Chapter 195
Chapter 195
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 195
Chapter Title: Hassan, Necromancer of the Black Star #6
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In a quiet corner of Sodomora's East Gate Street stood Hippolyte's house.
Buildings and homes here commanded monthly rents well over fifty silver, putting them out of reach for just anyone.
That meant the people wandering about were all flashy, and so were the buildings.
With neatly paved roads and streetlamps made of glowstones, it was impossible not to compare it to the West Gate Street where Luna and I had hunkered down.
I wondered when Luna and I might ever live in a place like this.
How on earth did Hippolyte afford the rent?
Lost in such thoughts, I knocked on the elegant ivory door. Tap-tap.
If I waited, she'd open up with that enticing aroma wafting from her, then put me through today's hellish training session.
But no matter how long I waited, there was no sign of Hippolyte coming to the door.
Tap, tap.
So I knocked again and waited some more.
“...”
Even after a good long wait, no one answered or opened the door.
Just in case, I pressed my ear to the door, listening for sounds inside, but there wasn't a hint of presence.
Had she stepped out? On patrol?
I tugged the handle, and the door slid open smoothly. She hadn't locked it, so she couldn't have gone far.
I stepped into Hippolyte's cramped home to wait for her. Alone in a woman's bedroom, no less.
It was thrilling enough to make my dick swell.
I considered rifling through the drawers, but then wondered why my mind kept drifting to such lecherous thoughts. Was it the excess energy surging through me?
Too much vitality was a problem too. While waiting for Hippolyte, I figured I might as well do some warm-ups out back, maybe smack around the scarecrow or the wooden dummy.
“Hoo...”
But in the wide open lot behind the house, there she was already—Hippolyte in a short training outfit, sitting cross-legged under the blazing sun, sweat pouring off her.
Why was she sitting like that? Enjoying the heat?
It hit me then—she spent two or three hours a day sunbathing.
She stored up the sun's light during the day to briefly regain her strength on moonlit nights when she grew weak.
Like a robot charging on solar power.
Hippolyte was an eco-friendly woman.
Not wanting to disturb her meditation, I settled under a shady tree in the corner and watched.
Weeeeng-.
Bees occasionally landed on her body, but Hippolyte didn't twitch a muscle, just kept her eyes closed in silence.
Could a person really stay that still and serene?
At this point, it seemed less like sunbathing meditation and more like ascetic penance. Maybe like high monks training in meditation and yoga atop lofty peaks?
Drip.
Fat droplets of sweat trailed from her neck down between her cleavage and vanished. Soon, white steam began rising faintly from her body.
Could smoke rise from a person's skin?
Of course it could.
In the dead of winter, after sweating buckets from a workout, steam rises from your body for some reason.
But it wasn't winter now—it was summer. How could steam rise from someone in midsummer heat? Was she burning up?
Puff-puff-.
The smoke wafting from Hippolyte's body soon turned black and shot skyward like a signal fire.
But could black smoke come from a human body?
Was Hippolyte on fire right now?
I recalled a mysterious book I'd snuck from my father's study as a child. It mentioned a woman who spontaneously combusted without warning.
Such human combustion cases had really happened on Earth, even in a world that dismissed magic and superstition as nonsense. In this bizarre realm with no rules, it was even less surprising.
I had to save Hippolyte...!
“Hippolyte!”
I bolted into her house and rummaged through the drawers.
Anything to cool her combusting body? Water? But all I found were outrageously huge bras—enough to drive me mad.
A person on the verge of burning alive, and all that's in her house are bras for such defiant tits! How did she even live here?
Then I spotted a small flower vase. A tiny transparent glass one filled with water.
I grabbed it and rushed to her, splashing it with all my might over her body billowing that black smoke.
Splash-!
Sizzle-.
It sounded just like dousing flames, the acrid smell hitting the air. The black smoke from her body dissipated at once.
I'd-.
I'd saved Hippolyte!!
Rustle.
Her closed eyes slowly opened. Wet with dripping water, Hippolyte.
Her already clingy training clothes, soaked now, plastered even tighter, accentuating every curve of her skin.
My personal take: wet women are beautiful. Like how grilled pork belly can't taste bad with pickled kimchi.
Water and a young, pretty woman—it's a foolproof combo. Hippolyte was more water-compatible than I'd thought.
Rustle.
Her eyes turned to me.
“...Splashing water on me? What do you think you're doing?”
“You were burning in the sun, so I saved you.”
A swell of satisfaction rose from my chest at having saved her. As I sheepishly rubbed my nose with my thumb,
Hippolyte, frowning at my fuss, wiped the sweat from her forehead with her palm.
“...Burning? Saved? Ah, the black smoke—that's just me purifying and expelling tainted mana.”
“Tainted mana?”
“Think of it as hellish magic power. Lately, my body's been filling up with it for some reason. The Hades Festival, maybe?”
She rose to her feet.
“Looks like you're here for training again today. I figured you'd run off after a few days.”
Hippolyte spoke as if my showing up every two or three days at this training ground was astonishing.
Honestly, her sessions were that brutal—getting pummeled, rolling in the mud. I wanted to bolt four or five times an hour.
I'd thought about quitting too.
But the one gold I'd paid for private lessons wasn't refundable, so I decided to stick it out and learn.
Plus, whether she'd tweaked my body or her training plan was genius, after feeling like death during sessions, I'd wake up fine at home and think, "Might as well go again today."
And peeking into Hippolyte's private life like this? Worth the price of admission.
Though it felt like I owed her extra for that. I kept my mouth shut.
* * *
Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh-!
Hippolyte's fists grazed my right cheek, left cheek, then right again in rapid succession.
She wasn't holding back on purpose—I'd really bulged my eyes and dodged her attacks.
Her training was always straightforward: dodge three consecutive strikes, and you pass.
My body was perpetually covered in bruises and welts.
But maybe the last few days' efforts were paying off, because today I dodged all three before the eighth bruise formed.
“Whew-.”
Still exhausting as hell, I panted, shoulders heaving, when Hippolyte tossed me a towel from somewhere and murmured,
“Your form's improved. Even Antiope took a year to reach that level. Guess Samaritans do have talent.”
“You think so?”
“More importantly, you've got a lot of scars and wounds on you.”
Her gaze drifted to my bare torso. Beyond the fresh marks from her, recent scars had multiplied.
Probably from testing Necromancy on off days and sparring the minions I'd summoned for training.
Maybe that's why today's training felt easier—the experience helped.
Even I had to admit, I'd been putting in real effort lately. When was the last time I'd worked this hard at anything since birth?
If I'd studied with this passion, Mom would've been thrilled—such a silly thought as I caught my breath. Hippolyte said,
“If you're getting hurt that bad, it must've been rough. You doing adventurer gigs on the side?”
“Just hunting some goblins.”
Of course, the wounds came from real goblin gangs, but I couldn't say that. As I brushed it off,
Hippolyte furrowed her brow.
“Goblins, goblins. Getting scarred by mere goblins? Makes me question the point of that training.”
She seemed disillusioned that I'd been injured by goblins after all her hard work.
Then, as if struck by a thought, she added,
“Then again, goblins these days aren't what they used to be. Hobgoblin subjugation counts are matching their rank now, and they say hobgoblins have shown up in droves. Even blue goblins appeared in the eastern forest recently.”
“Blue goblins in the eastern forest?”
“Yeah, some rookies from the Minerva Guild took them down, but blue goblins and hobgoblins? Tartarus's foul minions growing bold.”
Hippolyte clearly had plenty on her mind about the goblin surge lately.
High-ranking adventurers like her might know the cause. I asked,
“Any idea why goblins are multiplying like this?”
“Who knows people's affairs can know monsters'? But from the rumors...”
Hippolyte cut herself off.
She brushed it off with, “Nah, it's unconfirmed—pretend you didn't hear.”
Damn, cutting off mid-sentence.
Her tongue was sharper than the fists that'd battered me moments ago.
“What about the goblins? What were you going to say?”
“Secret. You didn't hear it.”
But Hippolyte's guard was ironclad; no cracking her. Curiosity burning, I resorted to the forbidden method.
Rustle.
I raised one finger toward her.
“Tell me quick, or I'll use the finger.”
“Guh, th-that's...!”
I twirled my index finger in the air, and Hippolyte flailed in panic.
Poke.
Something sharp and hard poked out against her sweat-and-water-soaked crop top.
“Oh?”
“Ahem-!”
She cleared her throat awkwardly and crossed her arms over her chest.
“Fine, I'll tell you. But, ahem, don't say you heard it from me.”
Calming herself with crossed arms, she glanced around, confirmed no eavesdroppers, then continued.
“Word is, the goblins' king has appeared. King of goblins and orcs, those vile green-skins.”
“Really?”
“Not certain. But if it's true, Actaeon and I will have to hunt it down. The thing's bound to be damn strong.”
If it took Actaeon and Hippolyte to subjugate...
Stronger than I'd imagined.
“Antiope might beat us to it. The temple knights are sensitive to those tales.”
“Antiope? Don't the temple knights only handle hellish magic stuff?”
“Exactly why they'd move. The goblin king's rumored to be hell's spawn, a descendant of Tartarus—my little sister's...”
She trailed off again. Narrowing her eyes, she stared into the distance—more precisely, past my shoulder at her house.
“Just to check—no trouble with Antiope? Or know something about my sister?”
“...Huh? Antiope? What're you suddenly...?”
“No, she's been off lately. Always was erratic, coming and going, chopping her hair or changing looks on whims. But these days...”
Hippolyte suspected something had happened to her sister Antiope. Naturally, I had my guesses.
Gold-tier adventurer instincts, huh.
Nailing the truth from the start.
Sharp as hell.
But I couldn't just say, “I enslaved Antiope as my holy warrior slave!”
So I lied.
“Dunno. No idea.”
Lying's weird. The first couple times, it felt criminal, heart-pounding fear of getting caught.
Now? Stone-faced, bold-faced lies roll off easy.
Maybe I had a talent for deceit.
Necromancy talent.
Lying talent.
Fuck, all the bad shit.
It was starting to scare me, my own potential.
What was this world trying to turn me into?
Shivering at my own depravity, Hippolyte dropped,
“Oh, right—Antiope wants to meet you this evening.”
“Me?”
“Probably cult stuff. You've been tangled up with them. What else would my sister want with you?”
“Yeah, makes sense.”
I gave a vague reply. But her eyes lingered on me, hazy.
Alone with the sister-in-law.
That vibe.
Ridiculous, of course.
Evening came.
Before heading to the shack, I went to the North Gate inn where Antiope had set up the meet.
Sodomora's North Gate was sparsely populated—perfect for secretive rendezvous.
Antiope calling me here.
Why?
Tense, I found the rundown inn. Dingy, decrepit—no place you'd expect a temple knight.
The highest, most remote room.
I knocked. Movement inside.
Rustle, rustle.
“It's me.”
Short and sweet, I opened the door.
A small rickety bed. On it, a woman fidgeting, leg bouncing as she smoked a pipe.
Jitter-jitter-jitter-.
Black leather from wrists to ankles—like she was about to hop on a motorcycle. Tattoos, smoking, tanning, biker vibe.
Antiope was a total thug.
But the white-blonde hair, tanned skin, and black leather suited her. Expensive leather too—nicer than my alligator hide. Damn, jealous.
“So, why'd you wanna see me?”
I asked her coolly, no hint of fluster, like bossing a subordinate.
To her, I should be a god now.
Not sure if my act worked.
The jittery pipe-smoker startled and mumbled,
“Y-you said... report once a week... right?”
“Yeah.”
I'd said it casually, but she'd remembered. Smarter than I thought?
“So, what've you got to report?”
I shut the inn door. Antiope's leg-jiggling ramped up, anxious as hell. Then she stood.
And started unbuttoning her leather outfit, one by one.
What? The fuck?
I couldn't help but be thrown.
Soon, her toned nude body emerged.
“...Tattoo... not inked yet... reporting...”
Ah, the tattoo report.
A capable woman baring herself, enduring deep shame.
She barely covered vitals with palms and arms, but that made it lewder—I felt blood rush to dick and head instantly.
Never expected this much.
What would a ruthless god, a vile villain say? Racking my brain, I went cold:
“Move your hands to see properly. Let me check.”