Chapter 228: Undressing, a Night Chat Among Three Girls, Allen’s Past, and the Weight of Being the Water God Style Dojo’s Chief

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Covered in blood, Allen ignored the system entirely. He simply lifted Vein's severed head, holding it at eye level.

Vein's eyes were bloodshot, wide open in death.

"You took others' lives so casually—tonight is no different, is it? You're not even worth remembering, 'King of the North.'"

Vein didn't answer.

Neither did the system.

Allen scoffed, glancing down at his abdomen. The fabric there had been shredded by blade winds, now entirely caked in blood—impossible to tell whose was whose.

But the wound had already healed.

"Aah…"

Someone was moaning in agony.

Allen turned his gaze to the sea of corpses beneath him.

Three men were floundering in the gore, their movements almost comical.

They had survived.

Luck?

Maybe.

Allen smirked, tilting his head as he observed the three bandits he'd deliberately spared.

The stench of urine mixed with the thick metallic tang of blood made most recoil—but Allen didn't react at all.

His eyes settled on a man missing an ear. The moment the man noticed Allen's gaze, he trembled, scrambling backward through the blood.

A blade pierced through his mouth and out the back of his skull, pinning him to the ground.

Allen twisted the now-chipped sword slowly inside the man's mouth.

"The red-haired girl—yours?"

The blade turned clockwise, then counterclockwise, until the man stopped breathing.

Then, Allen moved on.

The second man had lost the upper half of his face—no eyes left. He thrashed wildly until Allen's foot crushed his throat with a sickening crack.

The floor grew even filthier.

"The white-haired girl—yours?"

The man's neck was pulp now—a merciful end, relatively speaking.

Allen turned to the third.

"The black-haired girl—"

This one had lost his lower jaw, his tongue gone.

Already dead from the pain.

Allen: "…"

Shaking his head, Allen kicked aside a lung clinging to his leg and stepped over the carnage.

He could have given them quick deaths.

But he didn't want to.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Blood trailed behind him as he pushed open the tavern door.

Outside, the night was silent.

A step forward, and the wind howled over Mortalit, scattering the clouds that had veiled the moon.

Pale light spilled across the ground like a lake of silver, stretching into the distance—until the darkness reclaimed it.

The streets were empty, the town asleep.

A spring breeze brushed his face, but it couldn't dispel the heavy aura of death clinging to Mortalit.

Footsteps echoed as Allen walked away from the tavern, rounding the building toward the inn.

No lights were on. No one had been disturbed.

The cheerful chatter from earlier, Rudeus's awkward smile as he explained—it all flashed through Allen's mind.

Good.

No one woke up.

His steps carried him forward, memory pulling him back.

To the room next to his.

To that moment.

—1:45—

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The rapid clicking of heels against the floor. White thigh-high socks wrinkled at the ankles, straining with each impatient shift. The sound traveled up taut calves, vanishing beneath the hem of a black-and-white skirt.

Higher, a corset cinched a slender waist, emphasizing the gentle curve of her chest, where a black ribbon rested against a frilled collar. Soft skin led to a slightly rounded chin.

And higher still—

(｀へ´)

A red-haired girl sat stiffly on the couch, bangs damp against her flushed cheeks, pouting as she glared at the bathroom door.

The young lady who had rushed in and immediately demanded to wash up was now fidgeting relentlessly.

If not for her obvious irritation, she might have looked like the picture of youthful beauty.

From behind the bathroom door, the sound of running water and hushed conversation drifted out.

"Is this really okay?"

"It's fine, Lady Isolte. I can cast water magic without chanting."

"Ah, my apologies. Then I'll trouble you."

"No, it's—oh! Sorry, it's dripping—"

Scarlet eyes burned into the door.

Finally—creak—it opened.

Isolte and Sylphiette stepped out, freshly washed. Sylphie tucked damp white hair behind her ear, while Isolte had tied hers into a high ponytail, sharp and efficient.

They exchanged pleasantries as they walked.

"Thank you, Sylphiette. It's a shame there's only one faucet."

"It's no trouble. I can just use water magic—"

Rustle!

A sudden movement from the couch cut them off.

Both turned—just in time to see Eris kick off her shoes, yank her dress over her head, and toss it onto the sofa. In one fluid motion, she pulled a silk nightgown from her luggage and threw it on, flipping onto the bed before the hem even settled.

Propping her chin on her hands, she declared:

"Can't wait anymore! Start now!"

Light-Speed Bed Invasion!

The nightgown finally drifted down—only covering half her waist.

Her impatience left Isolte and Sylphie stunned.

Isolte blinked at Sylphie, who could only sigh and walk over. She glanced at Eris's moonlit backside, then gently tugged the nightgown into place.

"Eris, I know you're excited about the sleepover, but we have plenty of time. You don't need to rush Lady Isolte for stories about Allen in the capital."

Eris blinked. "But Allen said we should sleep early!"

Sylphie shook her head. "There'll be other chances to—"

Before she could finish, Isolte stepped forward.

"There aren't many anecdotes about Senior Allen in the capital."

She smiled faintly, deliberately omitting the moments Allen had comforted her at sunset, or the breakfasts they'd shared, or the nights he'd spent training with her brother at the dojo.

"Most of what I saw revolved around his training and teaching at the Water God Style Dojo. Would you like to hear about that?"

Eris nodded eagerly!

Noticing Sylphie's curiosity, Isolte smiled and undid her corset.

Her three-layered skirt pooled at her feet.

"He was relentless in his pursuit of mastery. No one forced him—he disciplined himself."

Beneath her swordsman's robe, Isolte wore a sleek black bodysuit, its design simple yet elegant. A row of buttons ran from her chest to her lower abdomen, the garment tapering into a clasp at her hips that connected to her pants. Pale skin peeked through the gaps.

She folded her sash neatly over the couch.

"So, by the time he left the capital, he was the chief of both the 'major' and 'minor' dojos."

"Major? Minor? Chief?" Eris frowned.

Isolte slid her outer robe off, folding it meticulously.

"It's just our way of categorizing them. The Water God Style has two dojos—the lower division, with 443 apprentice swordsmen, and the upper division, with 77 advanced practitioners."

She stepped out of her skirt, picking it up and folding it.

"The lower division is called the 'major' dojo because of its size. The upper is the 'minor' dojo. Once you reach saint-rank, you're considered graduated. Most nobles return to their families or take up royal posts. Those who wish to continue training under the Water God herself may enter her personal hall."

Eris gasped—a country bumpkin's awe. Sylphie murmured, "Not so loud," but her eyes were fixed on the Water God crest embroidered on Isolte's robe.

Isolte unhooked the clasp at her hip.

The fabric slid away like liquid, pooling at her feet.

"But with so many students, even Sword King Talhand couldn't teach everyone. So, the chief system was created. The strongest in each dojo holds the title, gaining access to the Water God's tutelage early. Competition is fierce—every month, on the last day, the position is challenged in a ten-round gauntlet."

"A gauntlet?" Eris frowned.

Isolte's fingers moved to the buttons of her bodysuit.

Sylphie's gaze dropped—then her eyes widened.

Isolte's underwear was daring, with lace cutouts along the sides. Sylphie unconsciously touched her own plain cotton shorts, cheeks heating.

"Ten challengers, one after another. Under such unfair rules, Senior Allen never lost. That's how strong he was."

Eris's eyes sparkled.

"Was Big Brother the chief of both?"

Isolte chuckled, fingers still working down the buttons.

One. Two. Three—

Bounce.

A breathtaking arc sprang free.

Literally.

Sylphie's pupils trembled. She glanced down at her own chest, then back at Isolte's, mouth slightly open like a startled rabbit.

Isolte continued, unfazed.

"From the day he entered, Senior Allen was chief. Ages five to seven, the major dojo. Seven to nine, the minor dojo."

As she slipped out of her bodysuit, her movements were effortless.

Her smile carried something beyond admiration—confidence.

Because to her, Allen was never an outsider.

Eris's fingers twitched against the sheets, her earlier excitement dimming.

"I see."

Isolte glanced at Sylphie, who stiffened under her gaze before hurriedly starting to undress.

"B-but… the 'major' dojo was for lower-ranked swordsmen, right? So when Allen entered the 'minor' dojo… was he already… upper rank…?"

Isolte stretched, moonlight and candlelight tracing her silhouette.

Light and shadow played across her skin, rising and falling like rolling hills.

Her spine gave a soft pop as she sighed contentedly.

"Technically, by six, he'd reached mid-rank and could've advanced. But he waited. Trained another year in the major dojo. Then, on the last day of the month, he entered the minor dojo's gauntlet."

Sylphie's dress slipped from her shoulders, her ears twitching. The light made her skin glow like pearl.

Isolte tilted her head.

"He defeated all ten challengers in a single day. Took the chief's seat without a single loss. For two years, no one could touch him. In either dojo."

"That was his life in the capital."

"Challenges. Teaching. Learning. Creating his own techniques."

"Simple. And relentless."

Silence.

Isolte and Sylphie stood there, barely clothed, studying each other.

As for the one who'd started this conversation—Allen's little sister, the red-haired lioness—

She was already asleep.

Breathing softly, face buried in the pillows, her fiery hair spilling across the sheets.

The entire conversation had lasted exactly five minutes.

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