Rider Kick!

Screeeech!

The purple undead's wicked claws slammed into Svalinn with a deafening crash. It hadn't even been a head-on collision — I'd just angled the shield to deflect — and still the impact howled like that, shoving the arm holding Svalinn ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠backward.

Turn Undead doesn't work, and it's stupidly strong. Take a hit straight on and I'm flying.

So in close combat I focused on dodging direct hits as much as possible and landing counterattacks off the shield.

Thuck!

The tip of the Ruby Sword punched up under the undead's jaw, scrambled its brain, and knocked on the inside of its skull.

Thump.

The undead's body went limp, sagging like a dick going soft. But mass doesn't just vanish, so I took the full weight of it — and the remaining undead didn't miss the opening. They charged.

Gripping hard! Crunch!

I seized the sword firmly again and twisted it sideways. Then I poured divine power into the Ruby Sword and rearmed it with Holy Weapon.

From the left ear of the undead I'd skewered, a brilliant burst of flame erupted like fireworks streaking toward the sky, and I used that force to swing the blade.

Shraaaak!

It wasn't the perfect arc of a swordmaster — just a pink blade packed with the raw acceleration of a total mess, carving a diagonal line. There was no technique to it, only brutish physical force, and the undead bodies split apart as the cut surfaces ignited and burned.

I'd dropped them. But any satisfaction would have to wait.

"Mari, how many left?"

"Two. Fat middle-aged men with no muscle to speak of."

At that, I looked at the remaining undead. About half of them were wearing Graces, and the cocks sticking out of their cunts were absurdly thick.

And no matter how you looked at it, these were just Generic Middle-Aged Guy #1 and #2 faces. Generously, average-looking. Less generously, the kind of faces you get when you randomize a character creator and end up slightly worse than the default.

Honestly, the default character models were better-looking than you'd expect, so that description fit. Anyway, looking at those undead, I realized the moment of decision had arrived.

"Mari, is it enough?"

"We need to hurry. This heat — I can't hold out any longer."

She was right. I snuck a look at how high our arousal levels had climbed.

Not good. I was also leaking breast milk, so I'd hit retirement faster than Mari. On top of that, I was fighting the urge to drop my sword right then and there, get that limp cock hard, and climb on.

I had to hold out if I wanted to keep running toward the goal. The second I stopped, my mind would sink into that comfort and sweetness and never get back up.

I glanced at Mari. Her flush was deep and her breathing was ragged. Unlike me, she didn't have an item to store breast milk, so it had already gone pssht and sprayed out.

And her eyes wouldn't leave those middle-aged guys' cocks. You filthy bitch, I know. Call yourself a rational system all you want — once you've got a female body…

"Wait. Limp cock?"

I rubbed my eyes and looked at the middle-aged undead's dick again. It was soft. No sign of an erection no matter how many times I checked.

"What the hell? Mari, weren't those things rock-hard just a second ago?"

"Yes. Hard enough you could've ridden them like a horse. But now…"

Mari's gaze went ice-cold. The moment she confirmed the undead couldn't perform as men, the heat of arousal flipped instantly to frost — and I felt the same way.

"Th-they're freshly turned undead who were still alive, plus they've got the Berserk status on them… so their shelf life is ridiculously short."

At that moment, a Grace sprawled on the ground piped up with a wiki-style explanation. Mari looked at me and quietly nodded, which only pissed me off more.

"Son of a biiiitch! Hey! What the hell am I supposed to do with my breeding womb all fired up like this?!"

"Guuuh…"

The undead backed away like none of this was their fault. That only made them more infuriating.

"A breeding middle-aged bastard whose dick dies on him. You're all sentenced to death."

After that, my merciless blade separated the undead's heads from their bodies.

What is this, what is this, what is this? Why is she just walking around like nothing's wrong? Where did the mental corruption go?

Grace Number 40, the one with glasses, watched Serena carefully. For someone who'd been subdued by brainwashing tentacles while getting her cunt licked, her combat sense wasn't bad — that much she'd confirmed.

But something was clearly off.

Had the brainwashing time been insufficient?

It had been more than enough.

Had the Mark of Apostasy failed to settle inside her womb?

Judging by how her holy gates had turned pink, it had settled far too well. The master of the power of apostasy in this Forbidden Area was no longer Grace, but the Successor.

Which was why they themselves were fading away.

The system is one thing, but what the hell did that Successor just do to stay sane? By my calculations, a single brainwashing tentacle alone should have shattered her mind beyond recovery — never mind giving birth.

Grace Number 40 grew desperate. The moment the goddess became a Demon God again, she had succeeded in receiving a Successor to inherit the power of apostasy and the name "Grace." She needed a proper body and soul from a proper world — not some wretched creature of this broken one.

The plan hit a snag. Time for Plan B.

Grace Number 40 lifted her head and looked at the duo spraying breast milk over the baby tentacles.

"Hm?"

For a moment, Grace Number 40 doubted her own eyes. They weren't putting their breasts ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠to the tentacles' mouths to nurse them. Instead, like misting a flower bed with a spray bottle, they were squeezing milk into the air and then having the tentacles lap up whatever hit the ground.

"What… are you doing right now?"

"Feeding these little bastards?"

Grace Number 40 took a hit that left the back of her skull ringing. If you had maternal instinct, you'd put a child to your breast. If you didn't, you simply wouldn't nurse. But look at that grotesque feeding method.

Grace Number 40 was certain. The reason brainwashing didn't work. And the reason her Intelligence stat displayed as "?"

The human called Serena was operating at a level of insanity beyond measurement — so even the system couldn't quantify it.

Crack.

A tiny fracture appeared in Number 40. No — in every Grace. The inheritance ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠of the mind had only ever been secondary, and now that the primary inheritance of power had succeeded, the means of sustaining their manifestation was gone. It was only natural.

"Successor. Are you satisfied with the power?"

"Huh? Satisfied? My womb throws a protest every time I fight because I get so fucking turned on, and you're asking if I'm satisfied? You want a goddamn abortion punch? Mari!!!"

The moment Serena bellowed, Mari — who'd been spraying breast milk beside her — immediately started loosening up.

"May I use a kick?"

"Can you do a Rider Kick?"

"I shall attempt it."

On Serena's order, Mari backed up, sprinted at full power, and used mana to leap into the air.

What goes up must come down. That applies even to things with wings, and Mari had none, so of course she fell.

But even in falling, how you fall is yours to decide.

Mari extended one leg straight and drove a full-body kick downward.

"W-waaaait! Hold on! I still have something to s—"

Grace Number 40 twisted in panic. But her thrashing was infinitely slow compared to Mari's incoming kick.

WHAAAM!

Perhaps her desperate effort earned her some credit? Mari's kick landed not on the lower abdomen where the womb was, but somewhere else entirely.

And that somewhere else was—

"GYAAAAAAAAAH!!! MY BOOBS!!!!"

—the female version of a very, very bad place to get hit.

"Hmm. Pretty useful intel."

"Urgh… my boobs… waaaaaah…"

I watched the glasses-wearing Grace — who'd taken a milk-drop kick, not an abortion kick, and spilled every scrap of information she had — scream her way into nonexistence.

When I turned around, the tentacles I'd sprayed milk over were writhing as they floated up into the air, then got sucked into a pink portal.

"Heh. With those around, I can give birth anytime, anywhere, no worries."

"Anyone listening would think giving birth was as casual as taking a shower."

"Look at our ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠lot in life. It's not everyday-life level — we're destined to pump out a ridiculous number of kids."

"Will you send human babies that way as well?"

"If they're human, all the more reason."

It was deeply suspicious, sure, but a child was safer under the goddess Philotes than anywhere else. Better than being raised in this insane world.

"So these people were from Corson Village?"

"Yes. Their activity window fits, and aside from combat damage, the clothes they were wearing were in excellent condition. Meaning they hadn't been undead for long. If you're looking for a place with a large number of corpses — or rather, humans — Corson Village is the only candidate."

I looked at the undead that no longer moved. It was hard to believe the reanimated corpses we'd just fought had been the humans of Corson Village.

That meant the village residents had ended up like this in a single day — not even a few months.

"…The children?"

"If the elderly and children had turned into these undead, they would have collapsed even faster than the adults."

I shut my mouth under the weight of it. No matter how much of a heat-addled bitch I was, there were still lines.

And from Mari's mouth came a name.

"One of the Four Heavenly Kings — Archlich Paul. No one else is capable of something like this. And based on my analysis, even he would have burned through an enormous amount of power to create an army of this scale in an instant."

The culprit was right under our noses, and weakened. As a Super Racist, I had zero reason not to take him out.