimmering rift. Descending the stairs, Alex spotted the hunters by it. Compared to those SSS-Rankers seen rarely on social media, they cut unremarkable figures, clad in mismatched gear, itching to return to richer hunts in D or C-Ranks rather than babysitting his class.
One of the hunters stepped forward, his voice steady and commanding. "Hello, everyone. I'm Kendrik. Today, we'll divide you into five groups. Each group will enter as a unit. Once inside, there's a fifteen-second window for stragglers to join the same instance."
"When that closes, the next group in creates a fresh instance of the dungeon. This is a yellow gate. As you can see, its hue won't fade until cleared. The nearer it is to breaking, the more monsters swarm within."
"The boss at the end might pack an extra punch too. So don't assume a green gate mirrors an orange or red one from the same rift. Now then, we've got weapons ready for you all."