Martha and I headed to her office, just upstairs from the establishment. It turned out to be a small office, fitting for a brothel owner. It would've been a shock if her office were grand and magnificent.
I found myself settled on a plush, red couch, positioned to face her as she occupied her seat behind a modest desk.
"So... sir?" Martha queried.
"Ah, Leon," I clarified.
"Just... Leon?"
"Yup."
Martha's head tilted, an expression of confusion etched across her features. She donned rimless glasses that adorned her strict face. Her short, vibrant blue hair framed an alluring visage. In what resembled a corporate office uniform, she had strategically left the upper buttons undone, granting a provocative glimpse of her cleavage. The tight miniskirt she wore boasted a seductive slit to one side, revealing stockings that intertwined with pantyhose. Martha's attire exuded an undeniable allure, challenging the conventional image one might have of a brothel owner or manager. A closer look suggested she harbored more than met the eye. It was this realization that fueled my determination to dominate her.
"What do you want to talk about?" she inquired.
"Ah..." I stammered. Oh, right. That was the reason we came here, right? I had forgotten. The truth was, I had no clue what to discuss. While my mind flirted with the idea of probing into her skill or the secrets of the basement, I could sense this woman wasn't one to spill her secrets willingly. Even now, she appeared guarded. So, let's come up with something for now. "Are you the owner of this brothel?"
She nodded, a motion so curt it bordered on enigmatic silence.
"That's surprising, given your youthful appearance. How old are you, if you don't mind me asking?"
I recognized it might be considered rude to inquire about a woman's age, but I wanted to keep the conversation flowing and discourage her from being so reserved. I despised one-sided conversations.
"Isn't it considered somewhat impertinent to inquire about a woman's age? Others might raise an eyebrow or two if faced with such a bold interrogation. Fortunately, though, I remain ensconced in the embrace of youth, as your discerning eyes may have surmised. Perhaps our ages align more closely than one might anticipate."
"I'm 18," I disclosed.
"How coincidental. I find myself at the tender age of 18 as well."
"Liar," I chuckled.
"W-Why are you laughing like that? And why did you call me a liar? How rude. I wouldn't just fabricate my age, would I?"
I smiled at her. The subtle play of emotions on her face fascinated me. The veneer of strictness gave way to a faint blush as she confronted my laughter and the accusation of falsehood. However, she was indeed concealing the truth. I wasn't merely making baseless claims when I called her a liar.
"You shifted your eyes ever so slightly when you claimed to be 18."
"I-I didn't!"
"You did. And just now, you did it again," I teased with a laugh. Deception seemed to be a recurring theme with her, yet her skills in the art were less than adept.
"O-Okay. I did lie. My age is actually 19."
"Nope."
"20," she confessed, a flicker of uncertainty betraying her composure.
"Your eyes persistently sidestepping the truth," I observed, my voice laced with amusement.
"O-Okay. I'm 21! 21!"
"Not going to convince me," I replied, my grin widening with every unsuccessful attempt.
Her frustration reached a boiling point. Slamming her hands on the desk, she rose abruptly, sending her chair tumbling in the process. "22! I'm 22! Happy?!"
I maintained my grin, enjoying the unraveling of her attempts at deception. "Is that so?" I remarked casually. Her gaze, now fixed on me, signaled the cessation of the charade. "But still, that's a tender age. And you're steering this brothel solo?"
Martha, having regained her composure, righted her chair and reclaimed her seat. "My father entrusted the ownership to me after his passing. Initially perplexed, especially with a more capable brother in the picture, I later grasped his intentions upon assuming control of this establishment," she confessed, a momentary lapse in restraint. Realizing she had divulged more than intended, she shook her head. "Sorry. That's something I shouldn't talk about. Anyway, now you know why I'm at the helm, and as for your other question, yes, I'm navigating it independently."
"Wow. I can't believe you're shouldering this responsibility at the age of 22," I teased, noting a vein pulsating on her forehead at the mention of her age. Unfazed by her reaction, I probed further. "Is your adeptness in managing it attributed to your skill?"
The vein on her forehead disappeared as she cleared her throat. "...No."
"What's your skill, incidentally?" I asked casually. Since we were discussing skills, it seemed like the perfect opportunity to inquire. Whether her skill would be useful to me or not, I was still determined to dominate her.
She appeared hesitant to divulge the information at first, but realizing there was no harm in sharing, she admitted, "It's a useless skill called Deft Hands."
I had no idea what that skill entailed.
"What does it do?"
"Why are you prying?" she responded suspiciously.
"Can't I express a bit of curiosity?"
"Are you hitting on me? I'm sorry, but even with that handsome face, that's not going to work, kiddo."
I couldn't fathom why she was so convinced that I was hitting on her, but I thought, why not let her believe it? Before I could utter a word, she spoke with an air of reluctance.
"Well, since there's no harm in telling you, I suppose I could. It's just a useless skill anyway," she sighed. Her eyes, sharp and piercing like sapphires, locked onto mine. "It's a skill that lets me do things with my hands, you know? I can write like a pro, craft breathtaking handwriting, whip up impressive paintings, and cook like a chef. It makes me a maestro at anything hands-on. Sounds like a load of crap, huh?"
What the fuck? Useless? I thought that was one hell of a skill. Being a master at anything with your hands could turn life into a smooth ride. And if I could snatch that skill, it might just skyrocket my swordsmanship. I mean, swordsmanship involves hands, right? Making that skill mine became a burning ambition. Her proficiency was impressive, and she had this innate talent for hands-on tasks. My craving to conquer her only intensified. While I was lost in my thoughts, she pressed on.
"It's useless," she sighed, her gaze dropping to her hands. "Because this skill couldn't save those women," she admitted bitterly. Realizing the weight of her words, she shook her head and looked back at me, her expression softer. "I'm sorry for saying something weird."
"It's fine," I assured her. I was starting to glimpse the face beneath that stern exterior.
"And also..." she hesitated. "I'm sorry for extorting you."
"...What?"
"For demanding so much money just to let you through those doors. I'm not some money-hungry woman, just so you know. I'm doing this so that... those women there can live a better life."
"You must be carrying more than just the burden of managing this brothel."
"It's nothing you need to know about."
"Is that so." I responded.
After our conversation, a heavy silence hung in the air. Hours crawled by until finally, the fruits of my labor, in the form of money, arrived. Gabrielle looked worn out as she wearily stepped through the entrance of the brothel.
"Why do you always have to put me through the wringer? Being a professor at the academy is demanding enough, you know!" she said, huffing and puffing.
"Now, now. Take a breather, Gabrielle. I'll make sure to show my appreciation for your hard work, alright?"
Her protests ceased, and a faint blush painted her fatigued face. She was undeniably charming. I couldn't help but feel a deep affection for her.
"Did you bring what I asked for?"
"Yes. Three thousand gold coins, right?" She gestured towards three imposing boxes. I approached them and opened each one, revealing a gleaming pile of gold coins. Among them, I noticed a box containing smartphones.
"Amon sent those to me," Gabrielle explained.
Martha also approached the three boxes, her eyes fixed on the contents. The prostitutes and the receptionist joined in. Almost in unison, they seemed ready to collapse at the knees, their eyes gleaming as they beheld the dazzling pile of gold that radiated a captivating sheen. On top of the gold sat a cluster of smartphones in one of the boxes.
Martha regained her composure and turned to me, "Wh-Who are you?" she stammered.
It was a question that made perfect sense under the circumstances. The sheer amount of money before them was incomprehensible. Even a prince might struggle to amass such wealth. The prostitutes and the receptionist gazed at me with eyes sparkling, their unspoken question mirroring Martha's.
"Someone with a hell of a lot of money," I grinned at her.