The mage's resistance proved fiercer than expected, but Du Wei had his methods to break him.
"Keep a sharp eye on him—don't let him slip away. Remember, he's a mage. As long as you prevent his mana from recovering, he's no threat. A mage without mana is weaker than a common man," Du Wei instructed the two knights tasked with guarding the captive. "Every few hours, douse him with cold water. Ensure he gets no chance to sleep or meditate. Keep him alert, stung by constant irritation."
Mana was nothing but mental vigor. When a man's spirit waned, the simplest path to recovery was sleep—or, for mages, meditation. Deny him that, and a mage was no more than a frail mortal.
Du Wei returned to his chambers, but at the door, he was met by his loyal servant Marde and two knights whose sly grins hinted at mischief.
"What's this about?" Du Wei asked with a mild smile.
"Young master, everything's prepared. Shall you… enter now?" one knight replied, his tone laced with a fawning edge.
Du Wei's brow quirked, not quite catching the meaning. With a wave of his hand, he stepped inside, and Marde promptly shut the door behind him.
This rundown tavern in Giant Wood Village was no place for grand suites, but the room had been tidied to a decent state. What caught Du Wei off guard—and soon explained the knights' knowing smirks—was the sight within.
There, on a chair, sat the long-legged vixen, Rolynn, her spirit visibly sapped. Her wrists and ankles were bound—not with coarse hemp, but with sinewy tendons, a thoughtful touch by his men to ensure their master's… enjoyment wouldn't be interrupted.
As the young noble stepped closer, a Rolynn's heart finally quaked with fear.
This boy looked so young—perhaps too young to harbor the darker desires she dreaded. Yet Rolynn knew her own allure, the kind that stirred men's blood. Her true fear wasn't that he'd act on it—it was that he wouldn't. A boy this young might not yet be swayed by feminine wiles, leaving her greatest weapon useless.
In truth, Rolynn understood her beauty's power over men. That fiery charm had always been her blade, wielded with precision. Across the empire, countless adventuring bands and mercenary crews roamed, yet her tiny, ragtag group had survived—never swallowed by larger factions—because Rolynn knew how to play her gifts.
When needed, she didn't mind a small sacrifice, so long as the trade was worth it. Like the curved dagger gifted by a leering mercenary captain, or the mage she'd recently lured into her band. Men flocked to her flame, and she'd learned to fan those sparks without burning herself.
At twenty, Rolynn was a fox of the rivers and lakes—a cunning survivor. She could twist men's hearts without losing her own, always staying one step ahead. Recruiting a mage was her proudest feat yet; his presence alone could elevate her little crew two ranks in strength.
This trek to Kurt Province was meant as a dodge—a retreat after she'd ensnared a northern baron's heart. The fool, smitten beyond reason, had gifted her a magic-infused leather armor, a family heirloom, after she'd let him graze her charms. Before he could claim more, Rolynn had vanished like mist.
But fate mocked her now. Who'd have thought the south would bring such trouble? A noble with a small army of guards in this backwater? That he'd brazenly flirt in public, heedless of his status? That her mage, who'd boasted of peerless skill, would crumple before a boy?
Damn it all. When he'd whistled at her, she should've bitten her tongue and walked away.
Perhaps, flush with the mage's addition, she'd grown too bold.
Now, watching this half-grown noble draw near, Rolynn sighed inwardly and steeled herself. If he meant to… have his way, she'd endure it—like a ghost passing over her in the night.
What stung worse was the loss of her treasures. The dagger from that mercenary captain, the armor from the besotted baron—painful, but replaceable. But the bow of Gaido's Transient Law, her family's heirloom, a true artifact of breaking magic? That loss cut deep.
As the boy reached her side, his hand grazing her, Rolynn braced for the worst. Her mind raced—how to please him, to win her freedom? Should she feign terror to stroke his ego? Or play the fragile damsel to stir his pity? Or perhaps… yield softly, wholly?
Weighing her options, she settled on innocence—a touch of shy fear, wide-eyed and guileless. Perfect for a boy like this. With luck, she might not only escape but glean some small gain. She'd done it before.
Rolynn began her act. Her eyes fluttered shut, lips parting slightly, lashes trembling like a startled doe's. At twenty, playing the ingénue was a stretch, but this boy likely lacked the experience to notice. His modest retinue suggested no grand lineage—perhaps just a country squire with an inherited title, nothing more.
She was confident in her craft. This look—timid, vulnerable—would soften him, maybe spark desire or mercy alike.
"Please… don't…" she murmured, her voice a delicate plea as his hand slid from her shoulder downward. She twisted subtly, a practiced move to kindle a young man's hunger.
His fingers undid the leather armor's clasps, loosening the tendons. The armor slipped free, leaving her curves bare beneath a thin bandeau. Rolynn knew her body's power and wielded it deftly. She arched her chest, the fabric clinging to her proud form, and cracked an eye to gauge his reaction.
His hands moved to her sides, untying the last cords. The armor fell away entirely. Her pulse quickened—what now? Would he seize her? Press her down? Or would those hands soon climb higher?
Amid her tension, a flicker of anticipation stirred. He was young, yes, but not unpleasant to look at…
Yet something felt… off.
Too calm.
His hands were steady, movements deliberate and gentle. As he stripped the armor, not once did he linger or graze her skin with intent. Even when his fingers brushed sensitive spots, his breath remained even, unshaken.
Rolynn's eyes snapped open. To her dismay, her performance had been for naught. The boy stood before her, engrossed in her armor, studying it with rapt focus. Not a glance spared for her.
Damn it! Was he blind? Or not a man at all?
Her chest heaved, the bandeau straining, her body's subtle signals unmistakable—yet he ignored them. Frustration flared. She coughed lightly, hoping to draw his eye.
No response.
She coughed louder, then louder still, until her throat ached. Absurdity gripped her. Was this boy defective? At his age, he should at least notice.
Finally, as her coughs bordered on desperate—
"Is your throat sore?" Du Wei asked, his tone casual.
He lifted his gaze to meet hers.
But in his eyes gleamed a spark of mockery…