The New World
Copyright© 2024 by Dark Apostle
Chapter 34: The Battlemage
Fan Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 34: The Battlemage - 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
It was a rare moment of tranquility—genuinely rare, the kind worth cataloguing like a trophy kill. For the first bastard in history to have told a celestial jury to shove its zero-sum verdict up its ass, James was—for once—floating in perfect, bloody peace.
He lay face-down in the sheets, mouth slack, drooling a slow silver river into the linen. Deep REM. In the dream, Jacky was on all fours, spine curved like a drawn bow, ass high and trembling. He was buried to the root in her tight arse—her fingers white-knuckled in the pillows, that stuttered little “nnhh” catching in her throat every time he bottomed out. His cock twitched beneath the blanket in drowsy solidarity, tenting the fabric with each lazy phantom thrust.
Then came the knock.
Distant at first. Muffled. Someone rapping on a door three rooms away. His brain filed it under not my fucking problem and burrowed deeper. Jacky moaned louder. His hips rolled against the mattress, grinding slow.
The knock came again. Louder. Sharper.
James groaned—low, wet, wretched—and pawed at his face. Fingers found drool. Smeared it across his cheek like war paint. One eye cracked open to a searing blade of grey morning light slicing through the shutters and immediately slammed shut again. The dream collapsed ... Thoughts rose slow and stupid through layers of tar.
Wh—
What.
Jan leaned through the doorway, one hip cocked against the frame. Her robe hung loose and untied, tits swaying heavy and bare above it. She was saying something.
“—mage is here.”
He blinked. Thick. Slow. His tongue felt three sizes too large.
“Hnngh?”
“The Battlemage,” Jan repeated, slower. “Is here. Get up.”
The Battlemage. The words circled his skull, bumping into each other, refusing to assemble into meaning. He stared at her, bleary, one eye still gummed half-shut with sleep. His cock was still hard. His pillow was wet. The Battlemage.
“ ... say what?”
Her grin spread wide. “Get. Up.”
“Christ almighty,” he croaked. He rolled onto his back, blinked at the ceiling, blinked again. The room swam. Slowly, painfully, the gears caught. “Yes, mum.”
“I’m not your mother.” Her grin stretched wider—those perfect pearly teeth, the same ones glazed white with his cum not ten hours ago. “Not after what you did to my arse last night.”
She let that land, watched his expression with obvious satisfaction, then added, almost casually:
“Besides, Christine is downstairs.”
Christine.
His mother. From the previous life.
“Fine,” he muttered, and swung his legs off the bed. “What’s his name?”
“Kael.”
“Sounds like a superfood.”
She laughed, slapped his head and waltzed out. He groaned—fuck, he shouldn’t have drunk all that the night before. The room still smelled faintly of spilled ale and sex. He pulled the piss bowl out from under the bed and sighed. One more thing on the endless list of shit this world needed: proper toilets. People weren’t ready yet. He streamed into the pot, sighing contentedly as the pressure eased. That invention would have to wait. Maybe he could rig something with the slimes—they didn’t seem to give a shit about what they ate. Stick one in a pipe, feed it wastewater, let it purify and crap out clean water. File that away for later. Magic apparently couldn’t wait.
He stood, stretched until his spine popped in three satisfying places, rolled his shoulders, and cracked his neck with a grimace. Bare feet padded down the stairs, each step loosening the hangover stiffness. The familiar scents of fresh bread, woodsmoke, and last night’s spilled ale hit him as he pushed into the bar area.
And there he was.
A mage—tall, lean, silver-threaded black hair swept back from sharp features, dark robes edged with faint shimmering silver runes. The man turned at the sound of boots. So did the women already gathered: Christine polishing tankards and Jan sleaning the tables.
A bright, grin split James’s face.
“At last the mage is here. Now I can learn to do magic.”
“Kael, this is James,” Jan said, introducing them James nodded to Kael, “Would you like to eat?”
“Yes,” Kael replied. We can talk while we eat.”
James walked the mage ot a table and called out to the kitchen, “Two breakfasts, please.”
“Thank you for coming. Mathin told me that he called in an expert to train me,” James continued.
Jan came out of the kitchen with a standard earth breakfast: thick slices of bacon fried eggs eggs, slabs of dark bread slathered in herb butter, and a mound of fried potatoes.
James felt the old hunger stir again—not for food, but for what came next. Power. Real power. Not just the brute strength he’d forged on the wheel or the coin he’d bled for in Castletown. Magic. The kind that could crack open the world and let him rewrite the rules. He’d spent too long turning a wheel. Now he was ready to burn the fucking thing down.
He pushed off the bar. “Cellar. Whenever you’re ready, superfood.”
Kael snorted—almost a laugh—and stood. His robes whispered with faint metallic threads. He looked taller up close, leaner, the kind of lean that came from moving fast and hitting hard.
“After you,” he said, gesturing toward the back stairs.
James descended first, boots thumping on wood. Cool air rose to meet him, carrying the faint smell of old barrels, damp stone, and promise. Halfway down he paused, glanced back up at the bright rectangle of the bar.
Jan called softly, “Don’t die, James.”
James flashed her a grin that showed too many teeth.
“Not planning on it.”
The cellar stairs creaked under their boots as they descended. Cool, damp air rose to meet them, thick with the scent of old oak barrels, mildew-kissed stone, and the faint metallic tang of iron rings bolted into the walls from some long-forgotten use. A single lantern hung from a hook, its flame guttering in the draft and throwing long, restless shadows across the low ceiling. Kael stopped at the bottom, turned, and regarded James with the same cool appraisal he’d worn since breakfast.
“So how does this work?” James asked, voice low in the confined space.
Kael mused for a moment, eyes flicking over the scars that mapped James’s forearms like old battle lines. “First—gold.”
James blinked once, then turned without a word. He climbed the stairs two at a time, boots thudding, and disappeared into the tavern proper. A moment later he returned, the small leather pouch in his hand heavier than it looked. He tossed it underhand; it arced through the dim light and landed in Kael’s open palm with a soft, metallic clink.
The mage opened the drawstring, peered inside, and raised an eyebrow. Gold coins—pure, heavy, stamped with the Castletown mint—glinted back at him. Not silver. Not tin. Gold.
Kael looked from the pouch to James. “I said the coin must be placed in my hand. Are you able to follow directions?”
He blinked, not realizing that the mage was ‘giving orders’ of course it was a test to tell if James was able to understand instructions correctly.