Chapter 121: Chapter 121: Hasa of Nopieum
"...Ohh."
The sound slipped out of Aiden before he could stop it, torn between awe and disbelief.
His eyes widened, pupils dilating in the gloom as though struggling to drink in what lay before him.
A secret chamber had opened like the mouth of the earth, and within its hushed walls he beheld something not wrought of steel or stone, but of quiet humanity.
There, upon a low wooden cot, a woman lay as if sculpted from dawnlight itself.
Her body was soft, plump, draped in a gown of green so deep it seemed grown from the very tree that cradled the room.
A circlet of living wood crowned her faintly glowing hair, strands the color of forest spring, bound in braids that had come undone in her sleep.
Her chest rose and fell in fragile rhythm, one arm curved around the small form of a child pressed against her.
The little girl’s fingers clutched the fabric of her mother’s gown, even in unconsciousness refusing to let go.
Something beautiful. Something utterly—utterly—gorgeous.
Aiden’s throat caught. It felt wrong to even breathe, as though the mere sound might fracture this hidden scene.
The stench of death from the city outside had not crept into this room; here lingered only the faint scent of crushed leaves and honeyed wood. It was sanctuary, untouched.
And yet his body, damn it, his body betrayed him.
A raw itch stirred low in his gut, crawling like shame across his nerves. Heat flushed into him.
Not now.
Not the time for this.
He clenched his fists, trying to shove down the primal throb. But his eyes... gods, his eyes drank her in.
The curve of hip, the swell of thigh beneath fabric. His thoughts snarled with contradictions: reverence and hunger, awe and ache.
’Should I wake them? She looks like nobility. Maybe royalty.
Royals mean danger—powerful, unpredictable, the kind who could command armies with a glance. If she wakes angry—’
But before reason finished whispering, instinct had already betrayed him.
His hand moved of its own accord, as though some idiot part of him thought this was the time for daring.
His palm pressed against her plump buttock, fingers sinking into soft flesh through the green gown.
The fabric was warm, impossibly soft—like moss after rain.
And then—
Her eyes snapped open.
Not sluggish, not dazed. Wide, blazing green eyes shot open with predator sharpness.
Her hand flicked.
Power flared.
Before Aiden even understood what had happened, the world spun.
His body slammed backward, armor smashing into wood with a bone-crunching crack.
The wall splintered beneath his weight. Air punched out of his lungs in one violent cough.
"...Fuck," he thought, vision swimming. He slumped to the floor, ribs burning, back screaming as if fire licked every nerve.
"...that... fucking... hurt."
The sound had awakened Arina.
She shot to her feet in an instant, the faint golden shimmer of her aura sparking into readiness.
Her sword was already in her hand before her mind had finished catching up.
The sudden clash of noise and mana in this silent chamber carved the moment into jagged edges. Her thoughts raced: The bastard. He’s back. He’s here. We’re not safe.
Instinct drove her blade. Swift, precise, honed by years of battle. She lunged toward the source of motion, sword angling for the throat.
Her strike halted with a whisper of steel, the blade grazing skin. A droplet of blood blossomed against pale flesh.
The figure before her was not a demon. Not the abomination she expected.
But an elf.
A woman.
She was clutching her child tightly, the little girl stirring awake with a frightened whimper.
"...Human. Me, no harm." Her voice trembled, the words broken, clumsy.
Her accent was thick, each syllable weighed with fear that was not for herself but for the child pressed against her.
Arina’s breath caught. She scanned her quickly: no armor, no weapons, only the flowing green gown.
Only the desperate curl of arms around her daughter.
Slowly, she withdrew the sword. The tension left the steel, though not her muscles. "...You’re both lucky," she muttered.
The elf’s chest heaved. Her hair spilled around her crown like vines in the wind. Slowly, her eyes—light green, trembling with wary light—lifted to Arina’s.
At the corner, Aiden groaned. He was slumped against the wall, head lolling, half-conscious.
Arina frowned. "....Why did you attack him?"
The elf woman’s hand darted to her side, touching the curve of her hip, the fabric where Aiden’s fingers had left their trespass.
Her cheeks flushed with a mix of outrage and shame.
"No. That human... touch. Me."
Arina blinked once. Then twice.
Then sighed. A smile tugged unwilling at her lips. "...Men. I understand."
Her tone was both weary and mocking, as though she had already lived a thousand versions of this story.
She looked again at the elf woman, tilting her head. "You speak some English. Good. Saves me from mangling your tongue."
But her gaze had already returned to Aiden, who lay crumpled and useless.
She crouched beside him, tugged off her gauntlet, raised her bare hand. Her shadow stretched across his battered face.
"Wake up, you pervert."
Slap.
The sound cracked across the chamber.
Slap.
Slap.
By the fourth, Aiden’s eyes snapped open with a gasp. His whole body protested, pain spiking down his ribs, his head ringing.
He blinked up into Arina’s grin—the kind of grin that promised no mercy. She slid her gauntlet back on with deliberate menace.
"Wh... what happened?" he croaked.
"What happened?" Arina tilted her head toward the elf, who still stood clutching her child, cheeks burning. "She says you harassed her."
Aiden followed her gaze.
And froze.
The elf woman—plump, regal in the strange, weary way of someone too exhausted for her own majesty—looked back at him with a mixture of fear and anger.
She held her daughter as though the girl were a shield, hiding behind Arina’s sharper presence.
Aiden’s body was still weak, but his hunger stirred again, treacherous, clawing.
Arina’s eyes narrowed. "Don’t."
He shut his mouth, forcing his gaze to the floor.
"...Name," Arina asked gently, turning back to the elf.
The woman hesitated. Then: "...Ilyana. Hasa of ....this region."
The name carried weight. The sound of old forests. A whisper of leaves trembling on the cusp of storm.