The Century-Old Jonagold and the Holy Sword’s Beckoning

The fruit of the Jonagold tree was renowned as a delicacy. A century-old Jonagold tree, however, bore an exceptionally special fruit, its exterior shimmering with an alluring golden hue. The cells of its succulent flesh gradually absorbed magical elements from the surrounding air. Thus, the very instant a consumer took their first bite, the intricate work of these elements would begin.

Firstly, the refreshing water element and the rhythmic wind element would act as diligent custodians. Their task was to release a cool, invigorating essence that would thoroughly cleanse the mouth, sweeping away any lingering greasiness or impurities.

Next, the invigorating lightning element would begin its work, stimulating the taste buds to secrete saliva. Simultaneously, it would sharpen the senses at the tip of the tongue, making them remarkably acute.

Then, as the plump, tender flesh, nourished by the earth and wood elements, was enveloped by the gums and tongue, its rich, succulent juices, brimming with the fire element, would be released. There was no need for vigorous chewing; the delicate white flesh would actively burst open in the mouth, its segments splitting apart, and the sweet nectar flowing freely.

The sweet, transparent, and crystalline white flesh then glided smoothly down the esophagus, evenly coating every inch of its inner lining. The gentle fire element, akin to the warmth of hot spring water, emanated a persistent, comforting glow.

Once the ‘army’ of fruit pulp reached the stomach, it would begin a harmonious dance with the gastric juices. Their positions shifted ceaselessly, their forms rising and falling in a rhythmic display. At times, the fruit flesh would immerse itself within the gastric fluid; at others, the fluid would completely envelop the pulp. In this exhilarating interplay, each allowed the other’s essence to firmly meld with its own.

For male animals, this fruit flesh was remarkably easy to digest. However, owing to differences in physiological structure, some of the fruit’s transparent juices could exert a distinct influence on female animals. In females, the fire and lightning elements, not entirely expended during the initial digestive process, would slowly but persistently act from within the stomach, subsequently affecting internal hormone levels.

The most common consequence was — arousal.

At this moment, however, Roland remained utterly oblivious to these intricacies. He simply watched Freya, whose body trembled incessantly before him, and found himself completely bewildered.

“Are you feeling unwell?”

Freya offered no response, her body merely trembling slightly.

“Is there anywhere that hurts?”

Still, Freya remained silent, though her body now trembled with even greater intensity.

“Are you truly alright?” Roland reached out, gently patting her shoulder. To his astonishment, that light touch caused her to immediately collapse onto the ground.

Roland had never witnessed such a posture. Freya’s calves and feet were tucked against the outside of her thighs, her buttocks pressed completely flat against the ground. The expression etched upon her face seemed to convey a profound agony.

Roland moved to her side. Freya had her head bowed, as if deliberately concealing her expression from him. A sudden sense of foreboding washed over him. He reached out, cupping her soft face, and gently lifted it. At last, he saw Freya’s expression clearly.

“Don’t…” Freya’s watery eyes were clouded with a thick mist of moisture, her purple pupils shimmering with flecks of light. Her fair skin, like that of someone after intense exertion, was flushed with a rippling redness. “Don’t… touch me…”

With immense effort, she pushed Roland’s arm away. That single, simple motion seemed to utterly deplete her strength. She remained seated on the ground in her original posture, her body trembling, her chest rising and falling with frantic curves. Then, she fumbled for her walking staff, clutching it tightly with both hands, and with considerable struggle, managed to push herself upright. By this point, having completed just these few simple actions, she was drenched in sweat, her entire form glistening with a transparent sheen and an unsettling flush. Even the sweat trickling down her slender neck carried a faint, perplexing fragrance.

“You…” Roland, too, now perceived that something was gravely amiss. It was highly probable that the golden fruit was the mischievous culprit behind this predicament.

“Don’t speak… please…” Freya’s expression seemed on the verge of tears. “I’ll feel worse…”

‘Huh? What exactly is happening?’

Roland’s mouth twitched, but he bit back any words. He watched Freya struggling to walk, step by arduous step. Hardening his resolve, he seized the moment of her distraction and swiftly scooped her into his arms.

“You’ll be home after dark at this rate,” Roland declared, quickening his pace towards their dwelling. He paid no mind to her reaction, nor did he glance at her expression. “I certainly don’t want to go searching for you again; it’s far too troublesome.”

Though he did not cast his gaze downwards, his supporting hands could distinctly feel the girl in his arms burning with feverish heat. That pervasive warmth, it seemed, was already seeping into his own body.

Freya, too, was thankful that Roland wasn’t looking at her, for her expression at that moment was one of utter shame and mortification, bordering on a desire for death.

‘The mighty Demon Lord… the mighty Demon Lord…’

Freya felt herself losing control over her bodily secretions. Tears streamed uncontrollably from her eyes, as if she had been exposed to the pungent fumes of onions. She bit her lip in agony, covering her face with both hands to prevent Roland from witnessing her mortified expression.

Roland felt Freya’s body, cradled in his arms, tremble intermittently. An increasing amount of sweat began to appear, almost completely soaking her clothes.

‘Faster,’ Roland thought, ‘I must get her home quickly.’

****

“A perfect opportunity,” a voice echoed. “You can kill her now.”

Roland froze, startled. He had heard the voice of the Philosopher’s Stone.

‘You damned stone, have you recovered?’

“Don’t concern yourself with such trivialities,” the Philosopher’s Stone retorted. “Just look now, what a glorious chance! The Demon Lord has consumed the century-old Jonagold fruit, fallen into a state of arousal, and is utterly incapable of resistance! Hahahahahahaha!”

‘Arousal?’ Roland glanced down in surprise. The figure in his arms had her eyes tightly shut, biting her pink lips, as if desperately resisting some unseen force.

“That sword you’ve been using for firewood at home, what a regrettable waste.”

‘Hmm… quite inconvenient, indeed. Perhaps next time…’

“No matter,” the Philosopher’s Stone interrupted. “I shall simply provide you with one.”

‘What did you say? Give me one?’

Roland hesitantly slowed his pace, a flicker of confusion in his eyes.

The amulet around Roland’s neck emitted a brilliant golden light, which shot towards the empty ground beside them. A faint, ethereal silhouette slowly began to materialize, gradually transforming from illusion into tangible reality.

Roland’s steps gradually faltered, then ceased entirely. He stared at the sword in astonishment, an uncanny sense of familiarity washing over him, as if this blade were an intrinsic extension of his very being.

Before them stood a magnificent two-handed longsword. Its platinum-colored, double-edged blade measured an estimated three feet, standing perfectly upright at a ninety-degree angle to the earth. A three-inch, golden-yellow crossguard curved outward in a broad arc, clearly designed as an exceptional handguard. The section of the blade nearest the guard, much like the hilt itself, displayed a metallic, deep blue hue, intricately carved with complex patterns. As sunlight refracted off its surface, this perfectly symmetrical longsword gleamed with a golden radiance, seemingly symbolizing unparalleled glory and extraordinary might.

“Grip me tightly,” the voice resonated from the sword itself. “Pull me from the earth.”

Roland gazed at the sword, his heart a tangle of complex emotions, his body remaining stubbornly immobile.

“You have forgotten your true identity for far too long, Hero!” The sword’s tone slowly grew rigid, its voice, sharp as a honed blade, mercilessly piercing Roland’s very mind. “Slay the Demon Lord; this is your undeniable destiny!”

A complex, unreadable expression slowly settled upon Roland’s face. He then gently, slowly, lowered the girl from his arms.

Freya’s eyes fluttered open a bare slit, and she cast a bewildered glance at him.

Roland averted his head, deliberately avoiding her gaze.

Suddenly, Freya sensed something profound. She turned her head, her eyes falling upon the sword. Instantly, her body convulsed violently, and her finger, as if by its own will, pointed blankly towards it.

“The Holy Sword…”