There's something you don't understand about this world.
It's complex, brutal, and unforgiving—a world where survival demands strength, adaptability, and the will to change history itself.
Sounds like a serious, merciless world, right?
Then why are all the women here dressed like they just walked out of a wet dream?
It has to be a strategy—some perverted developer's way of seducing players, keeping them hooked with endless waves of half-naked, drop-dead gorgeous women. But this isn't a game anymore.
You live here now. And you have to deal with this shit firsthand.
The woman beside you was no exception.
She was barely wearing anything, her outfit so revealing that your self-control was already being pushed to its limits.
She didn't have the alien, otherworldly features you expected
But instead, she looked more like a tribal queen, a goddess of war, an untamed beauty that exuded raw power. In fact, her sheer sex appeal might just surpass Ororo from Marvel, the same Ororo who had been simped over relentlessly by countless readers across webnovels and comics alike.
And yet, this woman was on a whole different level.
Her short, white veil-like hair framed her fierce, crimson-red eyes, giving her the look of a warrior born to conquer. She was dressed in a scandalously revealing white outfit, something that could barely even be called clothing. It resembled some kind of ceremonial swimsuit, marked with intricate tribal black and red patterns, with a colorful rainbow-patterned strip draped over it—as if that did anything to make it less sinful.
The choker around her neck only added to the temptation, framing her throat like a silent invitation. And her lower half? A fucking walking temptation.
She wore a tiny, high-cut black bikini, so skimpy, so criminally tight, it barely covered anything at all. The material clung to her, emphasizing every curve, every dip of her toned body, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination.
Her exposed skin was on full display, bathed in brutal, unfiltered glory—except for the thin, white fabric that extended from her arms, a pathetic attempt at modesty.
But let's be real—there was no modesty here.
She was stunning. Sexy as hell. The kind of woman who could bring entire civilizations to their knees without lifting a sword.
And this… was Attila the Hun—in all of her savage, brutal, utterly breathtaking glory.
You came to a sudden stop, lost in thought. She halted as well, tilting her head slightly, her expression confused as she watched you.
"Sefar… No, Atilla." Your voice was firm, unwavering. "What did you feel when I touched your hand?"
There was no hesitation in your question. No shame. You wanted something, and when you wanted something, you took it. The warrior goddess before you was no exception.
She was beautiful. Exotic. And completely exposed before you.
This was her—the real her, not the fantasy version you had stared at through a screen. Not the digital idol you had jerked off to countless times.
Your mind drifted for a moment, recalling that one fanfic—the one where the MC fucked Attila the Hun on an open grassland, ramming into her until she was bred and pregnant, a conqueror staking his claim in the most primal way possible. You had idolized that. Thrived for it. Dreamed of becoming like him.
But you were still far from that peak existence. You still had a long way to go.
"I… I don't know," she finally spoke, her voice carrying a rare uncertainty. "It felt… strange. But comfortable."
"Do you want more of it? To feel even more comfortable?"
Your hands found her cheeks, fingers gliding over her soft skin, caressing her as if she were something precious. Not just a warrior. Not just a goddess. But yours.
She didn't flinch, didn't blush, didn't recoil. Instead, her eyes fluttered shut as she leaned into your touch. A silent acceptance.
"Yes," she murmured. "I want to feel more of it. It's… nice."
"Ashborn," you commanded, your tone absolute. "Call me Ashborn. And in return, I'll address you as Atilla."
"Ashborn," she repeated without hesitation.
Good. She obeys.
Your stroking didn't slow. If anything, it grew bolder. Your fingers slid from her cheek into her pure white hair, gripping it—not too hard, but possessively.
She didn't resist.
"Alright, Atilla," you said, voice low, edged with something darker. "On your knees. I have something for you. Something good. A true civilization worth embracing."
She blinked, then slowly, obediently, lowered herself onto her knees before you.
A silent, instinctive submission.
You could barely suppress the chuckle rising in your throat.
This is too easy.
She was so innocent, so naïve, so blank.
And that only made it so much more interesting.
"Like this?" she asked, staring up at you.
"Yes," you murmured, eyes locked onto hers. "Just like that."
Your fingers moved to your waistband. The sound of the zipper snapping open echoed in the quiet space between you.
Your cock sprang free, thick, hard, throbbing, standing tall before her.
Her gaze locked onto it.
She didn't move. She didn't speak.
But her eyes told the story.
Confusion. Curiosity. Longing.
She didn't fully understand, not yet—but she was hooked. She couldn't look away.
And that was all that mattered.
"Do you know what this is, Attila? This—this is good civilization."
You smirk as you stand before her, your cock throbbing, the heat of lust pulsing through your veins.
With no shame, no hesitation, you stroke it in front of her face, your pre-cum dripping onto her flawless, sun-kissed skin.
"Put your hand on it. Stroke it," you order, showing her exactly how it's done.
Her crimson eyes remain fixed on you, studying your motions with an unreadable expression.
Despite her usual stoicism, she doesn't look away—if anything, she seems curious.
Fuck.
Just the thought of the infamous Hun warrior goddess watching you jerk off is enough to make your pace quicken, your breathing ragged.
The thrill of it—of having a conqueror of stars kneeling before you, her face so close to your cock—it sends you over the edge.
A deep groan rumbles from your throat as you cum, thick white ropes painting her face, the contrast against her bronzed skin exhilarating.
Attila barely flinches.
Instead, she lifts a hand to her cheek, dragging a finger through the warm mess you've left on her, studying the thick fluid with curiosity.
Then, without hesitation, she brings it to her lips, tasting it.
"It's… bitter," she muses, her voice calm.
Then, she looks back at you, licking the remnants off her fingertip.
"But it's also sweet."
You chuckle, still catching your breath. "That's normal."
Her indifference to something so depraved only makes you hard again.
You grab her hand, placing it around your cock, still slick with her saliva and your release.
"Now, do what I did before," you tell her.
She nods, obedient, and starts moving her hand—slow, hesitant, amateurish.
But that only makes it better. The way her fingers tighten awkwardly, the way she looks up at you with those unreadable eyes, trying to figure it out—it drives you fucking insane.
Your free hand threads through her snowy white hair, fingers tightening slightly. Her touch may be inexperienced, but that doesn't matter.
She was yours now—yours to mold, to claim, to breed.
The mere thought pushes you past the edge again. With no warning, you groan and cum all over her face once more, thick spurts covering her flushed cheeks, her lips, her chin.
This time, she reacts—sulking, her lips curling into a childish pout as she wipes the mess off with the back of her hand.
"Hmph. Ignoring you." She turns away with an annoyed huff, crossing her arms.
But you only laugh, zipping up your pants, the rush of post-orgasm clarity leaving you satisfied, refreshed.
There was something amusingly surreal about getting a handjob from Attila the Hun—no, Sefar, the conqueror who once burned entire civilizations to ash.
"Yeah, yeah, you're the best, Attila," you tease, unfazed by her act. You reach out and firmly take her hand, refusing to let her pull away.
She hesitates—just for a moment. But she doesn't resist. Instead, to your surprise, she leans her head against your shoulder, her voice quiet and almost… confused.
"…I don't know what happened, Ashborn," she murmurs. "But… I liked it. A lot."
Then, she lifts her head, her crimson eyes meeting yours, her next words making you smirk.
"You're right. It's good civilization."
You chuckle, fingers trailing through her soft white hair as she straightens her posture.
And with that, the two of you continue forward, resuming your journey—except now, things were different.
She was yours.