The Gamer Chapter 1278 – Gala Date Finale – Putting down unwanted ambitions (Patreon)

“Alright, that’s my cue,” John said, after Bertrand had headed inside his mansion. The man did so every 30 minutes, although that had changed to 45 as his drunken state deepened. Since he had Siena listen in on his every move, the Gamer knew why that was: the owner of the mansion was coordinating who he wanted to talk to next with his associates. That included not just the target, but how to approach them in minute detail. This was either to make connections or to better the standing of one of those associates.

John had to commend them for this level of planning. Others may have seen that as underhanded, the Gamer regarded it as smart politics. With just these coordination breaks, they were already leagues ahead of everyone who attended these gatherings just to make connections with whoever they happened to talk to. It was also an effective way to trade favours.

What John disagreed with wasn’t their method, but what they did with them. Which, if he was being honest, was quite refreshing. Commonly enough, he dealt with opponents whose very tactics he despised to the depth of his soul.

In any case, this was his best chance to piss Bertrand off enough for the drunk Viscount to make a mistake. Plus, this was supposed to be a show and John had a good idea how this would go. “I’ll see you in a bit,” he promised Lydia and Nightingale and kissed them on their cheeks. “I recommend you sit out in the garden.”

“Noted,” Lydia responded, then she and Nightingale went through the depressing motions of getting off John’s lap. His life was poorer for the absence of their butts on his thighs. Sadly, this sacrifice in the present was necessary for greater interaction of the lewd variety in the future.

‘The things we do for love,’ John thought and headed into the mansion.

One of the servants stood by the door and John just strutted right past with all the confidence of someone who could be wherever they wanted. Either the servant believed the Gamer could indeed do that or they were just too tired to give a damn. In either case, John stepped into a mansion that he would have considered opulent, yet tasteful in its design, had he not known that all of this was taxpayer funded. The houses of leaders shouldn’t be shabby, but what was the point in having massive oil paintings around?

‘At least when I waste Collide’s money, that’s money the Guild Hall made,’ John thought, accessing a flight of stairs. On the second floor, he only had to follow the voices. Drunken, loud laughter made it almost as easy to find his target as his connection to Siena. Almost. “Good evening, parasites,” John announced himself, coming in through the door.

Immediately the laughter ceased. Confusion swiftly made room for annoyance. Under their glares, John looked around the room. It was a retreat, with bookshelves, a large regular table and one for pool. He aimed for one of the large windows and ultimately sat down on the windowsill, hands in his pockets. “What did you call us?” Bertrand demanded to know, the head of his little group of four.

“A parasite, want me to define that for you?” John asked. It wasn’t often he got to be an asshole like this, so the smile on his face was genuine. “Since you’re busy killing all your braincells. Got to admit, you’re much better at killing your chances at a promotion though.”

“The fuck do you know?” Bertrand growled.

“What I know is that you’re not happy with the amount of blood you’re sucking out of this country. A promotion from vistick to just tick, that’s what you want, right?” John rolled his neck. “You know, you’re pretty good at showing a nice guy mask, I liked you when I arrived here. In the end, you’re just another spoiled brat though. Your grandfather would be ashamed of you. He served to get where he was.”

“So you’re… sh-showing your true colours, huh?” Bertrand asked, swaying as he got up. The adrenaline might have cleared his mind a bit, but it also made his heart beat faster. With the amount of alcohol in his system, one had a much more notable effect than the other. “What do you want?”

“Eh, I was about to leave and decided to tell you what kind of an obnoxious, arrogant prick you are, before I never see you again and live a life thirty times better than yours.” Leaning forwards, John grinned and added, “You know, I actually worked for what I got. What do you have, besides your blood?”

“My blood is plenty,” Bertrand growled. “In the name of… of the houshe of Großhofstadt-vor-Sigmaringen…” He managed to get all of that out fluently. His belief in his nobility was genuine, if sickeningly intense. “…I shallenge you to a…duel!”

“Bert, I don’t think-“ one of his, perhaps less drunk or simply more reasonable, friends stated.

“SHUT UP!” the man of the house snapped back.

“Really sickens me that you look so much like me, eternal Viscount,” John said, and he meant that, as he rose from the windowsill. “Tell you what. I’ll give you the first shot. See how that goes.”

“Arrogant curr!” Bertrand shouted and thrust his hand forwards. A blast of ice was loosened.

‘Man, that was almost too easy,’ John thought, letting the ice blast hit him in the stomach. Particle Skin was inactive, the attack catapulted him backwards and out of the window. To John, everything seemed to happen in slow motion as his brain fired up. He could see the four young men react to the successful attack with smiles. ‘Guess there’s only a reasonable person among them, not a nice one.’

John crashed through the roof of the veranda and, as chance would have it, right on top of Suel’s table while the Lord of Pontis was raising a glass to his lips. The older un-gentleman stopped to toast. “I see you have angered the man of the house.”

“Seems that way,” John said, grabbing the piece of ice on his stomach and throwing it aside. “Don’t interfere, I was challenged to a duel!” the Gamer told the remaining guests.

Bertrand jumped down at that moment. “I hate ruining my…” he hicked, “…property, but this will be worth it!” He pulled his arm back for another attack.

‘Nobody can fault me for defending myself now,’ John thought, once a second block of ice was coming his way. Raising his hand, he just stopped it with Particle Skin. “You caught me off-guard, but that was it.”

Before Bertrand could respond, John teleported over and kneed the man in the stomach.

That was just about everything that was needed to end the combat. John was actually surprised when Bertrand collapsed to the floor with just that. ‘I am too used to powerful opponents,’ he thought, watching the Viscount do his best to keep all of the expensive wine inside himself. John’s physical abilities were usually just enough to even let him react to enemy attacks on his level. Against someone like Bertrand, one full powered kick probably could have ruptured a couple of internal organs. “You really ought to stay in your weight class,” John gave genuine advice.

With a soft kick, he forced his near-double onto the floor and waited for the inevitable surrender. The ground underneath them froze as Bertrand unleashed more of his power. Sighing, John looked over to Nightingale and Lydia. His dates were watching all of this from a distance. The harpy licked her lips. That was almost as clear in its intent, to him, as her poking the inside of her cheeks with her tongue.

John almost missed the ball of ice coming his way. With the angle he had Bertrand fixed at, it almost missed him by default. Deliberately, he got in the way. “Could you not damage taxpayer property?” the Gamer requested, dropping the basketball sized piece of hail. “If you’re not paying for it, you can at least respect it.” John pressed his foot down a little harder. “Just tap the ground twice to surrender.”

It took five minutes of John’s evening, but eventually Bertrand did as he had asked. John was ready to face a retaliation by the Viscount the moment he got up, but Bertrand seemed to have more urgent things he needed to get out. Storming towards the nearest bush, he vomited audibly.

Fixing the collar of his perfectly sitting suit, John turned towards everyone else. “Sorry for that scene. Seems like I got blunter with him than he could take,” he apologized with a bow of his head. “We’ll be taking our leave now. I recommend letting the owner of the house have his rest soon. He’s clearly drunk.”

With no further comments and the roaring laughter of Suel in the background, the trio moved towards the gate of the walled-off estate. ‘Quite the show,’ Siena told him, now located in his shadow. An easy switch to make, during the prolonged physical contact.

“See, this is the kind of shit I like,” Metra said the same in different words, once they were out of earshot.

“Don’t get used to it,” John told her. “You can take the suit off soon.”

“It’s not that bad… Naked is obviously better though. Which car do I ride in?” Metra looked to Lydia to get an answer to that question.

The queen stopped to consider it. “You may join us in the limo, but the reward for the evening is to be bestowed by me and Nightingale.”

“Sure thing,” Metra agreed.

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“Before you let your hair down…” John stopped Lydia just as she was about to do exactly that, “…how much do you value that dress?”

“Intensely,” the queen responded.

“Ah, never mind then,” John said. In his typical fashion, he had looked forward to destroying it during the foreplay. Her hair getting dishevelled would have been part of that package. Without the dress part, the hair wasn’t as satisfying, so he didn’t care much either way.

The bun was swiftly undone, rolled out into a braid which Lydia then opened completely by pulling the metal ring off the tip. John loved that particular set of motions women (well, long-haired people, but John only loved it when women did it) used to fan their hair out after long confinement. The hands between hair and neck, the rolling of the head, the slight shaking of the shoulders.

Once Lydia was free, she started nudging John towards the back of the stretch limo, where the curve of the bench made it exceptionally easy for three people to sit in a clutch. Metra stayed over by the door and found the control panel, lowering the table into the floor. That space would be needed for this or that.

John soon found himself in an even better situation than the one he had left at the party, with the queen and the goddess both firmly attached to his sides, half-lying on his chest, with one of their delicious thighs swung over his. This was the kind of female attention any pimp out there would beg for. ‘I really should reconsider that harem king title,’ he thought, jokingly.

“About your announcement,” Nightingale said to him. “I have second thoughts.”

John’s attention snapped away from Metra, mid-stripping, and immediately laid completely with the harpy. “What kind of second thoughts?” he wanted to know.

“The delaying kind,” the goddess of the night revealed. “Perhaps a little more time would-“

“No.” The outright denial shut the harpy up instantly. She looked equal parts excited and displeased. John’s arm, wrapped around her back, slung under her armpit and then grabbed her neck from behind in an exceedingly possessive gesture. “I understand your hesitation, Nightingale,” he whispered to her. “You’ve guarded your purity for a while and you want to make really sure that I’m the one. You revealed a lot of yourself tonight and I loved all of what I saw. Your diplomacy, your ambitions, your struggles, I want all of them in my life and I want the person that embodies it all, I want you, Nightingale, to be mine.”

“Then, if you understand my hesitation, could you give me more time?” Nightingale asked.

“No,” John denied again, “because this is me putting my cards on the table, my songbird. I’m a man of deep ambition. I’m prideful. I’m greedy. I have and continue to forge a nation. I am the mate of one goddess, I am the tamer of another one, the deadliest one of all, and my accomplishments continue to stack endlessly. What I am telling you when I say that tomorrow you’ll be mine is that I have made my choice. The courting, on my side, is done. My interest is manifest. You can deny me, you can flee in the middle of the night, those are your choices. I am trusting you with my heart.”

Nightingale took an exceptionally deep, audible breath. She pushed the air out quickly, inhaled again, opened her mouth slightly, and shook her head. A bit, she leaned in. Then she pulled back. She made a displeased face. Then she smiled. Then her features relaxed into neutrality. She leaned towards him again, closer this time. She was about to kiss him, then stopped. The lavender smell of her breath was slightly tainted by the sweetness of the wine they had been drinking. “I am drunk,” she said in the most sober voice imaginable, “and prone to bad choices. Remind me: if we kissed tomorrow, could it be more romantic than what you just said?”

“I will pour my love out to you under a sky of my own design,” he swore to her. “The stars and the moon, all aligned for a confession, a kiss, and all else you could want.”

“And you bestow me the power to take such a legendary night from you?”

“I can’t give you a power you already have,” John told her. “That’s what you earned, being gorgeous, witty, adorable and capable.”

Nightingale pulled back and turned to Lydia. Her lips moved, but John heard nothing. He glanced at the copper-haired queen, who nodded, a smile playing around the edge of her lips. John had to force himself to look away, before he started lip reading. That his Lydia had smiled meant that whatever was being discussed was ultimately good for him. He didn’t need to know anything more.

“You will have my answer tomorrow,” Nightingale whispered.

“And what do we do tonight?” John responded in a hushed tone.

The question prompted movement on either side of his body. Well-hidden buttons and other securing methods were loosened, and taut dresses turned into sliding cloth. “Naughty activities,” Nightingale responded, while John took one after the other into his inventory to make sure the expensive pieces didn’t get crumpled.

Queen and goddess slid to the floor.