Suddenly, a faint tingly sensation prickled across Nnael's arms and chest. The suffocating weight in his lungs eased just a fraction as his skin began to drink the stagnant air of the room.
"Nnael? Oh, heavens... Rhea! Rhea, come quick! His eyes open!"
The voice was a warm, melodic sob. Before Nnael could orient himself, the bed sagged under a sudden weight. A pair of soft, trembling hands cupped his face.
Nnael blinked, his vision clearing. This wasn't Serra. This wasn't the porcelain perfection of a High Priestess. The woman hovering over him looked to be in her late thirties, her face etched with the exhaustion of a life spent under the sun. She was beautiful in a raw, earthy way, her dark-brown hair spilling out of a simple linen kerchief. Her bright-brown eyes were wet, holding the tears that will come down to her chubby cheek.
But it was her body that registered first to Nnael's instincts. As she leaned over him, her heavy, uncontained breasts pressed firmly against his collarbone, the thin fabric of her tunic damp with sweat. She smelled of lavender and old milk.
"Ugh... stop... can't... breathe..." Nnael managed to croak. The memory was there, lodged in his brain like a splinter. Her name was Mina, and she loved the boy who used to own this body with a desperate, suffocating intensity, the name stayed the same, Nnael.
"I thought we lost you, my little bird," Mina cried, pulling his head into the valley between her breasts, holding him so tight he could feel the frantic heat of her skin.
Whoa, boobs, mmhh... Nnael quickly regained his old habbit as he slowly moved his head, brushing right and left to her tits.
"Move aside, Mother. You're going to squeeze the soul right back out of him."
The door to the cottage slammed open, bringing in a gust of freezing rain and the scent of pine. A younger woman stepped in, dropping a bundle of wet firewood with a heavy thud, and appeared from the curtain of the small room.
This was Rhea, his sister.
She was a force of nature. She stripped off her soaked leather vest, revealing a homespun shirt that clung to her damp, athletic soft frame. Her thighs were thick, straining against her mud-caked trousers, and her ass was tight, making her hips round like a perfect circle, the curve of it prominent as she bent over to stoke the hearth. She didn't look like a girl, she looked like a woman paladin who had forgotten her vow. Her hair was dark-orange with ponytail hangging to the middle of her back.
She walked over to the bed, her dark-yellow eyes sharp and suspicious. She looked at Nnael, then reached down and pinched his cheek hard.
"Still pale as a ghost," Rhea grunted, though her hand lingered, her thumb tracing the line of his jaw with a touch that was far too intimate for a sibling. She leaned in close, her chest, bound tightly with leather but still prominent, hovering inches from his face. "If you die now, Nnael, I'll drag you back from the Abyss just to beat you for leaving us with the tax debt and no gold. You understand?"
Nnael looked at her, his eyes cold and dark. He saw the Caste Brand on her wrist, the mark of a Laborer. He saw the way her hands were calloused.
He was in a cage again. A smaller, muddier cage.
A low growl came from the corner of the room. Fang, the one-eared wolfhound, stood up, his hackles raised. The dog didn't see a recovering brother. He saw a stranger wearing a dead boy's skin.
"He's hungry, Rhea, get the broth," Mina said, finally releasing Nnael, though she stayed seated on the edge of the bed, her hip pressed against his. She began to stroke his hair, her touch lingering on his neck. "The collector came by yesterday. They asked about your fever. They said if you didn't wake up, they'd have to... reclaim the cottage."
Nnael closed his eyes, his mind already working.
He had a Z-Rank skill that allowed him to breathe like a toad, but he couldn't even use it, for now. He had a family of two beautiful, desperate women who were one bad harvest away from a labor camp, didn't know for how long they weren't touched by man, their subconcious must be desperate for their lustful hunger of sexual desires.
He felt the Creative Spark, or what was left of it, thrumming deep in his marrow. It was faint, but it was there. He wasn't the Emperor of the Great Mandala of Wilwatikta anymore. He was a nobody in another world, a fallen emperor in another universe.
So, you want to see how I handle a blank page? Nnael thought, a slow ugly smile spreading across his face as he lay in the dim light of the hut.
Just wait, I'm going to stain it.
"Don't worry, Mother," Nnael whispered, his voice sounding like a knife being sharpened on stone. "Nobody is reclaiming anything."
Rhea paused by the fire, looking back at him with a frown. "You sound… different, Nnael. Did the fever burn your brain?"
Nnael didn't answer. He just watched the way the firelight danced on her curves, mapping out the new world he was about to conquer.
...
...