Chapter 1694: Utilizing Sissy Femboys
The spell settled over the field like a change in pressure, and the space within it stopped answering to reality.
Four figures materialized in front of Silver’s and his soldiers’ positions, each projected from a different tail.
They were all Raelor. Silver’s youngest son, the foxkin prince who had challenged the Primordial Villain to a formal duel at the Beastman Confederation summit and lasted exactly one punch.
Quinlan shattered the boy’s ribs with a single closed fist, and the prodigy who’d been the pride of the Inazuki bloodline was carried off the grounds on a stretcher.
That was many months ago, yet the prince never recovered.
But the four Raelors standing in front of Silver’s line looked nothing like a broken warrior.
They wore his face, his build, his ears, but everything else was precision-built to humiliate.
Gone was any trace of princely dignity.
Each copy wore a cropped top that barely covered the chest and a pair of shorts cut so high they left nothing to the imagination, the fabric clinging to curves the real Raelor didn’t have, with a strip of bare midriff and thigh-high stockings completing the picture.
One had a choker around his neck. Another wore ribbons tied into his hair. Their posture was loose, hips cocked, weight shifted to one leg with a hand resting on the exposed waist, standing the way someone stood when he wanted every pair of eyes in the room to crawl down his body.
The first pressed a finger to his pouting lips and spoke in Raelor’s voice, pitched much softer, dripping with theatrical femininity.
"Ever since that big, strong, manly man called Quinlan Elysiar broke my ribs with one little punch, I’ve never managed to regain my confidence~"
He traced his own collarbone with a finger. "But I gained something wonderful instead! A deep, deep appreciation for strong men who can show me their unquestionable superiority over me~"
The second twirled with a swish of his hips and slapped himself on the behind with his own tail, loudly, which was a gesture only foxkin prostitutes made when trying to seduce a potential customer. "Quinnie hits so hard! I think about it every~ single~ night~"
The third blew a kiss toward Silver, "Papa, you should try it too, discover your true self!" and the fourth draped itself across the nearest slab of rubble with a sigh that belonged in a brothel.
Silver’s soldiers stared at the four copies of their youngest prince, and the silence was worse than mockery, because every man and woman present knew the copies weren’t entirely wrong.
The boy hadn’t picked up a weapon since that day.
He flinched at raised voices, refused to spar, and Silver had locked him away from the world because admitting what one weak man had done to his full-blooded son was worse than pretending the heir didn’t exist.
Silver screamed.
The raw sound of a leader whose wounds had been ripped open and dressed in silk and paraded in front of his army.
"YOU DARE?! I’LL SLIT YOUR THROAT MYSELF!"
He crossed the distance to the nearest Raelor in a blur of foxfire and fury, and the fist he threw at the thing wearing his son’s face carried enough force to scatter any projection ten times over.
His fist hit the copy’s stomach.
And stopped.
The sissy femboy Raelor’s expression shifted.
The theatrical pout melted away, the eyes went sharp, and the grin that replaced it was predatory, patient, and carried a hunger the broken prince hadn’t possessed since Quinlan’s punch.
"Dumbass."
Both hands closed around Silver’s fist, and the grip that held him was solid, real, and pulsing with demonic warmth.
The illusions no longer shattered on contact.
A certain pair of eyes found Silver, and the savage, sadistic cruelty in them belonged to no foxkin princess.
Kitsara made her next move.
...
Ragnar’s fist cratered the stone where Quinlan’s head had been, and [Soul Reaper]’s counter opened another score across the dwarf king’s throat that closed before the blood fell.
Then the sky to the south split with golden light, and a body hurtled through the smoke toward the ridge at a speed that turned arrival into impact.
Seraphiel hit the rock in a blaze of radiance, [Divine Arsenal] burning in both hands, the Dawnbringer’s light casting the ruined stone in sharp gold-white relief.
Her landing cracked the ground and the momentum skidded her forward three meters before she found her footing.
Ragnar’s attention snapped to the new arrival, and the horizontal swing he’d been loading for Quinlan redirected toward the blonde elf mid-recovery.
Quinlan’s wind hit Sera from below.
Compressed air caught her before the fist did, lifting her boots off the stone and redirecting her skid into a spin that carried her up and over the strike that would have folded her in half.
She turned the forced momentum into a backflip that was, by any standard, unreasonably graceful for a woman who had just been launched across a battlefield, and her bare feet touched down behind Quinlan with the poise of someone who had meant to do that all along.
"Sorry for dropping in on your epic duel, Quin." She pushed a strand of golden hair behind one pointed ear and gave him the kind of smile that said she was not sorry at all. "A nasty backstabbing bitch won’t leave me alone and things got a little out of hand. I almost died twenty times over."
"Are you okay, Sera?" Quinlan, of course, didn’t fault her. She clearly didn’t make that jump because she wanted to - she was thrown.
Then, a second impact shook the ridge.
Kaelira hit the stone ten meters to his left in a crouch, one gauntleted fist against the ground, her body angled forward from the momentum of whatever had sent her flying.
The Runeweaver’s armor was cracked along the left pauldron and the mark on her abdomen pulsed with the crimson glow of Quinlan’s earth, but the bluish-purple hair falling across her face couldn’t hide the quiet intensity in her expression as she straightened.
She glanced at Quinlan, and the heat that crept up her neck had nothing to do with the battlefield.
"...I’m here too."
"...Welcome, Kaelira."
The ridge now held two of his lovers.
A third figure dropped from the smoke and landed at Ragnar’s flank with the controlled grace of a blade dancer who had chosen her entrance.
Twin curved blades gleamed with dark infusion energy and long elven ears framed a face that bore the mark of the same corruption eating through Ragnar’s fused plate, the veins beneath her skin running dark where the infusion had taken root.
Aelindra. The wannabe queen of the Elvardian Alliance. The elf who had stabbed her own sister for the throne.
She looked at Seraphiel across the distance, and the contempt between the two elves needed no words.
"Oh," Sera said brightly. "There she is."
The Primordial Villain stood between two elves who had chosen him over everything their race had ever built, and across from them, the monster who had fused himself to his own armor stood beside the elf who had sold her blood for a crown she didn’t even secure.
"Back me up, Ragnar." Aelindra’s twin blades angled forward and her voice carried the absolute certainty of a woman who had already decided the outcome. "Together, we’ll kill them all easily."
Ragnar’s answer was a grunt.
Foam gathered at the corners of his mouth, thick and tinged with the dark residue of the ritual consuming his body, and the dwarf king’s posture shifted forward into a hunch, shoulders low, a beast readying to charge.
He was looking less like a dwarf - or even a living being - by the second.
The two began prowling forward.
Quinlan watched them come, [Soul Reaper] resting across his shoulder, and the wind that curled around his frame pressed outward in a slow exhale.
He glanced at the gorgeous blonde on his right and the tomboy smith on his left.
"Let’s do this, ladies."
"Yes!" Kaelira’s gauntlet slammed against her cracked pauldron and the runes along her armor blazed to life, the damaged plate reforming. A giant shield materialized in her grip, whole and burning with Quinlan’s primordial earth, and the shy girl was gone behind the Runeweaver’s focus.
Seraphiel’s smile widened, and [Divine Arsenal] answered.
A bow of pure celestial light took shape in her hands, radiant and humming with condensed power. She drew the string back in one fluid motion, the arrow that formed between her fingers burning so bright it cast shadows behind Ragnar and Aelindra as they advanced, and the light that gathered at the arrowhead compressed until it stopped being light and became pressure.
The arrow released.
