Re: In My Bloody Hit Novel-Chapter 751: Finding The Lovers.

Chiron moved through the city like someone who belonged there.

His posture was loose, his steps unhurried, his aura pressed down and muted until he felt like just another traveler with coin to burn. Only Silmarien, walking half a step behind him, knew how alert he truly was.

While Chiron knew where is targets were hiding, he did not know exactly wherw they were.

That part was missing in his memories of this place.

Then again when the Mc waa brought hefe in his book, the was passed out.

Their first stop was a narrow street washed in violet lantern-light.

Women leaned against carved pillars and balcony rails, silk clinging to their figures, smiles practiced and eyes sharp. One of them—blue-haired, with pupils slit like a cat's—tilted her head as chiron approached.

"You're lost," she said lightly.

"Looking," Chiron corrected, flipping a blue beast core into the air.

Her hand snapped out, catching it with ease. The glow reflected briefly in her eyes before she tucked it away.

"I'm searching for very old travelers," he said calmly. "Quiet ones. Dangerous ones. People who came here after the war. Think fingers of solitude?"

Her smile didn't change. "Then you should try the Crimson Walk. Third turn past the bone arch. Everyone important passes there."

Silmarien frowned the moment they left her sight.

They walked.

Turned.

Passed the bone arch.

And ten minutes later, they were staring at the same violet lanterns.

Silmarien stopped. "We're back where we started."

Chiron exhaled slowly, jaw tightening.

The second time, it was a different district—golden light, softer music, laughter spilling from behind veils.

A woman with bronze skin and jeweled horns lounged on a low wall, one leg crossed lazily over the other. Chiron didn't waste words this time. He placed two beast cores in her palm.

Her brows lifted, impressed.

"Information," he said. "Fingers of Solitude. Anyone matching that description."

She hummed, pretending to think. "Ah… yes. Dangerous guests. I heard they favor the lower terraces, near the wine canals. Follow the sound of running water."

Silmarien's patience snapped halfway there.

"This is nonsense," he hissed as they crossed the fourth bridge. "We've passed this statue twice. They're lying to us."

Chiron stopped.

Silmarien turned, expecting agreement.

Instead, Chiron was smiling.

Not amused—focused.

"They took the cores," chiron said quietly. "Every time."

"So?"

"So if they didn't know anything, they'd refuse. Or sell us out." He glanced back down the street they'd just walked. "Instead, they're guiding us away."

Silmarien blinked.

"…Meaning?"

"Meaning we're close." Chiron's eyes swept the streets, the balconies, the subtle shifts in guard placement. "If they're afraid to point directly, it means the original place is nearby. Close enough to matter."

Silmarien ground his teeth, then slowly exhaled.

"…So all this walking in circles—"

"—is confirmation," chiron finished.

He turned toward a darker artery of the city, one without music, where the lanterns dimmed and the laughter thinned.

"This place doesn't hide what's unimportant," he said. "It hides what's dangerous."

And without another word, he headed straight toward the center.

As they reached the heart of the city, the noise subtly changed.

The music grew slower, deeper—less desperate. The laughter thinned into murmurs heavy with indulgence rather than need. Even the lanterns here burned brighter, fed by refined crystals instead of cheap flame-oil.

Chiron slowed, his gaze drifting—not over people, but over structures.

Silmarien noticed. "What are you looking for?"

Chiron didn't answer. Instead, he asked calmly, "Tell me, Silmarien. What are dragons most known for?"

Silmarien frowned in thought. "Strength. Size."

Then his eyes widened slightly. "Wealth."

Chiron smiled. "Exactly."

He gestured vaguely at the city around them. "Some habits can't be separated from certain species. Humans and lies. Elves and pride. Dragons and wealth." His eyes sharpened. "Even when they hide… they still display it."

His gaze stopped.

At the largest tower in the city.

It rose above the surrounding buildings like a polished fang—black stone veined with gold, balconies draped in silk, windows glowing with restrained luxury. The kind of place that didn't beg for attention because it owned it.

Chiron's smile deepened. "Found you."

Silmarien followed his stare and exhaled softly. "A club."

"For the biggest," Chiron corrected. "And the most important."

They approached the entrance.

Two towering figures blocked the way—half-gorilla demi-humans, their bodies packed with dense muscle, black fur braided with metal rings. Their armor radiated pressure, and their eyes glowed with disciplined hostility.

One of them extended a massive hand. "Invitation only."

Chiron reached into his storage and produced a red beast core.

The guards frowned.

"Not enough," the other rumbled. "Without an invitation—"

Chiron smiled and casually produced something else.

A treasure.

Not loud. Not radiant. But the moment it appeared, the air shifted. Ancient craftsmanship. Slight divine residue. The unmistakable weight of something once owned by a demi-god.

The gorilla guards froze.

Their eyes widened. Their breathing changed.

To possess even one such item was proof of background. To offer it without hesitation was proof of status.

The hand blocking the door slowly lowered.

"Please," one of them said, stepping aside. "Enjoy your stay."

As the doors closed behind them, Silmarien leaned closer, voice low. "Why not just kill our way in?"

Chiron chuckled softly. "Because we're guests."

He glanced ahead, where the interior opened into velvet shadows and whispered power.

"And the host," he added, eyes glinting, "is about to join us."

They walked in.

The moment they crossed the threshold, it felt as though they had stepped into an entirely different world.

The air changed first—cool, perfumed, unnaturally clean, as though layers of incense and purification arrays worked overtime to erase the sins committed beneath them. Soft music drifted through the vast hall, slow and hypnotic, its rhythm encouraging bodies to move closer, closer still.

Decadence was everywhere.

Figures reclined on velvet couches and marble steps, limbs tangled in lazy intimacy. Kisses were traded openly, unashamed, mouths lingering longer than propriety would ever allow. In shadowed corners, silhouettes pressed together, hands roaming boldly as murmured laughter mixed with low gasps, all carefully blurred by dim light and drifting curtains.

Some sights were more striking than others.

Silmarien's eyes narrowed as he recognized the unmistakable robes of the Holy Church—once-proud officials now stripped of dignity, crawling across polished floors while women clad in lacquered leather and jeweled masks toyed with them like pets. The symbols of sanctity hung crooked on their chests as they clung to the floor, reverent in a way they had never been to their own gods.

Yet despite the excess, the place did not feel filthy.

The floors gleamed. The air smelled faintly of flowers and crystal ozone. Not rot—but control.

Silmarien leaned closer to Chiron, voice tight. "We are out of place."

Chiron's lips curved faintly. "No," he said softly. "This is exactly where we're meant to be."

His gaze moved slowly, deliberately, not lingering on the bodies but on the spaces between them. On the balconies above. On the subtle wards carved into pillars. On the way certain patrons were given room without ever asking.

"All this noise," he continued, "is meant to hide something. Or someone."

Then he knelt.

Silmarien stiffened as Chiron placed his palm flat against the polished floor.

Invisible ripples spread outward.

Spiritual energy flowed from him in a controlled wave, slipping beneath carpets, through walls, into the foundations of the tower itself—searching, listening, mapping.

The music continued. The bodies moved.

But beneath it all, something stirred.

Chiron rose smoothly, the faint glow in his eyes fading as the ripples of spiritual energy retracted. Without a word, he turned and moved—swift, purposeful—cutting through the languid crowd like a blade through silk. Bodies parted for him instinctively, as though some unspoken pressure pushed them aside.

Silmarien followed close behind, cloak drawn tight, senses straining. Chiron did not hesitate. He wove past velvet alcoves and marble fountains, past a masked woman leading two collared priests by silver chains, until he reached what looked like an ordinary service door set into an alcove wall—unmarked, unremarkable, half-hidden behind a cascade of crimson drapery.

Chiron's fingers brushed the wood. A soft click. The door swung inward on silent hinges.

Beyond lay a narrow stairwell spiraling downward, lit only by faint veins of pale blue light embedded in the stone. The music from above grew muffled, then vanished entirely as they descended. The air cooled further, carrying the faint metallic tang of old magic and damp earth.

Down and down they went, deeper than Silmarien had expected. The tower's foundations should not have allowed this depth—yet the stairs continued, carved into bedrock that predated the city itself.

At last the stairs ended in a narrow corridor. The walls here were no longer polished marble but rough-hewn stone, etched everywhere with runes—dense, overlapping, ancient. They glowed faintly: containment, silence, aversion, misdirection. Wards layered upon wards, enough to turn away any casual intruder, enough to fry the mind of anyone who forced their way through.

Silmarien's lips curved in a faint, sardonic smile. He leaned close to Chiron and whispered, "No wonder there are no guards. Who would be mad enough to challenge this?"

His voice was soft, almost amused. For an elf of his bloodline, such wards were child's play—elegant, yes, but built by human hands that lacked the old subtlety.

He lifted one pale hand. His lips moved in the old rune-speech, syllables sharp and liquid, older than the stones around them. The glowing sigils flickered in response, dimming, bending, parting like curtains. A path opened where none had been.

They stepped through.

The corridor widened abruptly into a vast cavern, its ceiling lost in shadow far overhead. The air here was warm, heavy, thick with musk and something draconic—smoke and brimstone and raw, primal power.

And sound.

Low, rhythmic moans echoed through the space, mingled with deep, guttural groans that vibrated in the bones. Each impact carried weight, like distant thunder.

Chiron moved forward without pause. Silmarien kept pace, eyes adjusting to the dim crimson glow that emanated from braziers set into the walls.

Then they saw it.

In the center of the cavern, upon a raised dais of black stone, was the source.

A dragon—true dragon, not some lesser wyrm or drake—its scales shimmering obsidian and molten gold, wings folded tight against its massive back.

.It was not in full draconic form; it had taken a halfway shape, humanoid yet monstrous: towering, broad-shouldered, clawed hands gripping narrow hips, a long serpentine tail lashing slowly behind.

Beneath it, arched and trembling, was a woman.

Her pale legs were spread wide, thighs quivering as she braced herself on forearms and knees. Sweat gleamed on her skin; dark hair clung damply to her back and shoulders. Each deep thrust drew a broken moan from her throat—pleasure, surrender, overwhelmed. Her body rocked forward with the force of it, breasts swaying, fingers clawing at the stone as though she could anchor herself against the tide.

The dragon's growl rumbled low, possessive, satisfied. One clawed hand slid up her spine, tangling in her hair to pull her head back gently, exposing the line of her throat. Its hips snapped forward again, burying itself fully, and she cried out—raw, abandoned, echoing through the cavern.

Silmarien froze mid-step, silver eyes wide.

Chiron merely tilted his head, expression unreadable, as though he had expected nothing less.

The dragon had not yet noticed them.

But the air itself seemed to tighten, as if the cavern held its breath.

The Dragon was breeding the woman.