Chapter 6: Saving the Faithful Wife and The Reckoning
The blow struck like a falling anvil.
Lyra’s world exploded into white-hot agony and crushing darkness. One second she was pivoting, dagger slicing through a leering level 10 goblin’s throat, the hot spray of its vile blood painting her cheek; the next, thunder detonated between her shoulder blades. The hobgoblin’s club, swung with brutal, crushing force by a level 16 brute who’d flanked her unnoticed, connected with sickening finality. Air blasted from her lungs. Bones screamed. Her body lifted, weightless for a horrifying instant, then slammed into the unforgiving earth, rolling like a broken doll over sharp rocks and tangled roots.
This is it, the thought screamed through the shattering pain as consciousness flickered like a guttering candle. The violation. The tearing, the biting, the endless defilement by filthy hands and worse. Her mind clawed for hope – Marcus, strong and righteous, bursting through like a hero from the ballads. Or Yeng… foolish, impossible hope. Her novice son, swallowed by that green tide hundreds-strong. Survival wasn't luck; it was impossibility. A single, hot tear carved a path through grime and blood on her cheek as the image of filthy, grinning goblin faces surged towards her crumpled form, their intentions hideously clear. Never the same. Never…
Then, a blur. A dark shape erupting like a vengeful shadow between her and the closing maw of green teeth and grasping claws. A back she knew, broad-shouldered, impossibly standing against the tide. Yeng? But… how? It made no sense. The sight offered no comfort, only the certainty of his impending, sacrificial death. The darkness surged, thick and absolute, swallowing her last spark of terrified thought.
Yeng materialized in the clearing like a specter made manifest, the Omni-System’s shrill alarm echoing in his skull: LYRA STATUS: CRITICAL! HP: 2%. STAMINA: 1%. CONDITION: UNCONSCIOUS. MULTIPLE FRACTURES. INTERNAL TRAUMA. The scene burned into his retinas: his mother’s broken form, partially naked where leather armor had been torn away. Creamy skin, shockingly pale against the dirt, marred by deep bruises and gashes. The swell of one breast exposed, nipple thankfully shielded by a frayed scrap of cloth, a flash of creamy thigh. The hobgoblins, already moving in with grunting anticipation, the Champion at the rear hefting its spiked maul, eyes gleaming with obscene promise.
A cold, volcanic fury, utterly alien and utterly consuming, erupted within Yeng. It bypassed thought, bypassed conscience. He moved. One fluid step placed him squarely between Lyra and the advancing monsters. From his spatial storage, a heavy woolen blanket snapped out, unfurling with a thwump to cover her vulnerable form. Only then did he turn fully towards the goblinoid horde.
A smile touched his lips. Not warm, not pleasant. It was the baring of teeth by a predator acknowledging worthy prey, and the intoxicating freedom of unleashed power. No witnesses. No need for masks. The system hummed: USER LEVEL: 23. PRIMARY TARGET: GOBLIN CHAMPION (Lvl 17).
He didn’t roar. He simply vanished from his spot.
Reappearing amidst the two remaining level 12 goblins flanking the nearest hobgoblin, his new sword – a level 15 blade of hardened steel – became a silvery blur. A horizontal slash decapitated one goblin mid-snarl; a reverse stroke plunged up under the chin of the second, bursting through its skull. Before the bodies crumpled, he was pivoting. The level 16 hobgoblin’s crude axe whistled through empty air as Yeng ducked low, his own blade shearing through thick tendons at the back of the creature’s knee. It bellowed, toppling forward. Yeng’s boot stamped down on its neck with a sickening crunch.
Speed. Precision. Overwhelming force. He was a whirlwind of death. The system guided his movements – a feint here drawing a hobgoblin’s swing wide, leaving it open for a disemboweling thrust; a swift parry deflecting a club, followed by a pommel strike shattering a jaw. The new plate armor turned aside desperate clawing attacks as if they were nothing. Goblin blood, thick and dark, sprayed, coating his armor, spattering his face, matting his long black hair. He moved through them like a farmer scything wheat. EXP GAINED. EXP GAINED. TARGET ELIMINATED. The notifications were a silent counterpoint to the wet, tearing sounds and gurgling screams.
The Champion roared, its earlier confidence replaced by dawning terror as it watched its elite guard decimated in seconds. It hefted its massive maul, its knuckles white on the haft.
Yeng flicked blood from his blade, meeting the Champion’s beady eyes. "Your turn."
The Champion charged, bellowing, swinging the maul in a devastating overhead arc meant to pulverize stone. Yeng didn’t dodge. He raised his left hand. Three shimmering bolts of pure force – Magic Missiles – streaked out, impacting the Champion’s chest in rapid succession. Thump! Thump! Thump! It staggered, roaring in surprise and pain. Yeng followed, sword clashing against the heavy maul haft. Sparks flew. The Champion was stronger, its blows earth-shaking, forcing Yeng to give ground strategically, parrying, deflecting, using his superior agility.
Minutes stretched, an eternity of clashing steel, grunts, and the Champion’s increasingly panicked bellows. Yeng landed calculated cuts – a deep gash on a thick forearm, a slice across the thigh. He felt the monster tiring, its movements becoming sluggish. He baited it, stepping back as if winded. The Champion lunged, overextending. Yeng’s free hand snapped up, palm crackling with coruscating blue energy. TIER 3 SPELL: LIGHTNING GRASP.
He slammed his palm against the Champion’s chainmail-clad chest. Electricity erupted, arcing over the creature’s body with a vicious crackle-hiss. The stench of ozone and burnt flesh filled the air. Black smoke plumed from the point of impact. The Champion froze, muscles locked in agonizing paralysis, eyes wide and unseeing, mouth open in a silent scream.
Yeng didn’t hesitate. His sword flashed in a clean arc. The Champion’s head, still wreathed in tendrils of smoke, tumbled from its shoulders. The massive body followed, crashing to the blood-soaked ground.
Silence descended, broken only by Yeng’s steady breathing and the drip of gore from his blade. He looked at the carnage – dozens of green bodies littering the clearing – then back to the blanket-shrouded form of his mother. The cold fury subsided, replaced by a focused calm. He walked to her, knelt, and carefully gathered her into his arms, lifting her as gently as a groom carrying his bride. With a focused thought, reality shimmered beside the grisly scene. Stone and timber flowed from the earth and air, coalescing instantly into a small, sturdy stone cottage with a thatched roof. He carried Lyra inside, laying her on a simple but soft bed conjured from the ether.
HEALING LIGHT ACTIVATED. Warm, golden radiance enveloped Lyra from his hands, flowing over her broken body. He watched the Omni-System’s readout: fractured ribs knitting, internal bleeding ceasing, deep lacerations closing into pink scars, then fading entirely. HP stabilized at 100%. Stamina began a slow, steady climb from the critical 1%.
The healing light faded. The torn remnants of her leather armor and clothing were mere rags, soaked in blood and grime. They had to go. With detached efficiency, he removed them, stripping her bare. The blanket fell away, revealing the full, unblemished perfection the healing magic had restored. Creamy skin, the elegant curve of her spine, the swell of her hips, the firm, high breasts tipped with delicate pink nipples. He stood for a moment, looking. Then his hands moved.
His touch was deliberate, almost clinical at first. Palms smoothed over her shoulders, down her arms. Fingers traced the line of her collarbone, then cupped the full weight of one breast. The skin was warm, soft, yielding. He kneaded gently, feeling the firmness beneath. His thumb brushed across the tightened nipple. Lyra, deep in unconsciousness, let out a soft, breathy moan. He repeated the motion on the other breast, eliciting another sigh, deeper this time. His hand slid lower, tracing the dip of her waist, the curve of her flank, the smooth plane of her abdomen. Down, over the gentle swell of her hip, fingers sliding through the soft, bald puffy mound at the apex of her thighs – bald, perfect, soft, and pink – finding the warm, hidden folds beneath. He cupped her mound possessively, feeling the softness, the heat radiating from her core. His thumb found the small, sensitive bud of her pink clit and began slow, rhythmic circles.
Lyra’s body responded instinctively. Soft whimpers escaped her lips. Her hips pressed faintly upwards against his hand, seeking more friction. Her breathing deepened, becoming ragged little gasps interspersed with low moans. The Omni-System confirmed it: LYRA STAMINA: 5%... 7%... 10%... RISING. The stimulation was jump-starting her body’s recovery. He continued, watching her face, seeing the flush spread across her cheeks, the way her lips parted. He explored the slickness gathering between her folds with his fingers, the intimate heat a stark contrast to the cool air of the cottage. He worked her until her stamina climbed steadily past 30%, her body trembling with involuntary pleasure even in its unconscious state.
Then, as clinically as he began, he stopped. The Omni-System shimmered. In moments, Lyra was clothed again, not in rags, but in supple, dark leather armor far superior to her old gear. Level 15 Rogue’s Shadowweave: flexible, reinforced at vital points, imbued with subtle enchantments for stealth and protection. It fit her perfectly, hugging her curves like a second skin, yet offering serious defense. He pulled a clean blanket over her sleeping form.
Yeng stood. The scent of blood and ozone clung to him. He stepped outside the cottage, back into the grim clearing. His gaze fell on the headless corpse of the Goblin Champion. Expressionless, he walked over, drew a dagger from his spatial storage, and with a few efficient cuts, severed the creature’s thick, greenish 8 inch dick. He held the grotesque trophy for a moment, then stored it away.
The gaping maw of the goblin lair beckoned, dark and foul-smelling. He entered, senses heightened by the Omni-System, painting the twisting tunnels in his mind’s eye. He moved silently, a wraith amidst the stench of filth, offal, and roasting meat that turned his stomach. Deeper he went, past side chambers filled with stolen junk and gnawed bones, until he reached a large central cavern.
The sight was a tableau of despair. Naked, broken female corpses lay discarded in corners, some barely recognizable as human, bearing the brutal evidence of repeated violation and torture before death. Others were fresher, adventurers judging by scattered gear. And against the far wall, chained by their wrists to rusted iron rings embedded in the stone: two girls. Alive. Barely. Their eyes were hollow, vacant. Their bodies, though young, were horrifically bloated with pregnancy, the stretched skin taut over grotesque goblin cubs growing within them. The stench of fear, sweat, and something deeply wrong hung thick.
Yeng’s expression remained impassive, but a coldness settled deep in his gut. He saw a heavy wooden door set into the cavern wall behind the chained girls. He approached it, ignoring their flinch, and pushed it open.
Inside, huddled together like terrified rats in a small, filthy nursery chamber, were at least ten goblin cubs. Their eyes, wide with primal fear, fixed on the blood-splattered human warrior in the doorway. There was no hesitation, no moral debate for Yeng. The system had already calculated the threat trajectory of goblin-kind. He drew his sword. It was swift. Efficient. Terrible. High-pitched shrieks were cut brutally short. When he stepped back into the main cavern, his armor was freshly spattered with dark green ichor.
He walked towards the two chained girls. They whimpered, shrinking back, their vacant eyes showing a flicker of animal terror. Yeng placed a hand gently but firmly on each of their foreheads. The Omni-System activated at his command. PURGE FOREIGN BIOLOGICAL ENTITIES. SELECTIVE MEMORY ERASURE: CAPTIVITY PERIOD. A faint, golden light pulsed from his palms, sinking into their skulls. Their bodies convulsed once, violently, as if expelling poison. The unnatural swell of their bellies visibly deflated, the parasitic life within extinguished instantly. Their eyes fluttered, the raw terror and crushing despair fading, replaced by a dazed, almost childlike confusion. They were clean. Unbroken. Oblivious to the horror they’d endured.
They couldn’t walk, weak and disoriented. Knowing the treacherous path back to the Oasis was impossible for them, Yeng gathered them up, one under each arm. He focused. TELEPORT: OASIS PERIMETER. The lair vanished, replaced by the familiar, sun-baked air outside the Oasis walls. He laid the girls gently on the packed earth. Another flicker of the Omni-System clothed them in simple, sturdy linen shifts. They stirred, blinking in the sudden sunlight, bewildered but free. He didn't wait. TELEPORT: GOBLIN LAIR CLEARING.
He reappeared beside the stone cottage. He took a moment, cleansing the blood and grime from his armor and skin with a minor spell. Then he entered the cottage. Lyra still slept peacefully on the bed, her breathing deep and even, the new armor gleaming softly in the dim light. He approached the bed, reached into his spatial storage, and retrieved the severed goblin trophy dick.
He held it inches from her face.
Lyra stirred. A soft sigh escaped her lips. Her eyelids fluttered, heavy with the remnants of deep, healing sleep. Consciousness returned slowly, bringing with it the fading echoes of terror – the crushing blow, the certain doom. Then, the scent of clean linen, safety, and… something else. Metallic. Coppery. Foul. Her eyes opened, adjusting to the dim light.
Directly before her, filling her vision, was the thick, severed length of the Goblin Champion’s 8 inch cock. Dark green, veined, glistening faintly, grotesque and undeniable. Her breath hitched, a choked gasp tearing from her throat. Her eyes, wide with shock and dawning horror, her mind raced thinking that she is going to get violated by the champions cock, knowing that she will never look at Marcus the same ever again once she’s been fuck by this superior dick.
"You're safe now," Yeng stated, his voice quiet, steady, but carrying the weight of absolute certainty and an undercurrent of something far more dangerous. Lyra jolted in surprise both unexpectedly and arousing as she heard the voice of her alpha son that she touch suck and fuck at the inn while she thinks that he is sleeping unaware of her riding and fucking him. He lower the trophy and put it flushed against Lyra’s face."This is what you could’ve been fucking if you got caught mom, were you disappointed or upset that you didn’t get to experience such a dick? I bet dad’s isn’t even close to this? Look at you so mesmerized by it and you’re supposed to be faithful and loyal to Marcus."
Relief warred with visceral disgust at the thing held flushed against her face, and a deeper, colder dread at his demeanor. He probably saved her. He probably fought… impossibly. He maybe healed her. But this…
"But," he continued, his gaze locking onto hers, holding her frozen, "you owe me your life, Lyra. A significant debt." He leaned forward slightly, the air thickening with tension. "And I intend to collect, mom. Plus I know that you are confused to how I was able to save you. I bought lots of powerful spell while we were at the Oasis with most of my money and it saved both our life." The lie to keep Lyra and anyone from knowing how powerful Yeng really is.
Lyra recoiled from the grotesque trophy, bile rising in her throat, but the sheer, overwhelming relief of seeing him, not the monster, cut through the disgust. His words, however, landed with chilling weight – a debt collector’s calm pronouncement. "Owe you?" she rasped, pushing herself up on the bed, the supple new leather armor creaking softly, her voice still raw. Her mind raced: the impossible rescue, the healing, this cottage that hadn’t been here before, his unnerving calm. "Yeng... what in the Nine Hells happened? Hundreds of them..." Her gaze flickered past him to the cottage door, half-expecting the foul stench of the goblin lair to linger.
A slow, teasing smile curved her lips, a mask slipping into place over the fear and confusion. She shifted, letting the blanket pool around her waist, the shadowweave armor emphasizing the swell of her breasts. "But thank you, darling son," she purred, her voice regaining its practiced, smoky lilt, "for saving poor, helpless mommy." Her fingers traced her collarbone, eyes locked on his with deliberate heat. "Truly heroic. Though... flaunting that disgusting thing? Trying to give me ideas?" She gave a throaty laugh, trying to sound dismissive, yet her eyes lingered a fraction too long on the grotesque trophy he’d lowered. "And don't you worry about your father, sweetie. Marcus is... very well endowed." She forced the words out, adding a suggestive wink. "Plenty to handle. You really don't need to know the specifics."
Inside, she burned with the lie. Marcus’s average four inches, always perfectly serviceable before, now felt laughably inadequate next to the memory of the dead champion's thick eight – and utterly dwarfed by the impossible, breathtaking image of Yeng’s enormous cock she'd witnessed, heavy and thick, resting on his thigh when she thought him asleep. Heat flooded her cheeks, a fierce blush betraying her forced bravado. "But seriously, Yeng," she pressed, leaning forward, voice dropping to a husky whisper, desperate to deflect and uncover the truth, "how did you get through that swarm? Hundreds, darling. Even a level 20 would struggle. Did you sprout wings?" Her eyes searched his face, the green depths revealing nothing.
Yeng didn’t blink. "Magic scroll," he stated flatly, his voice a low rumble. "Bought several powerful ones back at the Oasis. Expensive. Used them all." He gestured vaguely towards the door. "Blasted my way through. It was enough." His gaze remained steady, impenetrable. The lie, delivered with absolute conviction, hung in the air. Lyra stared, skepticism warring with the lack of other plausible explanation. The sheer power suggested… but scrolls could do that, theoretically, if you found the right vendor and had the gold. He saw the hesitation flicker in her eyes, then a reluctant acceptance dampen her probing intensity. He’d sold it.
Relieved the immediate scrutiny faded, Lyra tilted her head, letting her dark hair fall over one shoulder. Her voice softened into a near-slur, thick with a feigned innocence that couldn't mask the underlying hunger. "Just so you know, honey," she murmured, tracing the edge of the blanket, "I'm not some cheap tavern wench who'll just... succumb..." She paused, the word hanging suggestively, "...just because a man has a bigger cock than her husband." She fumbled, color deepening on her neck. "I mean... bigger or... or similar! Similar to her husband!" The correction was clumsy, desperate, her eyes darting away before snapping back, wide with flustered panic. "Marcus is... perfectly... comparable!"
Yeng didn't react to her stammering lie. Instead, a genuine, warm smile touched his lips, softening the harsh planes of his face. He leaned closer, the scent of ozone and clean leather replacing the lingering foulness. Slowly, deliberately, he lifted his hand. His calloused palm cupped her cheek, his thumb brushing the still-flushed skin with a tenderness that stole her breath. "I'm just glad you're safe, Mom," he said, his voice low and resonant, the simple words carrying a weight that vibrated through her bones.
The contact was electric. Lyra gasped, a jolt shooting straight down her spine, igniting every nerve ending, pooling as a sudden, shocking wetness between her thighs. Her core clenched, her pussy growing slick and hot instantly. The intensity of her reaction, the sheer need his touch and words evoked, ripped through her carefully constructed defenses. The cottage walls seemed to vanish. Her loyalty to Marcus crumbled to dust in that instant, replaced by a consuming, forbidden hunger. Her lips parted, the truth, the desperate yearning she’d suppressed since that night in the Oasis, surged up, unstoppable. "Yeng... I... I want..." The words choked her, burning her tongue. I want that incest cock, son. I want you to fuck me. Fuck your father’s loyal, faithful wife. Make him a cuck, because compared to you now, Marcus seems like nothing... just a cuck in my eyes... The confession teetered on the precipice of utterance.
A sharp, urgent rapping echoed through the small stone cottage, hard knuckles against solid oak. "Lyra?!" The voice that followed, strained with fear and exhaustion, was agonizingly, terrifyingly familiar. "Lyra! Are you in there? Gods, please... Yeng?!" It was Marcus.