The steps led them to massive dark wooden doors.
The hero and Medusa exchanged glances.
"It doesn't look like a trap," Medusa said hesitantly.
"Anything here could be a trap," he replied. But fatigue was already weighing down harder than fear.
He pushed the door. It opened silently.
Warmth, steam, and the scent of incense—sandalwood, rose, something spicy—hit him in the face.
They entered.
Enormous baths. Marble columns, a mosaic ceiling, a warm floor beneath their bare feet. Baths—large and small—rose in columns of steam. Soft light from magical crystals. Fabrics creating cozy nooks.
And succubi—dozens of them, in transparent robes or not, serving the guests: massages, drinks, laughter. The guests—demons, monsters, even a few mortals—all relaxed.
"Is it safe?" " Medusa asked quietly.
"I hope so," the hero shrugged. "But we need rest. At least a little."
A short succubus with red hair and a mischievous smile approached them. The same one who had been with him in the brothel.
"Oh! You're back! And with a friend," she winked at Medusa. "Welcome to the baths. You're safe here. Rest and recuperate."
The hero became wary.
"Is this your establishment?"
The succubus smiled.
"One of many in the dungeon. The rules are simple: enjoy, relax, and leave. Everything is fair."
"And payment?" Medusa frowned. "We don't have money."
The succubus waved her hand lightly.
"Free for you. You look like you've been through hell. Consider this a gesture of goodwill from the establishment." She pointed to a large bathtub in the corner of the room. "Over there. The best place." The water is perfect, the incense soothing. Enjoy.
She turned and left, leaving them slightly perplexed.
"She remembers you," Medusa raised an eyebrow.
"It seems so," the hero sighed. "But we need a bath more than talk right now. Let's go."
They headed toward the indicated bathtub—large, round, made of white marble with gold veins. The water was clear, hot, and steaming fragrantly.
The hero shed the rags that had once been clothing. Medusa removed the remains of her armor.
They plunged in simultaneously.
Bliss washed over them instantly.
The hot water enveloped their bodies, penetrated their muscles, and relaxed their tension. The pain—physical, not phantom—began to recede.
The hero leaned back on the edge of the bathtub and closed his eyes. For the first time in... how long? ...he felt safe. Perhaps illusory, but still. Medusa landed next to him, sighing with relief. The snakes on her head relaxed, curled up, dozing in the warmth.
"Gods..." she whispered. "I forgot what it's like... just to be warm. Without pain. Without threat."
The hero opened his eyes and looked at her. Her green skin glistened with water, drops rolling down her shoulders and neck. Her golden eyes stared at the ceiling, unfocused.
"I haven't felt such peace in a long time," she continued quietly.
Silence. Only the soft splash of water, distant voices, laughter.
Medusa turned her head and looked at him. She smiled—not sarcastically, not mockingly. Simply warmly, sincerely.
"Do you remember that night at the club?" she asked.
The hero nodded.
"I remember."
She swam closer, the water rippling. Her body slid toward him, pressing her sideways.
"Want to do it again?" Her voice became lower, hoarser.
The hero looked into her golden eyes and saw desire, warmth, something deeper than mere lust.
"Here?" he chuckled. "Now?"
Medusa looked around. The bathtub was in the corner, hidden by columns and fabrics. No one was paying attention.
"Why not?" She sat on his lap, face to face. Her hands rested on his shoulders. "We deserve a little pleasure."
Her lips touched his. Softly, tenderly, then deeper. Their tongues met, exploring, tasting.
The hero's hands slid down her back, to her hips. Her skin was smooth, damp from the water, the scaly pattern pleasantly textured under his fingers. Medusa pressed closer, her breasts pressing against his chest, her nipples hard, palpable even through the water. She moved her hips, grinding against his stomach, his cock hardening between them.
"Someone's glad to see me," she whispered in his ear, biting her earlobe.
The hero grinned, his hands gripping her buttocks, pulling her closer. Medusa moaned softly, the snakes on her head hissing contentedly.
She rose, her hand diving under the water, grasping his cock, guiding it. Slowly she lowered herself, taking him in centimeter by centimeter.
Tight. Hot. Wet—not from the water, but from her.
Medusa sat all the way down, still, adjusting. Her head fell back, her mouth parted, a soft moan escaping her lips. "Gods... I forgot how... big you are..."
The hero held her hips, feeling her pussy pulsate around him, contracting, massaging.
Medusa began to move. Slowly at first, rising and falling, the water rippling around them. Her hands settled on his shoulders, her nails digging into his skin.
"Yes... like that..." she moaned, accelerating.
The hero moved his hips to meet her, his thrusts growing deeper. One hand slid between their bodies, found her clitoris, and began massaging it in circular motions.
Medusa cried out, biting her lip to keep from screaming louder. Her movements became chaotic, desperate.
"Don't stop... please... don't stop..."
He didn't stop. His fingers worked faster, his thrusts harder. He felt her approaching—his body tensed, his breathing ragged, his pussy clenched tighter.
Medusa came with a strangled cry, burying her face in his shoulder. Her body shuddered, her vaginal muscles pulsating in waves, milking his cock.
The hero continued to move, prolonging her orgasm, driving her to the brink of madness. Medusa scratched her back, bit her shoulder, leaving teeth marks.
When the convulsions subsided, she raised her head and looked into his eyes. Her golden pupils were dilated, her face flushed.
"Your turn," she whispered.
She stood up and stepped out of the water. Drops rolled down her green skin, glistening in the soft light. She sat on the edge of the tub, her legs spread, her pussy glistening with moisture.
"Come here," her voice was commanding, demanding.
The hero stepped out of the water and stood between her legs. His cock was hard, its head glistening.
Medusa wrapped her legs around his hips, pulling him in. Her hand guided his cock back inside, and he entered with one thrust.
They moaned in unison.
The hero began to move—fast, harder than in the water. His hands gripped her hips, pushing deep, hitting her cervix with each thrust.
Medusa leaned back, supporting herself on her arms, her breasts swaying in rhythm. The snakes on her head wriggled, hissing excitedly.
"Harder... more... don't pity me..."
The hero sped up, his thrusts becoming harsh, almost rough. The sound of their bodies—wet, obscene—echoed off the marble, but the baths were lost in the general din.
Medusa came again—faster, unexpectedly. She arched, a scream caught in her throat, only a strangled moan escaping.
The hero felt himself approaching. A few more thrusts, and he spilled deep inside her, his cock pulsing, filling her.
They froze, breathing heavily, their bodies intertwined.
Medusa wrapped her arms around him, pulled him close, and kissed him—long, deeply, gratefully.
"Thank you," she whispered. "I needed this. I needed something... real. Living."
The hero nodded, pressing his forehead to hers:
"Me too."
They returned to the water, embraced, and simply lay in the warmth, recuperating.
Later, when they had dressed—the succubi had brought clean clothes, simple but comfortable—they moved toward the exit of the baths.
They passed through the far hall, where the particularly large baths stood. The VIP section.
In one of them, in the hot water, sat she.
Astaroth.
She leaned back on the edge of the bathtub, her silver hair wet and loose, flowing down her shoulders. In her hand, she held a glass of something dark—wine? Blood? Something else? Steam rose around her, enveloping her figure, creating a halo.
She looked relaxed, like an ordinary bathhouse visitor. But the aura of power was indescribable, tangible. The air around her was denser, heavier.
The succubi around her—even the manager—bowed as they passed. They didn't dare disturb her.
Astaroth slowly turned her head, her bottomless eyes gliding over the passing group.
They settled on the hero.
"Ah, it's you," her voice was calm, almost lazy. She didn't rise, didn't change her posture.
The hero and Medusa stopped, involuntarily. It was difficult to simply pass by such a presence.
Astaroth took a sip from her glass and gazed thoughtfully into the liquid:
"The thread stretches taut... but doesn't break. Curious."
A pause. The hero remained silent, unsure of what to say.
Astaroth continued, as if talking to herself:
"The keys gather in the hands of one who knows not what doors they open."
She looked at him again, her head tilted slightly:
"When the sand becomes ash, and the ash becomes a crown... then you will understand that the path up led down all this time."
The hero frowned, trying to understand. Medusa, beside her, was also confused.
Astaroth smiled—a faint smile, neither kind nor evil:
"Don't try to decipher it now. Words find meaning when the time is ready to receive them."
She waved her hand holding the glass, a casual gesture:
"Go on. The answers await above." Or below. — a pause. — The line between them is thinner than it seems.
Astaroth turned away, closed her eyes, resting her head on the edge of the bath. As if they were no longer there. The conversation was over.
The hero and Medusa stood for a moment longer, then moved on, toward the exit.
Beyond the doors of the baths, new steps began. Up. Always up.
"What did she mean?" Medusa asked as they ascended.
"I don't know," the hero admitted. "But I'll remember. Maybe it will become clear later."
Medusa nodded. She took his hand:
"Whatever lies ahead... we will get through it. Together."
The hero squeezed her hand:
"Together."
999 987.
Another floor behind. Another encounter with ancient power. Another mystery.
But they continued to ascend.
Towards answers. Towards the truth. To what awaited above.
Or below.
The line was indeed thin.