Chapter 194: Job Classes. Esdeath’s +18 contract.

The five re-enter the galley in their new outfits, and you take a moment to look each of them over with genuine appreciation.

"Akame." You nod to the dark-haired assassin. "Simple and straight appeal. Fits you nicely."

Akame's red eyes meet yours briefly. She adjusts Murasame's scabbard at her hip, the blade settling naturally against her new skirt. "Thank you."

"Esdeath." You let your gaze travel over the tactical-dark ensemble. "Beautifully tactical. Like a moonlight predator."

Her ice-blue eyes narrow with satisfaction. "I chose well, then."

"Yugito." You gesture at the sleeveless jacket and flexible pants. "Precision outfit. Suits you like a catsuit. You're just missing the cat-ear headpiece."

Yugito's vertical pupils dilate, startled, then amused. Her golden feline eyes flick to Yoruichi beside her. "I'll pass on the ears. But... thank you."

"Hancock." You meet her dark gaze steadily. "The fitted black dress is a wonderful combination with your appearance and natural confidence."

Hancock's chin lifts. She doesn't speak, but her posture shifts shoulders back, spine straighter. The dress clings to her curves with deliberate elegance, and for the first time since waking, she looks less like a rescued slave and more like someone reclaiming herself.

Then you pause on Tatsumaki.

The petite esper stands with her arms crossed, green hair practically vibrating with indignation. The cropped white top exposes her midriff, the pleated skirt barely reaching mid-thigh. Objectively, the outfit draws an impressively erotic twist from her small frame - but her expression is pure theatrical pout, lower lip jutting out, brows drawn together in exaggerated displeasure.

"Tatsumaki," you say, letting the pause stretch. "That outfit would look amazing on your frame. Seriously. But right now, with you pouting that hard?" You gesture at her face. "You look exactly like the hyper-bratty child you don't want to be."

A few snickers from the galley. Mikasa covers her mouth. Even Esdeath's lips twitch.

Tatsumaki's face goes scarlet. "You. I am NOT - this is YOUR fault for having garbage clothes! I'm twenty-three! I shouldn't have to wear... THIS!" She yanks at the cropped top like it personally offended her.

"You're right," you say, surprising her into momentary silence. "I understand being angry at a limited selection. Welcome to a zombie apocalypse. But what do you think would suit you better? Your standard black dress with multiple slutty leg-slits?"

Her mouth opens. Closes. She clearly had that exact outfit in mind and now looks furious that you guessed it.

"Figure out what you want to wear," you continue. "Ask the girls here who know how to sew, there are a few of them, two right next to you. There's plenty of extra cloth from the stores we looted. They can make you something new - just don't expect it instantly, since they'll have to do it during their own time."

Tatsumaki's jaw works. She glares at you, then at Maria, then at the offending outfit. "...Fine."

Rika appears at your shoulder, tablet in hand. "Fifty vessels. Seven navies. Full manifest with coordinates, crew counts, and fuel capacity projections."

You sigh, reluctantly lifting your hands from Hinata's and Kurumi's waists. Both women make small sounds of protest - Kurumi's fingers trailing across your forearm, Hinata's lavender eyes following you as you stand.

"Flight deck," you say, taking the tablet. "Fifty ships. This is going to take a while."

Rika nods. "I've sorted them by priority. Fuel-independent combat vessels first, then supply ships, then population carriers. Estimated mana cost per vessel at advanced package rates-"

"We have excess," you say, already moving toward the hatch. "Tell Albedo I'll be remote-enchanting for the next few hours. She has command."

Behind you, Tatsumaki has already cornered Maria with a sketch torn from the back of a napkin. The maid's violet eyes study the drawing with professional interest. Across the galley, Hancock has moved to sit beside Riveria without prompting, close enough that their shoulders nearly touch.

You send the message through the Telepathy Web as you climb the ladderwell, three quick connections to Maria, Albedo, and Kurumi. "Drag out Tatsumaki's wardrobe request. Make her wait. Have her pride bend before she gets what she wants. Accepting her physiology or appearance will do her good."

Three acknowledgments return. Maria's is professional warmth. Albedo's carries a note of approval. Kurumi's is practically gleeful.

The flight deck stretches open above you, Pacific sunlight cutting sharp across the nonskid coating. Wind catches your shirt as you settle into position near the port rail, list propped against a ventilation housing. You close your eyes.

Spectral Hand manifests - invisible, intangible. Scrying across the ocean, each ship a bright point on Rika's manifest. You Teleport the hand, materializing it aboard the first vessel - a British Type 45 destroyer somewhere north of the Falklands. Contact. Advanced package. Interface, Connection, Network Node, Energy Conversion, Refuel, Repair, Refill, Cleanliness, Thermostasis, Sustenance, Vigor, Regenerate, Aging Reversal, Aura Ward, Lucidity, Zero-Sleep, Warding Field, Muffling Aura, Silent Field, Mana Capacity. The enchantment settles into the hull like water into sand.

You move to the next. And the next. Fifty ships across seven navies - British, French, Japanese, Indian, Australian, two Canadian frigates. Each one a simple boring minute of concentration, mana flowing outward in steady pulses. Your awareness narrows to the rhythm of it: locate, contact, enchant, verify, move.

Time dissolves.

You register Nova's approach before you see her - the particular signature of her psionic presence, warm and familiar, carrying an emotional texture you haven't felt from her before. Not anxiety. Not caution. Something closer to exhausted celebration, the kind that comes after surviving something you weren't sure you'd survive.

She doesn't speak. Doesn't interrupt. Her arms slide under your shirt, fingers cool against your stomach, and she presses her face into your shoulder. Her gray pajama top hangs unbuttoned, the fabric shifting against your side as she molds herself to your chest. You wrap your arms around her absently, one hand settling between her shoulder blades, and keep your focus on the thirty-seventh ship.

Thirty-eight. Thirty-nine. Forty.

The mana expenditure is significant but negligible for the network, each advanced package burning through roughly 192 base mana plus capacity scaling. Your network absorbs the load without strain, the generation more than covering the upkeep increases. Forty-three. Forty-seven. Fifty.

Done.

You exhale slowly, letting the Scrying windows close one by one. Your awareness returns fully to the flight deck, to the wind, to the woman pressed against you. You squeeze her gently and press your lips to the top of her head.

Nova lifts her face from your shoulder. Her golden eyes are bright, not with tears, but with something raw and unguarded that she's clearly been holding in for hours.

"The genetic decay," she says. "It's gone. Completely."

You wait.

"I ran diagnostics this morning. Every cellular marker that was degrading - the telomere erosion, the neural lace degradation patterns, the mitochondrial instability - all of it reversed. Stabilized. Permanently." Her fingers curl against your chest. "The contract did it. Not the Anchoring Band, not the Vigor or Regeneration enchantment. The master-servant bond itself."

"Since neither of us deliberately did that," you say, "it'll probably repeat for any of your sisters who are willing to accept being part of my Nova-harem."

She stares at you for exactly two seconds. Then she laughs, a real laugh, bright and startled, her whole body shaking against you. It's the most unguarded sound you've ever heard from her.

When she stops, she's still smiling, and she kisses you. Soft at first, then deeper, her psionic presence brushing against yours through the bond like fingertips tracing the inside of your skull. Her mouth is warm. She pulls back just enough to speak against your lips.

"My sisters," she murmurs. "A harem of psionic ghosts. You have no idea what you're offering."

"Tell me."

"Specter clones are... intense. We share baseline neural architecture but diverge based on experience. Some of them are going to be harder to handle than me." Her golden eyes hold yours. "And some of them are going to fall for you the moment they feel what I feel through this bond."

Her hand slides up your chest to rest over your heart.

"I want to be there when you meet them."

You cup Nova's face in both hands and pull her into a slow kiss. Her lips part against yours, warm and slightly salt-tanged from the Pacific wind. She makes a soft sound against your mouth, her psionic presence brushing yours like silk dragged across nerve endings. You hold the kiss for several seconds, letting her feel the steadiness of your intent before pulling back just enough to speak.

"It'll happen eventually," you murmur against her lips. "The Gates. Your sisters. All of it."

Nova's golden eyes search yours for a moment, then she nods once, pressing her forehead against your chin. Her fingers curl into the fabric of your shirt. "I know. I just... needed to hear you say it while you were looking at me."

You hold her for another breath, then shift your attention to the Telepathy Web. Thirteen connections light up simultaneously as you address your contracted servants.

"Job Class selection. I need your choices. You've all seen the list. Either reinforce what you already have, or branch out. Tell me now."

The responses come in a cascade of distinct voices:

Rin: "Magic User. Already applied."

Asia: "Healer, please. It fits what I already do."

Maria: "Contractor. It's what I've been doing most, Master."

Mikasa: "Warrior." Brief. Definitive.

Nami: "Merchant. I'm running a fleet; might give something beneficial."

Kurumi: "Scout, Master. I can be anywhere, anywhen. Let me formalize it."

Riveria: "Magic User. My elven spellwork deserves proper framework."

Hinata: "Warrior, Goshujin-sama. Gentle Fist should be able to advance."

Roxanne: "Warrior too, Master. Beast Warrior class already fits."

Sinon: "Archer. No question."

Nova: "Psion. Obviously." Her mental voice carries amusement, her arms still wrapped around your chest.

Kurumu: "Charlatan. Charm, illusion, manipulation - it's all succubus nature anyway."

Albedo: "Taskmaster. Someone needs to keep this household running efficiently, and I've already demonstrated the aptitude."

You apply the responses. Three Warriors. Two Magic Users. One each of Healer, Contractor, Merchant, Scout, Archer, Psion, Charlatan, and Taskmaster.

"Received. Applying now." Fingers moving across system screens.

Nova lifts her head from your chest, golden eyes curious. "You're going to give us all classes at once?"

"Takes a few seconds each." You glance at the tablet. "Might as well do it while I'm up here with a beautiful woman in my arms."

She tilts her head, considering. "My sisters are going to be jealous."

"They'll get their chance." You brush a strand of hair from her face. "When the Gates open and they meet me, they can choose for themselves."

Nova's smile is small and genuine. She settles back against your chest, her psionic warmth radiating through the bond like sunlight through glass. The Pacific stretches endlessly around the Anchorage, the ship's gentle motion barely perceptible beneath your feet.

Nova's psionic presence flickers with quiet amusement as you pull up your system interface. The Landlord class icon pulses once, settling into place beside your existing abilities, and a cascade of information unfolds across your display.

[Landlord (Level 1)

Passive: Domain Awareness - Receive real-time status updates on all enchanted locations within your network. Structural integrity, population counts, resource levels, and enchantment status are accessible at will.

Passive: Tenant Management - Enchanted locations under your ownership generate 5% additional mana generation efficiency per distinct location.]

You blink. The Domain Awareness alone is worth the class selection - while the numbers you could have already deduced through calculating, having the numbers auto-populate makes it much easier, each node reporting its status like instruments on a dashboard. The Anchorage's advanced package humming at full capacity. The fifty international vessels you just enchanted, their enchantments settling into hulls across seven oceans. Hoover Dam generating its steady torrent of mana. The cruise ships, the airports, the Costcos - all of them visible now as bright points of data you can query at will.

The Tenant Management bonus is subtler but compounds 200%+. You count the nodes quickly: Anchorage, eighty-one Navy vessels, three cruise ships, seven airports, seventeen airplanes, eight Costcos, three dams, twenty-four RVs, two helicopters. The percentage stacks per location, not per enchantment. That's... 144 locations, where is that percentage coming from? The percentage should be far above 200.

Nova shifts against your chest. "You went quiet."

"Landlord class gave me something useful." You dismiss the interface. "Domain awareness across all my enchanted locations. I can see the location status now, like tank percentages and population counts."

Her golden eyes narrow with interest. "That's command-and-control infrastructure. The Dominion would have killed for something like that."

Through the Telepathy Web, reports trickle in from your servants testing their new classes. Hinata's voice carries quiet wonder: "Goshujin-sama, the Warrior class... I feel stronger, it's slight though I'm sure of it."

Mikasa: "Enhanced perception. I can feel the edges of my blade's reach more precisely."

Kurumu: "Master, the Charlatan class... something called 'Social Camouflage' just unlocked."

Albedo: "Taskmaster passive confirmed: 'Coordinated Effort' - all subjects under my operational direction gain 3% efficiency bonus to tasks within their class specialization. This stacks with your Logistical Mastery."

You file the information away and disentangle yourself from Nova with a lingering kiss. "Duty calls."

"I'll be here," she murmurs, settling against the ventilation housing with her unbuttoned pajamas catching the Pacific wind. "Or in the galley. Wherever."

You descend the ladderwell to the command center, finding Rika at her station with her tablet and a half-eaten MRE. She looks up as you enter.

"Fifty international vessels, advanced package, all complete," you tell her. "Get me the next list. And ask for the full manifest - every ship every navy has requested. Total count. I need to know if I need to pull tricks to get them all done before they run out of rations."

Rika's fingers are already moving across her tablet. "Colonel Reeves has been coordinating with seven navies. The fifty we just did were priority combat vessels. The remaining requests break down as follows." She pulls up a spreadsheet. "British Royal Navy: twelve more vessels requested, including two carriers and four supply ships. French Navy: eight, including their nuclear carrier Charles de Gaulle. Japanese Maritime Self-Defense Force: six destroyers and two submarine tenders. Indian Navy: fourteen across three fleet commands. Royal Australian Navy: five. Canadian: four additional. Plus the Brazilian Navy just submitted a request through Reeves - nine vessels."

She meets your eyes. "Sixty-three additional vessels. Total fleet enchantment count if you complete everything: one hundred and forty-four enchanted naval vessels across eight navies."

"Rations?"

"They should have enough for a few more days at least. The ships requesting enchantment are burning fuel they can't replace. The carriers are the most urgent. Charles de Gaulle has maybe two weeks of operational fuel remaining. The British carriers are in similar straits." She pauses. "At your current rate, you could knock out the remaining sixty-three in a single extended session. Maybe three hours with breaks."

"Tomorrow, then. Next on my list is Esdeath's contract ritual." You say while walking out of the command room back to the galley.

As you enter the room you realize half of the girls have drifted to sleep at the tables, and gather Esdeath and Maria quietly motioning into the Magnificent Mansion. Leading them to the master bedroom.

You Esdeath enters with her arms crossed, ice-blue eyes tracking you. Maria follows, closing the door behind her with practiced quiet.

"Take off your clothes," you say.

Esdeath's expression shifts, suspicion sharpening into something closer to alarm. Her fingers twitch at her sides. "The contract requires-"

"It requires you to kneel and kiss his hand," Maria interjects smoothly, her violet eyes warm but firm. "The clothing removal is for the curse manifestation after. It won't harm you. Master has done this for every servant here."

Esdeath's jaw tightens. She looks between you and Maria, her instinct warring with the terms she already accepted. After a long moment, her hands move to the fitted vest, pulling it over her head. The tactical pants follow. She stands in simple dark underwear her athletic frame taut with tension, pale skin marked faintly with old hunting scars across her ribs and shoulders.

You kneel, pressing your palm flat against the floor. Mana flows outward in precise lines, tracing patterns across the floor. The contract circle takes shape, the framework Maria taught weeks ago. She steps forward, her demonic energy threading through the pattern like ink through water, altering the curse mechanics.

"Kneel," Maria instructs. "Kiss the back of his hand."

Esdeath drops to one knee, then both. Her ice-blue eyes never leave yours as she takes your hand and presses her lips to your knuckles. The circle ignites.

[MASTER CONTRACT ESTABLISHED: ESDEATH]

[NEW ABILITY UNLOCKED: NORTHERN FRONTIER VETERAN]

[SERVANT SYSTEM STATUS: INITIALIZING...]

The curse manifests as a collar of pale blue energy that settles around her throat, pulsing once before fading to invisibility. Esdeath gasps, her pupils dilating, her breath catching as the bond floods through her nervous system.

You guide her to the bed. She lies back stiffly, every muscle rigid, her ice-blue eyes wide and unblinking. You lean over her, pressing your lips to the hollow of her throat, then trailing down across her collarbone. Your mouth finds the curve of her breast through her bra, kissing the swell of flesh, then lower, across her sternum, the plane of her stomach, the sharp lines of her hip bones.

Her breathing changes. The tension in her abdomen softens fractionally.

You pull her legs over your shoulders, hooking your fingers into the waistband of her underwear and drawing it down. She's lean and pale, a thin strip of white-blue hair above her sex. You press your mouth to her lower lips, tongue parting her folds, and she makes a sharp sound, her thighs clamping against your ears before forcing themselves to relax.

You work her slowly. Long strokes of your tongue from her entrance to her clit, circling the swollen bud before dipping lower again. She's tight, barely wet at first, but her body responds despite her rigid control, slickness gathering against your lips, her hips beginning to shift in small unconscious movements.

"This is-" she starts, voice strained.

You suck her clit gently and she cuts off with a hiss, her fingers twisting into the sheets. The curse pulses against her throat, warm and insistent, demanding satisfaction. You increase your pace, tongue flat against her, then pointed, alternating pressure and speed until her breathing fractures into ragged gasps.

Her first orgasm hits like a wave breaking, her spine arching, her pussy clenching against your tongue, a strangled cry escaping her lips. The curse flickers, dimming but not satisfied. You don't stop. Your tongue continues its work, gathering her wetness, pressing into her entrance before returning to her clit.

The second orgasm comes harder. Her thighs shake against your shoulders, her fingers yanking at your hair, and she says something in a language you don't recognize but echoes through the bond, Northern Partisan dialect, a hunter's prayer of surrender. The curse dims further.

By the third, she's abandoned all pretense of control. Her hips roll against your mouth, her ice-blue eyes glazed, and when she comes this time it's with a full-body shudder that leaves her limp and gasping on the sheets. The curse extinguishes.

Maria stands by the door, watching with professional satisfaction. "Contract stabilized. Curse satisfied."