Rakshasa remained motionless, not taking a single step forward, her body completely still as her eyes followed Victor’s every move. For the first ti since arriving there, her expression lacked complete control. Her mouth was slightly open, not out of a lack of composure, but because what she was seeing... didn’t fit any acceptable standard, not even for soone with her experience.
Victor wasn’t fighting an opponent now. He was just training, repeating basic movents, punching the air, spinning his body, adjusting his posture between sequences. But the problem wasn’t what he was doing. It was what happened when he did it.
Each blow he threw wasn’t contained within his own body. The surrounding air reacted violently, distorting as if compressed beyond its natural limits. Invisible waves expanded with each empty impact, pushing the environnt, creating small currents of wind that quickly beca heavier gusts as the sequence continued. It wasn’t magic. It wasn’t refined technique. It was pure strength.
Too much strength.
Rakshasa followed the movent of a wider punch, where Victor twisted his torso and released the blow with more intention. The air in front of him literally gave way for an instant, forming a visible distortion before exploding outwards in a pressure that kicked up dust, leaves, and small debris from the ground. This wasn’t a common side effect. It was a phenonon.
And he was doing it... without realizing it.
"...What the hell is this," she murmured, quietly, more to herself than anything else.
Rakshasa narrowed her eyes slightly, her focus shifting from surprise to analysis. She began to follow not only the blows, but his entire body. Every shift in weight, every muscle contraction, every mont when force was generated and released.
And that’s when she realized the real problem... There was no refinent... None.
The energy he was releasing wasn’t being directed correctly. Part of the force dissipated before impact, another part exploded uncontrollably upon contact with the air. His body produced far more than he actually used. What already seed absurd... was still a waste.
She let out a small laugh through her nose, but it wasn’t humor. It was pure disbelief.
"You’re throwing away half of it," she said, even knowing he wasn’t listening.
Victor remained imrsed in his own training, completely oblivious to her presence. His mind was focused on repeating the movents, trying to adjust the internal sensation, trying to understand how to apply what she had said before about control. But it was still the beginning. It was still raw.
Rakshasa took a slow step to the side, changing her angle of vision, now analyzing his body in profile. Her gaze descended from his shoulder to his arm, then to his torso, to his legs, observing how the force was built from the base to the point of impact.
And then she ca to a conclusion.
"This isn’t just adaptation," she murmured.
She crossed her arms, her gaze deepening, becoming more focused.
"His body..." she continued, now almost thoughtfully, "was made for this."
It wasn’t a light assumption. It was a direct reading of what she was seeing. The muscular structure, the way his body reacted to stress, the speed of recovery, the way strength was generated without collapsing his own system... this wasn’t just the result of training. It was built.
"It’s a fighting body," she said, more firmly now. "No... it’s worse than that."
Victor launched another sequence of blows, this ti faster, trying to maintain consistency between movents. The result was even more chaotic. The air around him distorted in multiple points, small explosions of pressure happening in sequence, creating an unstable flow that completely ssed up the space around him.
Rakshasa didn’t move.
But her eyes followed everything.
"Even with the wrong move..." she murmured.
She tilted her head slightly, analyzing more deeply.
"He cuts through an army."
There was no exaggeration in her tone.
It was calculation.
"Five-hundred-year-old werewolves..." she continued, almost as if testing the idea aloud. "An entire army."
She let out a small sigh.
"And he wouldn’t suffer any damage."
Silence fell for a second as she continued observing.
Victor paused for a mont, breathing heavily, adjusting his posture before starting again. His body was beginning to understand the distribution of force better, even if still instinctively. Small corrections were beginning to appear.
Rakshasa noticed.
And that only made the situation worse.
"And he’s still improving," she said, now with a slight trace of excitent in her tone.
Her eyes glowed slightly red, not aggressively, but intensely. The kind of glow that ca when sothing truly captured her interest on a deeper level.
"If he learns to refine this..." she continued.
She paused.
Thinking.
And then finished.
"It’s over."
There was no dramatization.
It was simple.
Direct.
Final.
Rakshasa slowly brought her hand to her own body, her fingers tracing the side of her hip almost distractedly, but the tension there was not subtle. Her gaze remained fixed on Victor, following every movent, every mistake, every excess.
"If he has my body refinent technique..." she murmured.
Her breathing changed slightly.
Heavier.
More charged.
"He becos invincible."
The word wasn’t spoken lightly.
It was spoken with certainty.
Her body reacted to her own conclusion, the excitent no longer rely intellectual or strategic. It was more direct, more physical, more instinctive. Her hand slid a little further, stopping at her groin without any attempt to disguise the gesture.
She squeezed lightly, exhaling slowly.
"Damn..." she murmured softly... Her gaze still fixed on him. "I’m so wet."
Rakshasa didn’t look away for a mont. Her body remained firm, but her breathing had changed, slower, heavier, laden with sothing that went beyond simple combat analysis. This wasn’t just technical or strategic interest. It was a deeper, more instinctive reaction, sothing she herself didn’t seem used to feeling.
The hand that had stopped at her groin remained there for a mont, pressing lightly as if trying to confirm her own perception. The gesture wasn’t exaggerated, nor theatrical, but it wasn’t restrained either.
It was direct, almost chanical, like soone checking sothing that shouldn’t be happening. She frowned slightly.
Confused.
Her fingers moved a little, adjusting their touch beneath the fabric, and the response ca imdiately. There was no doubt. The sensation was real, too clear to be ignored or attributed to anything else.
’I’m fucking wet.’ She murmured, her fingers on her vulva.
Rakshasa pulled her hand back slowly, looking at her own fingers for a second, as if processing it silently. Her expression wasn’t sha. It wasn’t embarrassnt. It was... bewildernt. She simply put it in her mouth after wiping it.
"It tastes reasonably good. I must be crazy." She shrugged, savoring her own arousal, while looking at Victor who continued training without even noticing she was still there.
His body moved with brute force, repeating blows that were still unrefined, but already absurd in nature. The air still reacted, distorting, being pushed, torn by the pressure of each movent. And yet— he had no idea.
Rakshasa exhaled slowly, lightly running her tongue over her lips, not out of necessity, but as an involuntary reflex. Her eyes narrowed, becoming more focused, as if she were trying to understand not only him... but herself in that mont.
"Well, it’s the first ti I’ve gotten wet," she said, almost inaudibly.
The sentence ca out laden with sothing unusual for her.
She tilted her head slightly, still observing every detail of his moving body, analyzing its structure, the way strength was born and wasted, the natural brutality that existed there without any proper guidance.
"Six thousand years..." she continued, now a little clearer, but still low.
"And this happens now... Damn, I want to fuck this man so badly..."
Rakshasa remained silent, silently desiring. Her hand fell to her side again, relaxed, but the inner tension hadn’t gone away. Quite the opposite, it only seed more focused now, more directed.
Her gaze was no longer just analytical.
Nor just interested.
It was sothing more complex, a dangerous mix of curiosity, intention, and a kind of desire that didn’t just co from the body, but from the possibility that Victor represented.
"You really have no idea what you’re causing ..." she murmured, almost like a confession.
Victor launched another blow, and the air in front of him split open again in a visible distortion before exploding in pressure.
Rakshasa didn’t blink.
And this ti—
’Mom... I think I’ve found the love of my life.’ She smiled.
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