More lies.

Steven lay sprawled on the narrow bed, Melissa’s warm, sated body draped over him, her breaths soft and steady. The night’s wildness ebbed into calm, and as his pulse slowed, a sudden cacophony of dings erupted in his mind—level-ups delayed until this quiet moment. Careful not to jostle her, he cast Identify on himself, a silent window flaring: Steven Shatterkynn. Holy Magic Lvl 13 (up 2), Unarmed Combat Lvl 19 (up 3), Resilience Lvl 24 (up 4), Leatherworking Lvl 1. Hidden Skills: Mind-Dominion Lvl 1, Fleshsculpting Lvl 5, Soulbinding Lvl 2 (up 1). His cave brawl had paid off—holy magic sharper, fists deadlier, body tougher. The Soulbinding jump piqued him—her sensitivity tweak must’ve triggered it. He cast Identify again, targeting it: “Soulbinding Lvl 2: Binds souls via the Soulcatcher’s Band through verbal pacts. Capacity: 2 major souls (sentient beings), 1 minor soul (lesser creatures). Influence: Subtle nudges on bound souls, stronger with level. Note: Major souls retain awareness; minor souls obey simpler commands.” “What’s a minor soul?” he wondered, shrugging it off as sleep claimed him.

Morning stirred them, Melissa waking with a sultry grin, her naked form still pressed to his. “Mmm, babe,” she purred, her tiny hands slipping beneath the covers. She gripped his cock—those delicate gnome fingers, small yet fierce, wrapped around him like a velvet vice. She jerked him off with epic flair, her touch a dance of fire—stroking slow then fast, a rhythmic pull that sang of her new boldness. Her palms, soft as silk yet firm with intent, worked him like a maestro coaxing a crescendo from a storm. Each tug was a jolt, her thumbs teasing the tip with wicked precision, drawing a groan from deep in his chest. Her silver hair swayed as she leaned close, whispering, “Feel that, stud?”—and he did, erupting in her grasp, a shuddering release she milked with a triumphant giggle.

They dressed—her new clothes still absent, her old ones a comical mismatch—and headed to the mage tower, hand in hand. The elderly elf at the desk, her bust still a marvel, greeted them. Melissa piped up, “Here for extra work—got anything?” The elf nodded. “Plenty of filing—head to the archives.” Melissa darted off, leaving Steven. “I need Rebecca again,” he said. The elf smirked. “You know her office?” He nodded, climbing the familiar stairs, down the hall, and knocked. “Yes, come in,” Rebecca called.

She glanced up, blonde hair catching the light. “Oh, it’s you. I’ve got questions.” She leaned forward, quill poised. “Where’d you say you’re from?” Steven lied smooth, “Small village, another continent.” She pressed, “Which one?” His eyes flicked to a map on her desk—he pointed to a random speck, Vyrn’s Hollow. “There.” She jotted it down, unconvinced but moving on. “How old?” “Sixteen.” “When were you born—astrology stuff,” she added. Panic flared—his real birthdate was Earth-bound, useless here. Goddess, what do I say? he thought. Lysandra’s voice whispered, calm and clear: “Norith 15th, 16 years ago.” He relayed it—Norith 15th, sixteen years prior—watching her scribble. “That’s all from me,” she said. “What’s did you need, Steven?”

“I figured out how to see in the dark,” he said. Her quill clattered to the desk. “You what?” Disbelief sharpened her tone. “In a cave, on a quest—too dark, so I sat, pushed mana to my eyes, aimed to see. Didn’t work ‘til I added holy magic intent. Eyes got warm, and bam—I could see.” She straightened. “Fascinating. Show me.” He focused, channeling holy intent—his eyes warmed, and when he opened them, Rebecca recoiled. “Uh, Steven, normal mages won’t touch this,” she said, pointing to a mirror. He peered—golden flames licked from his sockets, a radiant blaze. “Badass!” he laughed. She cleared her throat. “Let’s catalog it.”

She cast her spell, parchment glowing as a sigil emerged—smaller than his fist or feet marks, its design alien yet flickering with familiarity. “Cast Saiyan Fury,” she ordered. He ignited, flames cloaking him—she grabbed a large sheet, copying the sigil. The central circle loomed, flanked by northwest and northeast sub-sigils for fists and feet, now joined by a new one between them—his vision skill. “Just what I thought,” she muttered. “These might be unique to you—mages can’t copy them.” She rubbed her temples. “One more test—cancel it all. Now Saiyan Fury, no fists or feet.” He did—flames roared, limbs dark. She copied: just the big circle. “Mhmm, I was right.” Two more sheets—“Saiyan Fury with fists.” He complied—center sigil, northwest lit. “Now swap fists for feet.” Center sigil, northeast glowed. “Indeed,” she murmured, lost in thought.