The New World
Copyright© 2024 by Dark Apostle
Chapter 29: The Aftermath
Fan Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 29: The Aftermath - The story follows James Smith, a man who dies and finds himself in a surreal afterlife courtroom, where his life is judged as "zero sum"—neither good nor evil, just utterly average. Dissatisfied with being consigned to eternal mediocrity, he manipulates the cosmic bureaucracy into granting him a second chance in a new world, where he is reincarnated as a child with his memories intact and perks... - edited by my lovely Steven.
Caution: This Fan Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Ma/ft Mult Coercion NonConsensual Reluctant Slavery Lesbian BiSexual Heterosexual Fan Fiction Farming High Fantasy Rags To Riches Restart Alternate History DoOver Extra Sensory Perception Body Swap Furry Magic Incest Mother Sister Politics Royalty Violence
James lay motionless on the wide bed in the brothel’s private chamber, the heavy linen sheets damp with sweat. He had been unconscious for most of the day, his body finally surrendering to the toll of the fight. Bruises bloomed dark across his ribs and back, a map of the mage’s telekinetic hammer spell.
The door creaked open. Anna stepped inside carrying a tray of broth and bread. The faint scent of rosemary and beef hit James’s nostrils first. His body reacted before his mind could catch up—nostrils flared, eyes snapped wide, right hand shot out and closed around the hilt of the great two-handed sword propped against the bedframe. In one fluid motion, he sat bolt upright, blade leveled at the doorway, point trembling slightly from the sudden strain on cracked ribs.
Anna yelped and stumbled back, tray nearly tipping. The broth sloshed, a few drops staining her apron.
James blinked, recognition flooding in. The sword wavered, then dropped from numb fingers with a heavy thunk against the floorboards. He exhaled hard, sweat beading on his brow.
“Fucking hell, James,” Anna muttered, pressing a hand to her chest. “You nearly gave me a heart attack.”
“Sorry,” he rasped, voice rough from disuse. He rubbed his face with one scarred palm. “What time is it?”
“Late afternoon. You’ve been out cold since we carried you up here.”
He nodded once, the motion sending fresh pain lancing through his skull. “Fuck.”
The memories rushed back in full color: Ari’s pale eyes narrowing, the invisible force slamming him into stone, Fel’s silver bulk crumpling as life drained away, Freya’s sudden, furious swing with the boiling pot, the wet crunch of steel through bone. He had cut the mage’s arm, then his head. Clean. Final. Yet the victory felt hollow now, overshadowed by the ache in every muscle and the knowledge that Fel had nearly died for it.
“I need to work out,” he said, already swinging his legs toward the floor.
Anna set the tray on the side table with deliberate calm. “You need to rest. You haven’t stopped moving since you walked back into Castletown—hunting, building, fucking, fighting. Your body is screaming for a break. Listen to it for once.”
He met her gaze, jaw tight, then slowly eased back against the pillows. The effort cost him; sweat broke fresh across his chest.
“How’s Fel?” he asked.
“I do not know, he has not returned.”
James let out a short, tired laugh. “Stubborn bastard. He said he was going to the deep woods to heal. He should have come here, where we could feed him properly.”
“You keep telling me that Fel is magic. Maybe the woods are necessary for him to recover.”
Anna sat on the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle him. “The girls are safe. Alice and Freya are shaken but unharmed. They’ve barely left each other’s side since you brought them back. The tavern is packed—word of the mage’s death spread faster than wildfire. Half the town thinks you’re some kind of hero; the other half is terrified of you. Either way, coin is flowing. The brothel’s busier than ever. You’ve turned this place into something important.”
“Good,” he grunted, eyes drifting to the ceiling beams. Exhaustion pulled at him again, heavy and insistent.
Anna reached out, resting a hand lightly on his forearm. “You almost lost everything yesterday. From what Freya told me, Fel almost didn’t survive. Take the time to heal. The empire you’re building will still be here tomorrow.”
He closed his eyes, letting the words settle. Fuck, what a week. The grand opening, the lord’s daughter blushing at his flexed arm, the sudden disappearance, the mage’s house reeking of blood and scorched linen. He had won—again—but the cost was piling up. His ribs cracked, his mind still flashing to the severed head rolling across stone. Fel wounded, and the time for him to recover is unknown.
For the first time in years, James felt the weight of it all press down without the buffer of constant motion. He exhaled slowly.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “Maybe you’re right.”
Anna smiled faintly, squeezed his arm once, and stood. “Eat the broth. Sleep. Get your strength back. We’ve got the rest covered.”
She left the door ajar, letting late-afternoon light spill across the floor. James stared at the sword lying on the boards, then closed his eyes and let darkness take him again.
For the next week, James was pampered by the women in the brothel. They waited on him hand and foot. Whenever he was awake, they brought him food and water to build up his strength. When he walked in the courtyard, there was one or more of the women offering their arm for support. Even Jacky came over a couple of times to give him a full-body massage. At the beginning, even if she offered more, he would not be able to do anything.
Finally, he felt like his old self. He thanked everyone and moved to The Fenrir to help greet the customers. The tavern’s opening had gone better than James ever dreamed. The Fenrir pulsed with raw energy the second the doors flew open, pulling in a crowd bigger, richer, and hornier than he’d planned for. Lord Mallow rolled in with grace, bringing his teenage daughter and arranging for the town’s upper crust to attend. James jumped right in—doing everything he could to amaze the diners with unique food, drink, and atmosphere. His efforts and preparation paid off, the opening was a huge success, both to his purse and his reputation.
James bounced between roles without missing a beat—answering questions, describing the tavern’s unique fixtures, flattering the wives, then ducking into the kitchen to plate the last rounds. The serpent meat came out perfect: outside crisp and charred, inside so tender it fell apart under a fork, laced with that slow-building, throat-scorching kick from the snake’s venom sauce. When the first slice hit Mallow’s plate, the lord buried his nose in it, eyes going wide, then tore into the chunk like a starving dog. The second Mallow demanded seconds, the room exploded. Platters vanished in seconds; coins rained onto the bar faster than the girls could scoop them up. They cleared the entire month’s operating costs before the last couple left for the night.
Upstairs, to his surprise, one of the whores was getting shared between a guild master and his wife. The tavern’s servers were off-limits; Christine stalked the private rooms like a she-wolf, her glare alone enough to make any man rethink his life choices. James still grabbed a feel whenever he felt like it—sliding a rough hand over back and arm, but careful not to overstep her boundaries.
James had spent plenty of time near Mallow’s daughter, Iona, letting the firelight play over the hard swell of his biceps while he flexed slowly and deliberately. The little noble bitch—supposed to be all poise and breeding—turned beet-red, eyes flicking to his arms then darting away like a virgin schoolgirl caught staring at cock for the first time.
But even though he had recovered, his success with the tavern seemed tainted. The mage had ripped the illusion of invincibility right out of him. One sweep of his arm and James had been smashed into a wall hard enough to crack stone. The amulet ate the first hit, but the second proved there were limits even to his protections. Mages didn’t bleed easily, didn’t tire, didn’t fight fair. They rewrote the fucking rules mid-swing. He’d survived by dumb luck—Freya’s sudden swing with the boiling pot, the split-second window that let his sword carve through meat and bone. Luck wasn’t enough anymore.
Lying in the dim room, ribs still throbbing, James stared at the ceiling beams and made up his mind. He was still young enough in this body that a real mage might take him on as a part-time apprentice. Squire bullshit was out—he was too old, and he sure as hell wasn’t polishing armor when he could rake in coin hand-over-fist downstairs. The Fenrir was printing money, the brothel was busier than ever, and as long as Fel kept dragging back monster carcasses, the gold would keep rolling in. But next time a mage looked at him sideways, James wanted more than steel and size. He wanted fire of his own.
He shoved off the bed, hissed through his teeth at the stab in his side, and limped to the door. Down the stairs, through the quiet kitchen smelling of old grease and woodsmoke, out into the courtyard. Late-afternoon sun cut golden bars across the flagstones. He stretched slowly, testing ribs and spine, feeling muscle pull tight over bruises.
As he sat in the courtyard soaking up the sun, Mathin walked up to him. “I cannot believe you were able to defeat a mage of such skill. I am truly impressed.”
“Mathin, it was luck more than skill. I had never fought a mage before. If I knew then what I now know, I would have never gone there without an army backing me up. If I had not distracted Ari at a critical point, then he would have killed Fel and me.”
“Tell me everything about the battle. There are so few that each one is notable.” Mathin asked.
So James went over the two encounters with as much detail as he remembered.
“So Ari swung his arm twice? Is that right?” Mathin pressed.
“Yes. He was surprised that the first time was a failure. So he muttered something and the second time, I flew across the lane into a building on the other side.”
Mathin stood and chanted for a minute before waving his arms over James’s torso. “The charm I placed on you—it has been destroyed,” Mathin mused. “And I cannot detect any lingering curses either.
James, you have a choice. I can create another amulet and implant it in your side to provide a measure of protection or you can let your inner magic reappear.”
“If I let the magic come to the surface, where can I get training?” James asked.
Mathin thought for a moment. “You have the basics already. You can read and write, cast small spells, and have the money to pay for lessons. We need to have you try to use your innate magic and see what there is to work with. Let’s go back to my shop and I will give you a couple of amulets to try to control through your magic.”
“I have a better idea. I own a couple of magic rings. Let’s try those first,” James replied.
“You do? That is amazing. What do the rings do?” Mathin asked.
“Let me show you,” James replied. “I will be right back.”
James went up the stairs to his room and pulled the rings from his locked chest. Placing them in his pocket, he also slid a dagger into his boot. ‘I am not sure if I trust mages.’ He thought.
Returning, James fished the two silver rings from his back pocket, rolling them between scarred fingers. He slid the Ring of Finding onto his finger, then focused inward. The stat screen flickered to life at the edge of his vision—faint, familiar, like an old scar.
“This is a ring of finding,” James said. “I bought it from a mage when I was eight. Even without training, I was able to seek things out. One of the first things I found was a slime.”
“A slime? Interesting. Was it useful?” Mathin asked.
“Very much. The slime, who I called Bob, helped around the farm. Bob even used the ring itself to locate items for me that helped the farm flourish.” “So, what do you wish to seek?”
“Let’s start with something simple,” James replied. “I think I will try to locate a slime.”
James triggered Sense—one of the first perks he’d ever unlocked, dormant for years—and the old feeling snapped back like a taut bowstring. The ring didn’t yank his arm or display a glowing arrow; it just bloomed in his chest, a quiet, insistent tug toward something small, wet, and alive nearby. “Coming?”
“Sure,” Mathin replied and followed him.
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