The sun dipped below the jagged horizon, casting long, skeletal shadows across the forest floor, but inside the hollow tree, the world was a different shade of dark. My [Detection] map pulsed with a violent, rhythmic crimson. Marcus wasn't sneaking; he was a storm of grief and rage. I could hear him long before he reached the threshold—the frantic, heavy gallop of a horse driven to its breaking point, followed by the clatter of steel as he dismounted.
"Sarah! I know you're in there!" his voice boomed, echoing into the maw of the dungeon. It was a strong voice, the voice of a man who had led squads into the Maw of the North, but there was an unmistakable tremor of terror underneath the bravado.
He charged through the iron-bound door, his heavy plate armor clanking like a funeral bell. He held a broadsword that glowed with a faint, holy light—a Level 5 weapon for a Level 5 man. He hacked through the remaining Slimes in the entrance hall with a single, practiced arc, their acidic remains sizzling harmlessly against his greaves.
"Sarah! I'll save you from this filth!" he roared, plunging deeper into the dark.
Then, he hit the second floor.
The Arousal Mist didn't just meet him; it swallowed him. It was a physical weight, a thick, cloying pink fog that smelled of overripe peaches and forbidden musk. Within seconds, the "noble warrior" began to falter. The mist was designed to be invasive; it sought out the gaps in his armor, the pores of his skin, and the very lining of his lungs.
Marcus let out a ragged, confused gasp. To a man who had lived his life by the cold, iron logic of the sword, the sudden, violent heat blooming in his groin was a betrayal worse than any blade. His skin began to crawl. Every movement—the friction of his gambeson against his chest, the weight of his sword belt—began to feel like a caress. His mind, already frayed by panic, started to fracture under the mist's hallucinatory edge.
"Sarah? Is that... you?" he wheezed.
Through the fog, the walls themselves seemed to moan. I used the dungeon's ambient mana to project Sarah's voice, distorted and wet, echoing from the stones. "Marcus... it feels so good... why didn't you ever make me feel like this?"
"No... stay back! It's a trick!" Marcus swung his sword wildly at the shadows, his balance failing as his own body surged with a desperate, unwanted arousal.
That was when the Imps dropped.
They didn't go for his throat. They were small, leathery blurs of motion, cackling with a high-pitched, mocking glee. One landed on his back, its clawed feet digging into his pauldrons, while the other darted between his legs. They didn't use daggers; they used nimble, soot-stained fingers.
With the precision of practiced thieves, they began to slash at his leather straps and buckles. They tore away his tassets, exposed his midriff, and laughed as they saw the "Hero" struggling to keep his sword upright while his face was flushed a deep, shameful crimson. Marcus was no longer a warrior; he was a toy in a pink haze, his dignity being stripped away one buckle at a time.