Cheonsol's Pregnancy (2)
The original Impregnating skill looked like this.
Impregnates a partner through sexual intercourse. Regardless of species, the impregnated female lays an egg, from which a child hatches bearing the racial traits of both a human and the partner's species.
* Usable only on the opposite sex.
* Pregnancy is guaranteed upon skill use.
* Incubation time varies by racial value. Maximum 90 days.
* The child is born with at least one of the father's talents and at least one skill other than Impregnating. Depending on probability, the child may also inherit the mother's talents.
* Hatched offspring reach adulthood within one year.
* Children conceived without the skill follow average pregnancy and growth periods, but are born with at least two initial talents instead.
On top of that, I'd discovered two more hidden options.
* Extremely low chance of laying multiple eggs.
* When re-engaging in combat within one month against a target you used Impregnating on but failed to claim, physical abilities are enhanced.
Even during our last close-quarters scrap, I'd already been stronger than Cheonsol. And now it was going to buff me even further?
"Cheonsol. You ever heard of the fire truck game?"
"Yohan, not again! Not more of that nonsense!"
Sophia was having a full-blown meltdown, which killed any desire I had to explain. Cheonsol just laughed it off.
"This lady knows not what a fire truck is. Nor does she grasp the meaning of that vulgar battle cry of yours. However — this lady was the former Pope of the Absolu Church. Come. This lady shall show you precisely why she became Pope."
"Now we're talking."
The moment Cheonsol unleashed her aura, my skin prickled. It was a sensation I'd never felt while farming newbies — the kind you only got from certain top-tier players back when that trash game still had a pro league.
This. This was a real fight.
We eyed each other with swords in hand, each in our own style. Having already clashed once, there was no need for a long, drawn-out probing phase.
"Nothing left but a conversation of the body!"
"Th-the body?!"
Cheonsol recoiled in horror and flung out a blade of sword-qi. I'd meant nothing weird by it, yet she'd gone and twisted it all on her own and freaked out. Unforgivable.
Shiiing—
A cross-shaped slash of sword-qi came screaming toward me. Enhanced by Iron Man and the buff from Impregnating, my dynamic vision locked onto the blade's wind-beating speed and tracked it clean.
Normally I'd have just glanced at the trajectory, predicted the path, and dodged. This time I watched it with my naked eyes and stepped clear.
Because it was a cross, a simple head-tilt wasn't going to cut it. Maybe I'd made the diagonal dodge too obvious — Cheonsol was already lining up a follow-up.
"Bloodlight Sword Art, Third Form."
"That's the problem with you martial-world types."
Even in games, there were always those wuxia-obsessed idiots who shouted the name of every technique the second they used it.
"Bloodstream Tidal Wave."
A surge of sword-qi over two meters high came rolling in like a tidal wave. It spread not just upward but to both sides — an attack you couldn't simply dodge around.
I still hadn't awakened to mana. And the sword-qi was far too ferocious to trust Iron Man's durability alone. Charging straight through was out of the question — but thanks to Cheonsol thoughtfully announcing her technique and giving me time to prepare, I'd already found an escape route.
I drove power into my legs and kicked off the ground.
"I believe I can fly!"
I vaulted clean over the wave. Cheonsol sent another slash of sword-qi after me, but it skimmed past under my feet. She'd clearly predicted the speed I'd shown last time with Impregnating — only the me of right now was a little stronger than the me of back then.
"Why do something so stupid as shouting your technique names and giving the other guy time to counter?"
"Bloodstream Tidal Wave!"
She shouted the name again, but the path her blade traced was completely different. A fake — or, to put it a little cruder, she'd been going for a verbal feint.
An ordinary person would've fallen for it. But I saw everything. The instant my feet touched down, Cheonsol shot forward like a snake.
A speed even my enhanced eyes could barely track. But the trajectory was far too straightforward. She was charging in a straight line to maximize velocity, which only made it worse for her.
I planted my feet to put my full weight behind a horizontal slash. At the exact peak of my power, my blade met Cheonsol's.
Clang!
The hunk of metal shuddered under the impact, sending the shock straight into the hand gripping the hilt. I bled off the force with Iron Man's durability and technique; Cheonsol seemed to manage it with internal energy.
"Mad Demon! Use your internal energy!"
"Sorry, but I don't have any yet."
"What? Even so, this lady shall show no mercy!"
Cheonsol's sword wasn't even a proper item — just cheap scrap. But the sword-qi coating the edge made my common-grade longsword the weaker of the two. It was trembling like it was about to snap, so I tried to deflect her blade — only for Cheonsol, who'd read the play, to stick to me relentlessly.
So she was planning to trash my weapon with raw sword-qi advantage. But could she really beat me in a pure contest of technique?
Beyond Oriental, the last trash game I'd played, plenty of other titles featured sword-wielding characters. Some of those styles had been built with consultation from real modern fencing experts; others were pure fabrications of the developers' imaginations.
The impractical ones all died out. What remained were techniques reinvented by geniuses who'd awakened their talents in-game, each in their own way.
Those geniuses walked the pro-gamer path, which meant twenty-second-century tech tore their play apart frame by frame. Ordinary people couldn't replicate even a hundredth of the analyzed data — but a handful of slightly less gifted pros found countermeasures, and the geniuses evolved again in response. A perfect feedback loop.
I never walked the pro path myself. I just looped their footage over and over and stole their techniques.
"In the world you came from, martial arts weren't casually passed down, right? You never analyzed them from every angle, hundreds or thousands of times over either."
"Martial arts are sacred! Of course one must uphold the principle of never teaching the unworthy!"
"And that's why you're going to lose."
A Wudang-sect otaku had once created a sword style he claimed embodied the profound principles of the Taiji. In Oriental, it had been the inspiration behind a character modeled on Zhang Sanfeng.
My blade drooped and swayed as if it couldn't swat a single fly — and slipped her sword cleanly downward. Cheonsol tried desperately to regain control, but my technique was far superior.
I used her own force against her, pushing and pulling the blade, then drove power through it in a single instant and flung it aside.
"Titty slap!"
"This lady will not fall for that twice!"
She'd thrown her own feints earlier, yet somehow never expected to be on the receiving end. The part I was aiming for wasn't her chest. My longsword carved across Cheonsol's forearm.
"A wound of this degree is nothing!"
Skin met skin and temporarily sealed the cut. That little trick required internal energy too. The more her attention split, the more openings she left.
"Head! Chest! Belly! Chest! Head!"
I called out the three body zones of an ant and carved into every gap. At first Cheonsol still reacted to my words; after getting hit a few times, she could only lament.
"This lady has made a grave error. She should never have lent an ear to the Mad Demon's words."
"Bernard Werber!"
That author who'd been quite the big deal in the early twenty-first century! The original writer behind Empire of the Ants, a masterpiece film of the late twenty-first! I poured the impression I'd gotten from stumbling across his work in my school days straight into my sword.
Cheonsol's clothes tore open, and the bandages tumbled to the floor. Her lower garments barely held on, flashing her panties — but they didn't steal my gaze.
Not quite on Sophia's level, but still large enough that anyone would call them ample. Pink nipples set just slightly below the center of each breast.
"This lady was caught off guard last time — she will not fall for the same ploy again!"
While I was staring at her chest, Cheonsol launched a decisive strike. She didn't even call the technique name this time, but the blade carried the same ferocious power as before.
It curved like a butterfly, trying to seduce the eye — but I didn't take the bait. I struck the exact center of her sword. Following the trembling of her chest — no, of her blade — under the impact, I rode the edge down its length.
Cheonsol was already preparing her next move, but I simply applied force and made her drop the sword entirely.
Clink. Clatter-clink.
"Round and plump."
"More nonsense!"
"Dropping your sword. A disgrace to any martial artist."
"Blood Hound Fist!"
What? Blood dog fist? Was she asking me to fuck her like a dog? I slipped past Cheonsol's fist techniques — a notch below her swordsmanship — and dragged the fight to the ground.
I kicked her legs out from under her, toppled her, and mounted her. The moment our bodies pressed together, my cock stood at full attention.
"Kh! This lady has not lost yet!"
"You look damn good when you struggle. Resistance is half the fun."
I pinned her wrists and feinted a headbutt — then buried my face in her chest. Whether it was a trait of the Vampir race, a faint scent of blood tickled my nose.
"Does a vampire's chest taste like blood?"
"Did this lady not tell you never to compare her to those lesser vampire breeds?! This lady is a proud Vampir!"
"Then does the noble Lady Vampir's chest taste like blood?"
I gave her breast a light nibble and toyed with the nipple.
"Hnnngh!"
I'd only brushed her nipple with my tongue, and the strength drained from Cheonsol's body. It lasted only a fraction of a second before she recovered — but we both knew.
"You felt that, didn't you?"
"What nonsense! This lady was merely startled that a tongue touched a place she had not permitted another to touch!"
"How long can you keep up the bluff?"
I nipped lightly at Cheonsol's nipple. A Vampir's body ran a little cold.
"Hieuk!"
"Sensitive nipples. You didn't seem this sensitive when I was slapping them last time."
"W-wait. This is no longer a sacred duel, is it? We— hnn! Do not lick while this lady is speaking! Is the Mad Demon truly an infant?! No milk comes from this lady's breasts!"
"Estrogen comes out instead."
"Es—? Whatever it is, it matters not! Do not speak into this lady's chest! Hngh! Do not even breathe! It tickles!"
If it tickled, the natural thing to do was keep tormenting her. I deliberately breathed hard against her chest as I licked. Sadly, there wasn't much of a taste — but the coolness made it feel like licking ice.
"Hnnnaah..."
When I suckled her nipple like a baby, a sweet moan slipped into Cheonsol's voice. I teased her until the nipple warmed, then worked lower, licking the underside of her breast while breathing hot against the tip — and Cheonsol looked ready to die of pleasure.