Zena: The First Awakening
Copyright© 2025 by Man Of Myth
Chapter 4: The Lesson
Fantasy Sex Story: Chapter 4: The Lesson - Before the first stars learned to burn, the Pulse was born, a living rhythm of creation that binds gods, universes, and mortal thought. In the world of Zena, a single clash between two kings reawakens that forgotten power. The impact fractures the laws of reality, echoing through distant realms, awakening watchers, universes, and ancient minds that have slept since the dawn of existence. Now, as the Pulse stirs once more, time bends, empires tremble.
Caution: This Fantasy Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa mt/ft Fa/Fa ft/ft Mult Consensual Romantic Lesbian BiSexual Heterosexual High Fantasy Military Mystery Science Fiction Aliens Extra Sensory Perception Space Were animal Incest Sister Polygamy/Polyamory Black Male Black Female Big Breasts Size Politics Royalty Slow Violence
The Forest
The group observed silently.
Watch him,” Zyrian said. “He’s up against fourteen of the best in the academy, and he’s not even breaking a sweat.
Cael exhaled and said, “Yeah ... he’s not even trying. He seems nearly bored.”
Steel rang out in the distance, sharp, clear, and steady. From their position, the group saw flashes of movement among the trees: sparks flying where blades met and puffs of dust rising from feet hitting the ground too hard.
The figure moved in a distinct manner compared to the others. The fourteen individuals encircled him, shouting and swinging their weapons chaotically in the moonlight, their movements quick and frantic.
He, by contrast, moved as if he anticipated their next move in advance. When someone lunged, he pivoted slightly, caught their attack on the flat of his blade, and used their momentum to unbalance them.
Once, a spear was aimed straight at his chest. He swiftly sidestepped, allowing the tip to barely scrape his coat, then seized the shaft and twisted it. The wood snapped cleanly, causing splinters to fly.
The spear’s owner staggered forward, and a backhanded blow to his shoulder caused him to fall into the dust.
“Fast,” Lyna whispered.
“Efficient,” Zyrian said quietly.
A hammer swung to his right; he ducked low, with his palm hitting the ground, and swept a leg under the attacker. The hammer crashed down harmlessly beside him, kicking up a puff of dirt.
Before the dust settled, the man was back on his feet, moving forward.
Every action was purposeful, showing no signs of wasted effort or visible tension. The fighters nearby were panting loudly and shouting at one another, but he remained silent.
“Did he just ... dodge without looking?” Nira murmured.
“He’s not merely dodging,” Uruses said, observing intently. “He’s timing his moves.”
The man pivoted, his sword flashing upward to deflect two strikes at once. His coat caught the moonlight briefly, flaring slightly. For a moment, his face turned toward them, appearing calm and unreadable, with faintly shining eyes.
Cael exhaled, voice low. “He’s not even trying. Look at his stance, he’s relaxed.”
Zyrian didn’t answer, but his jaw tightened.
The fight kept shifting; one of the fourteen tried a surprise attack from behind, wielding twin knives. Instead of retreating, the man stepped forward, grabbed a fighter’s sword, and thrust it into the ground, then twisted his wrist. The sword broke free, spinning back and knocking the knife-wielder’s hand aside.
In less than a breath, both were down.
“He’s reading them like an open book,” Uruses muttered.
The figure paused for a moment, as if catching their words. He then gradually straightened, dust falling from his coat, and subtly shifted his gaze towards their position.
The noise of battle faded. The air grew heavier. Zyrian’s face stayed the same, but his eyes darkened.
“Stay low,” he said quietly.
As the fight raged on, one of the larger attackers broke from the group and charged straight at the lone figure. His weapon spun in his hands, cutting through the air with a hiss. He first aimed for the man’s throat but then shifted his grip, bringing the second blade toward the abdomen as a feint to catch his opponent off guard.
But the figure didn’t move. He stood there. No guard raised. No shift in stance. Nothing.
The attacker slowed, uncertainty flickering across his face.
Leon muttered, “What is he doing, just standing there?”
Uruses said, eyes on the scene, “He’s attacking psychologically, Making the attacker question his move before he makes it.”
“And it’s working,” Lyna added. “Look at him, he’s hesitating.”
Below, the attacker faltered, footsteps breaking. In that moment, the figure shifted.
He crouched swiftly and slid under the swinging weapon, then rose in a fluid motion, his hand darting to the attacker’s hip. With impressive ease, he lifted the man and hurled him through the air as if he were weightless.
The man pushed through the undergrowth, snapping branches along the way, and ultimately collapsed in front of them with a loud thud that sent leaves flying everywhere.
Everyone paused briefly as the figure below straightened, turned his head toward them, and caught the light in his eyes. He tilted his head slightly, appearing calm, deliberate, and overly aware.
“Well,” Lyna said quietly, “that explains. He knew where we were.”
Leon grinned and stepped closer, kneeling beside the fallen man, who was groaning and trying to rise. “Well, well,” he said sarcastically, “look at who we have here, the so-called greatest warrior of the academy, if not Zena herself. Baxon was simply discarded like a rag doll”.
“You...” Baxon groaned, struggling up onto one knee.
“Yes, we,” Leon said, gesturing at everyone behind him.
Baxon’s gaze flickered between them, signs of disbelief and irritation on his face. “You’re simply standing here ... watching us fight?”
Cael moved closer. “First, we’ve only just arrived. Second, it didn’t seem like a real fight. It looked more like you were being thoroughly beaten.” His tone was factual, not mocking.
Uruses crossed his arms. “How long have you been fighting him?”
Baxon wiped the dirt off his face. “Uh ... maybe thirty minutes.”
“And no one’s down,” Lyna noted. “No one dead, no one even bleeding. He’s just toying with you.
Ryra’s voice was steady. “Any weakness? Any opening at all?”
Baxon shook his head slowly. “None. He’s everywhere at once. Every time we think he’s open, he...”
He stopped when he noticed Zyrian wasn’t listening.
Zyrian stood a few steps ahead, watchfully observing the clearing below. The figure below continued moving, neither hurried nor sluggish, just purposeful. Each of his strikes appeared effortless, as if every move had been practiced countless times. Every few seconds, he cast a glance upward, not just a look, but a silent gesture of invitation.
Zyrian exhaled before speaking without looking back. “Let’s go. We’ll find his weakness only when we face him ourselves.”
He started down the slope. The others exchanged looks. No one argued.
Leon stepped over to Baxon’s side and offered his hand. “Come on,” he said with a slight grin, “let’s get beaten up together.”
Baxon glanced at him, then chuckled briefly and dryly before taking his hand. “Wouldn’t miss it,” he said.
They followed Zyrian into the clearing. They stepped out as one.
The man in the center remained still. His sword hung loosely in his hand, the tip touching the line where grass meets dirt. He observed their approach, his expression questioning.
Zyrian moved quickly, with Uruses appearing as a silver streak to his left, its daggers whispering ominously. Behind him, Ryra’s chain cracked loudly and looped once around a fallen sapling’s trunk; Nira remained low and compact. Cael’s maul and Leon’s hammer followed, their heavy blows making the ground tremble. Lyna kept her distance from the glaive, carefully plotting arcs that could split a spine. Baxon laughed, charged forward with his shield up, grinning daringly at his enemy.
The man remained calm and composed. He didn’t hurry or panic. Instead, he shifted his shoulders and moved carefully, like someone skimming the water’s surface with precision and patience, conserving his movements for the perfect moment.
Leon’s hammer made the first solid contact, striking wood where a limb jutted, causing bark to spall. His arms trembled from the recoil. Cael’s maul then followed, carving a shallow furrow in the dirt where the man’s boot had just been. Uruses rushed past with twin daggers targeting ribs; one palm struck his shoulder, pushing him into Cael. He gasped sharply as his breath was suddenly expelled.
They hit the ground with faint rolling detonations. Not every fall was smooth. Ryra’s chain caught on something, pulling her off balance and causing her to crash onto her hip and gasp as the wind was knocked out of her. Baxon swung his shield, which spun upon impact; he grinned through a split lip and spat dirt.
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