While Isaac was spending time with Catherine inside his dreams, the region where his city was located was slowly spiraling into chaos.
He didn’t know it yet, but the moment he defeated the Crimson Sky Wyrm, a system message had appeared in the Lord Chat. It was short, clean, and terrifying in its implications.
Someone had eliminated the Crimson Sky Wyrm.
Not injured it. Not driven it away.
Eliminated.
The word alone was enough to shake the region.
The chat exploded almost instantly.
[MistQueen]: So who defeated the Crimson Sky Wyrm? The message said it was eliminated . That means a true death. The system won’t resurrect it anymore.
[FlameGorgon]: Or it might’ve been tamed. Taming counts as elimination too.
[MistQueen]: That’s impossible. You can’t tame a corrupted monster, especially not a Catastrophe.
[GrayRoot]: My people are already searching....
[BeeStinger]: We should...
[Mouse...]: ...
Messages continued to pour in. Some were thoughtful, some were panicked, some were clearly written in haste.
But underneath all of them was the same unease.
Catastrophes weren’t supposed to die.
At least, not permanently.
Under the Red Rain, death wasn’t final for anyone. Ordinary monsters revived. Lords revived. Even cities could be restored if certain conditions were met. Of course, they would be all corrupted.
Catastrophes followed slightly different rules.
When a Catastrophe died, the system would revive it later with its memories erased. It would return as a blank slate, ready to be deployed again during Red Rain raids. To the system, Catastrophes weren’t living beings. They were resources. Boss monsters to maintain pressure and balance.
That was why the word eliminated carried so much weight.
It meant the system itself had acknowledged that the Crimson Sky Wyrm was gone for good.
No revival.
No reset.
No second chance.
[Seer]: I know who defeated the Crimson Sky Wyrm.
The chat paused for a brief moment. Then it erupted even harder.
[VoidSinger]: Hmph. Lying without shame? If you really knew, you wouldn’t be announcing it like this.
[StoneWolf]: Let her speak.
[FlameGorgon]: Yes, yes. Go on, Seer.
A few seconds passed.
Then her reply appeared.
[Seer]: I will reveal the answer in three days.
The silence that followed was heavy.
Then came the insults.
Some cursed her openly. Others laughed and called her an attention seeker. A few accused her of bluffing. But beneath all of that noise, something else was happening.
Private chats lit up.
Lords who rarely spoke in public channels paid exorbitant prices to unlock private communication privileges. Messages flooded Seer’s inbox, each one more desperate than the last.
Is it true?
Tell me. I’ll pay.
Is he recruitable?
Is he dangerous?
The reason was simple.
Eliminating a Catastrophe was already difficult beyond reason. But the Crimson Sky Wyrm had a very specific hunting pattern.
It targeted new Lords.
Lords who had just completed their tutorials.
Helpless, inexperienced, and poorly equipped.
If the Crimson Sky Wyrm had truly been eliminated, then the one who did it could only be a newly awakened Lord.
A newcomer.
Someone with absurd resources, powerful troops, or abilities that completely broke expectations.
That kind of existence couldn’t be ignored.
If such a person joined an alliance, it could tilt the balance of power. If they became an enemy, it could spell disaster.
And so, the region began to move.
All while the person at the center of it slept peacefully.
...
Isaac POV
Isaac opened his eyes with a yawn.
The room slowly came into focus. Soft light filtered in from the side, and for a moment, his mind felt heavy, as if it was dragging itself out of deep water.
Then the memories came back.
His lips twitched.
He had won last night.
At least, that was what he wanted to believe.
In reality, he had been dancing in the palm of Catherine’s hand the entire time. Every step, every reaction, every moment where he thought he had the upper hand—she had guided it all.
Of course, after realizing that, he had taken his frustration out the only way he could. By reminding her of the very real difference in their physical abilities and experience.
He had expected her to fold.
Instead, she had taken it with excitement, with hunger, and with a frightening level of enthusiasm.
In the end, Isaac could only grumble in defeat.
"...Tch."
He stared at the ceiling.
’No. I still have a chance.’
He clenched his fist lightly.
’That was only a dream.’
’We haven’t done it in real life yet.’
That thought comforted him a little.
Naturally, he avoided another, far more dangerous line of thinking.
Catherine now had experience.
And given her natural talent for seduction, that experience could very well push her into territory where even he might struggle to keep up.
He shook his head.
"No. No way."
’I just need to get better.’
’I need to learn some seduction skills too.’
That realization made him frown.
Who was he even supposed to ask?
Professor Catherine was out of the question. Asking her would be the same as admitting defeat before the match even began.
Celia?
He immediately dismissed the idea. That girl was sharp, but when it came to teasing, she never managed to push him into a corner. Teaching him seduction was beyond her.
His thoughts drifted elsewhere.
’...Sword Empress?’
He paused.
She was ancient. Ridiculously old. Older than most civilizations he knew.
If experience counted for anything, then she had more than enough to spare.
’She probably knows a few things.’
Would she get angry if he asked?
Probably not.
She treated him like a child most of the time anyway. If anything, she’d give him advice with the same casual tone she used when correcting his posture or scolding him for reckless decisions.
Sure, she occasionally listened to the sounds coming from his room and relieved herself. But that was just a normal physical reaction at her physical body’s age.
Something like that shouldn’t affect a conversation.
At least, that’s what Isaac told himself.
Satisfied with his flawless logic, he was about to sit up when he finally noticed something else.
There was weight on his chest.
He looked down.
Emily was sleeping while hugging him, her arms wrapped around his torso, her face pressed against him as she snuggled closer. Her breathing was slow and even.
His movement stirred her.
She shifted slightly, then raised her head, eyes half-open.
She smiled, sleepy and unguarded.
"Isaac? Good morning."
His expression softened.
She shifted closer and rested her forehead against his chest. Isaac bent slightly and gave her a light peck.
Before it could turn into anything more, he pulled back.
"...?" Emily looked at him, confusion flickering across her face. Her brows knit together faintly, as if she was trying to understand why he had stopped.
"The aphrodisiac in my saliva is addictive," Isaac said calmly. "It excites you, yes, but you’re starting to get addicted. So before we go any further, you—and the others—need some resistance built up. Only after that can we kiss properly."
Emily blinked.
"...Huh?"
He sighed softly, knowing how strange it must have sounded.
"I saw what happened last night. Catherine built a dependency in a single night. Her race probably played a role in that, but the risk is still there. I’m not going to let something like that turn dangerous."
His tone wasn’t harsh, but it was firm.
He wasn’t joking.
Something like this might have amused him under different circumstances. It did excite him, in a way.
But he wasn’t someone who let impulse decide things that could spiral out of control.
Emily’s face flushed.
"Huh? But I like... it..." she muttered, her voice growing softer by the second.
She turned her face away slightly, embarrassed by her own words.
"I’ll confirm it properly later. But the pleasure itself shouldn’t disappear just because you gain resistance. It just keeps things from going too far," Isaac said.
"No..." Emily whispered. "I don’t want the resistance..."
She buried her face against him and whined quietly, her arms tightening around his waist.
Isaac let out a small breath, half amused, half helpless.
Before she could complain further, he leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to her neck. His hand traced a slow, familiar path along her side, careful and controlled. He knew exactly what he was doing, and he didn’t rush it.
Emily stiffened, then relaxed.
Her breathing changed.
Her hands moved instinctively, slipping toward him, but Isaac caught her wrist gently and stopped her.
"Why...?" she asked, her voice unsteady. It was not accusatory, just confused, and wanting.
"This is your ’punishment’ for taming the Crimson Sky Wyrm," he answered with a sly smile.
His fingers continued their slow rhythm.
"We’re not doing it for three days."
Emily’s breath hitched.
There was hesitation in her eyes. A flicker of reluctance. But it faded quickly, replaced by something else.
She nodded.
"...Okay."
Isaac smiled faintly to himself.
’She really is a masochist,’ he thought.
When it was over, he didn’t leave her there. He picked her up carefully, carrying her as if she weighed nothing, and headed for the bathroom.
They were still living in the Calloway estate, or rather, what remained of it.
Large sections of the mansion had been destroyed during Emily’s summoning. Entire corridors were gone. Walls had collapsed. Some areas were still sealed off because of unstable mana residue.
But a few rooms were intact, and they made do.
He helped her bathe, quietly, without teasing this time. Emily leaned against him, tired but content, her earlier embarrassment long gone.
Afterward, once they were dressed, Isaac left the room with her.
The day wasn’t going to wait for him.
Ruby was already outside, holding a thick stack of documents. Her expression was as serious as ever.
Priscilla and Celeste stood nearby, perfectly composed in their maid uniforms, their posture straight and attentive.
"Good morning, Master," the two dragon maids said in unison.
Ruby gave a short nod.
"Morning," Isaac replied.
Celeste’s eyes flicked briefly to Isaac and Emily’s damp hair, then to the faintly lingering scent of soap. She smiled brightly.
"Master," she said, "please allow us to assist with bathing and dressing you and Madam from tomorrow. We will make sure it feels good—"
Before she could finish, Priscilla brought her hand down sharply on Celeste’s head.
"—ah!"
Priscilla shot her a glare, then turned to Isaac and bowed slightly.
"I apologize for Celeste’s vulgar wording, Master. However, it is true that—"
"It will feel good?" Isaac interrupted with a grin.
Priscilla froze.
Her face flushed instantly, the tips of her ears turning red. She straightened and shook her head quickly.
"...No."
Isaac chuckled.
"Relax. I’m joking." He waved his hand lightly. "As for bathing and dressing, help Celia, Emily, and Alice. I’d ask you to assist Professor Catherine as well, but I doubt she’d agree. You’ll have to ask her yourselves."
"Yes, Master," Priscilla replied, regaining her composure.
Emily tightened her grip on Isaac’s arm.
"Isaac, I can bathe on my own," she muttered.
Her face was red again.
She was reminded of her time in the Cradle, when maids had bathed her.
She had been embarrassed even back then.
"Madam, please do not be shy. This is normal," Priscilla said gently, immediately noticing her discomfort.
"Exactly," Isaac added. "Why are you embarrassed? You’re a princess. You should be used to this."
Priscilla and Celeste both nodded at that.
Dragons placed immense importance on bloodlines. Nobility wasn’t just status, it was sacred.
Emily was the daughter of the Empress of the Netherworld. Her lineage was one of the purest and most respected among all ancient races.
To them, letting her handle things like bathing and dressing alone was unthinkable.
That was considered work.
And work was not something someone of her bloodline should do unaided.