Six months had passed since the rift swallowed Ethan and spat him out into Elysara.
In that time, the world had changed around him—and he had changed with it.
The small procession that left Willowmere had become a royal progress. Word spread faster than any rider: the Breeder lived, he thrived, and his seed took root with astonishing speed. Women journeyed from every corner of the planet—elf-queens from crystalline sky-cities, nymphs from mist-shrouded lakes, desert nomads with sun-kissed skin, ice-maidens from the far north—to seek his blessing.
Wherever he went, villages erected silk pavilions and flower-strewn thrones. Feasts lasted days. Nights blurred into weeks of endless, eager bodies.
Fifty women now carried his children.
Fifty bellies gently rounding, fifty pairs of eyes glowing with fierce maternal pride. Rowan, Talia, Lysa, and Mira had been the first four; the Village of Curves alone had added twenty-six more. Traveling eastward to the Sapphire Coast, then north to the Ember Plains, he had left a trail of quickened wombs behind him.
He was no longer merely protected. He was worshipped.
In every settlement, women knelt as he passed. They sang hymns to the Breeder, scattered petals at his feet, offered their ripest fruits and their ripest bodies. Golden circlets were pressed onto his brow; thrones of living wood grew overnight to cradle him. His two Amazon guardians, Thora and Brynja—now both visibly pregnant and even more fiercely devoted—walked at his sides like living legends, their greatswords gleaming.
Ethan sat now in the grandest pavilion yet, raised in the heart of the central capital: Aeloria, City of Eternal Bloom. The structure was vast, open on all sides to gardens of glowing flowers. Hundreds of women filled the space—some attending him directly, others watching from silk cushions with reverent hunger.
Valeria, elder of the Village of Curves, had traveled with the court and now knelt between his thighs, her enormous breasts pressed against his legs as she slowly rode his cock in long, worshipful strokes. Her thick pussy gripped him like warm velvet, juices dripping down his shaft with every rise and fall.
Around them, chosen attendants pleasured one another or waited their turn—fingers buried in slick cunts, mouths latched to heavy nipples, soft moans blending with the music of flutes and drums.
Ethan's hands rested on Valeria's wide hips, guiding her rhythm. Even after six months of near-constant sex, his stamina had grown legendary—potions, magic, and sheer masculine adaptation turning him into the tireless vessel Elysara needed.
When Valeria came—her plush body shuddering, pussy clenching hard around his dick—he followed moments later, flooding her depths with thick ropes of cum. She stayed seated until every drop was milked, then rose slowly, seed leaking down her thighs in pearly trails.
Another took her place immediately—a lithe elf with silver-blue hair, her tight pussy sliding down his still-hard shaft with a gasp of delight.
Thora and Brynja stood guard at the pavilion's edges, bellies proudly swollen, eyes scanning the crowds. Their loyalty had deepened into something fierce and possessive; they fucked him each night with grateful intensity, their powerful bodies cradling his while whispering vows of eternal protection.
Seraphine, ever at his right hand, kept count on an enchanted scroll.
"Fifty confirmed," she murmured during a brief lull, tracing glowing names. "Another thirty-seven likely within the next moon. At this pace… a thousand is possible within three years."
The women around him beamed at the words. Daughters meant survival. Daughters meant the future.
Yet even in this golden age of adoration, shadows lingered.
Every few weeks, reports came: a village woman found pale and cold, speaking in whispers of dark dreams. Ward stones cracked overnight. Travelers gone missing on lonely roads.
The Shadow Women had not vanished.
Vaeloria and her Seven had gone quiet after the near-fatal night in Willowmere—no direct assaults, no brazen kidnappings. Instead, they worked in subtlety: spreading doubt, weakening wards from afar, gathering strength.
Scouts brought whispers of gatherings in the Obsidian Mountains—hundreds of pale figures seen under the crimson moon Vael. Some said Morgath's ancient bloodline stirred again, that Vaeloria grew even taller, stronger, feeding on stolen life essence from lesser victims.
They waited for the right moment.
Ethan felt it in the air sometimes—a chill that had nothing to do with weather. When he looked into the crowds of adoring faces, he occasionally caught a glimpse: skin too pale, eyes too dark, a smile that did not reach them.
Thora and Brynja doubled the guard rotations. Seraphine strengthened the traveling wards with blood and moon-silver.
But the women of Elysara refused to live in fear.
They pressed closer instead—bodies offered freely, songs louder, celebrations wilder. Every pregnancy was a defiance of the dark.
As the elf on his lap rode him to another shattering climax—her tight pussy fluttering around his cock, drawing his cum deep inside—Ethan looked out over the sea of beautiful, devoted faces.
Fifty daughters growing.
Nine hundred and fifty left to go.
He was their king, their god, their only hope.
And somewhere in the darkness, a seven-foot giantess with midnight hair dreamed of the day she would ride him again—this time until his heart stopped mid-release.
The war had not ended.
It had only grown patient.