At last, the tenth year of Milin's journey had come to an end. He stood at the edge of the dark forest, alone. His squad had long since perished, torn apart by the horrors of the dark realm—monsters, disease, the merciless hand of fate. This was the culmination of his so-called hero's story.

After vanquishing the Dark Lord, the king had sent him on one final mission: to slay the witch Arachne. No explanation was given—only a command. The king did not say what crime she had committed, nor why she had to die. A hero did not need to understand. A hero simply obeyed.

But Milin remembered the moment that order left the king's lips. He remembered the frustration that boiled inside him, the silent resistance in his heart. Arachne, an enemy? The idea was absurd. To him, she was not a wicked sorceress but an enchantress of mystery, a woman cloaked in shadow yet devoid of cruelty.

Long ago, she had saved him.

Milin's fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword as the memory surfaced. A knight's wrath, his own desperation, the crime of stealing a loaf of bread—he should have died that day, crushed beneath iron boots. But instead, she had intervened. A woman with eyes as deep as the abyss and a voice as smooth as velvet.

"When you grow up, come to my Dark Realm. I will be waiting for you."

The memory of her gaze lingered, enigmatic yet warm. Had she truly been an enemy of Yikarafel? Had she been an ally of the Dark Lord? He had no answers, only questions that had gnawed at him for ten years.

With a heavy heart, he stepped into the depths of the forest.

"I'll find out the truth myself." His thoughts were a mess of uncertainty and frustration. "Damn it, I don't know what the king has against her, but... No, she can't be an enemy of the kingdom."

The forest resisted him at every turn. The blackened branches clawed at his skin, twisting together like grasping hands, barring his path. He slashed through them without hesitation, his sword slick with the thick, violet blood of the creatures he had cut down on his journey. He moved forward, relentless, until finally—

He saw light.

And what lay beyond left him breathless.

No cursed land, no fortress of darkness. Just an endless stretch of green fields, swaying gently under the sky. And at its heart, a small wooden house, roses blooming in a garden that curled around its walls like a dream made real.

Milin strode forward, parting the tall grass with his hands. The air smelled of earth, of flowers, of something strangely untouched by the rest of the world. As he neared the house, his gaze fell upon a lone figure resting on a wooden bench beside the rose garden.

A woman.

Young. Asleep.

She was nothing like Arachne—not in form, not in presence. It wasn't her.

Yet there was something disarming about her. Her face was serene, untouched by worry, as if she had never once considered that someone might reach this place. That anyone might harm her.

Milin's breath came slower now. He moved closer, drawn by something beyond reason. It had been years since he had last touched a woman—the last four years of his relentless travel, was of filth and exhaustion, of battle after battle with no warmth to ease the ache of his body. And now, here she was. A delicate thing, so soft, so vulnerable, like an oasis in the desert.

Carefully, he sat beside her on the bench, mindful of the clinking of his armor. He didn't want to wake her.

His gaze traced the gentle rise and fall of her chest, then lowered, lingering on the swell of her breasts.

His throat tightened.

His hand moved before he could think.

Tentative, curious, he placed his fingers lightly against her breast. It was soft beneath his touch, yielding. A quiet thrill stirred within him, a dark whisper slipping through the cracks of his resolve.

What will she do when she wakes? What will she think?

For a moment, hesitation flickered through him.

"What kind of hero touches a woman without her consent?"

But the voice of doubt was a dying whisper, drowned beneath something deeper, something older—something that clawed at him with an intensity he had not felt in years.

His fingers curled.

And then, with a slow, shuddering breath, he squeezed her breast tighter.