New Life As A Lewd Futanari Succubus

“That’s wonderful!” Bob cheered when he heard Beatrice’s generosity.

“Hold up!” Beatrice put up her hand and instantly curbed Bob’s rejoicing. “I said ‘I could’. And I can. But that doesn’t mean I will simply go around spending my powers left and right!”

“I-I see,” Bob’s stature dropped an inch. It all made sense. Not only were Bob and others unable to offer this woman help in the coming games, but she also declared no desire to receive it. What incentive would she have to waste her powers? “What would it take for them to at least temporarily get the chance to feel like men again? Like I did?”

“It will simply depend on how they ask,” Beatrice said with a kind expression but with finality to her tone that made it clear she would not explain further.

And indeed, she did not. Bob understood clearly. This woman needed but one thing. Loyalty. The one thing that was so hard to come by in this city.

“You need not worry—none among the black masks has any love for the white masks,” Bob reassured Beatrice, but did not dare bow in such close proximity to the spectators and the overseers within the crowds, less his new allegiance was discovered.

“I never am,” Beatrice said with utter surety. Even if Beatrice did question her decisions, worry about her fate, her goals, her allies—there was absolutely no reason for someone like Bob to even imagine anything other than absolute confidence. Beatrice simply nodded ahead for Bob to resume his actual job before they really got in trouble for being late.

“R-right,” Bob turned around and rushed forward into the laughing, drinking, jeering, moaning, cumming crowds, beating himself up for his stupidity. Stupid! Coward! What kind of questions were those? Can’t even bow? Who’s more important!? The horny, bloodthirsty idiots that are too busy gawking at titties or a being with powers not seen since the Old Days? Say something! “It’s not really a big deal if we’re a few minutes late or not. The spectators are the ones always late from the entertainment areas, and the only thing that matters to those drunks is a good show, not how strictly it follows a schedule.”

“Uhuh,” Beatrice acknowledged Bob’s information while thinking of something far more important. White masks, huh? Beatrice recalled what Bob said back before the “rest”. The organizers of the Forge of Champions. Then where are they? How powerful are they? I’ll need to proceed with care when I eventually meet these mysterious, white-masked figures. If even one of them was powerful enough to castrate and subdue such potent fire mages…

While Beatrice had no way to accurately gauge the magic prowess of Bob and the other black masks from the few tricks they displayed during the first round, their position in the arena told Beatrice enough. They needed to be able to deal with anyone who volunteered for these games. With all participants. Prevent any from escaping even when left one on one. Guarding the spectators, if necessary. Though the mandatory nature of that last theoretical points was highly questionable in this decadent, bloody event. The average mercenary scum that Beatrice faced before did not even register as a threat compared to these men.

Could Ember beat one of them? All of them? Beatrice tried to guess how her fire-wielding bodyguard compared to these fire mages. Ember was never really challenged during their time together. In fact, now that Beatrice thought about it, Ember only ever fought in combat one time. Beatrice had fought more often than her own bodyguard. Not that Beatrice had any complaints about the opportunities for additional combat experience and levels. But the one time Ember fought, that ended up being such a one-sided slaughter that it did not even seem to make Ember get remotely serious. Where is she anyway?

Beatrice did not see Ember once since they parted in these mines. That was not anything particularly unexpected or worrying, considering the thousands that gathered here, but Beatrice realized that she would have liked to at least catch a glimpse of her partner. Get a hold of yourself!

As Beatrice scanned through the crowds for familiar faces, she saw Galla—or Gamma here—having a casual, cheerful conversation with a couple of girls at the ‘Dick Rating’ booths. Guess she’s already done with this round’s ‘reward’, Beatrice thought as she carefully stepped over the slimy wooden spheres with numbers on them that were lying on the ground all over the place. The number signified the lucky guy or gal to receive ‘Gamma’s oral-service while the lucky ball’s thrower would later get a lay with a champion. Beatrice momentarily caught herself imagining what game could she play with the lucky winner that would surpass the ball pussy-launching.

The second face familiar face that Beatrice saw was Olivia, returning from her rest, guided by an escort of her own, followed by a dreamy-eyed woman that had a rather obvious resemblance to Beatrice, body type-wise. The big breasts, the hips, the skimpy outfit, the type and length of hair, though the color was way off—half-bleached orange. It was as obvious that the woman was enamored with Olivia as it was obvious that Olivia could not care less.

Beatrice had a teasing question or two for Olivia once they both returned to the arena, especially considering that Olivia was just as late as Beatrice. The succubus looked up to the highest, isolated platform from which the pompous furball announcer oversaw the games. There she stood. Five feet tall, face covered by her black mask with a blue flame, with three other, taller figures at her side, all with white masks with red flames painted across them.

Ah, Beatrice saw a new threat appear, much sooner than she anticipated.

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