Ultimate Spin System: Ero Spin?-Chapter 132: Bad Dream, Bad Reality

The group moved quickly, elves loading the last of the supplies into the carriages while Lucas reluctantly followed Sylmira toward one of the wagons. Inside, folded neatly, was a dark, worn-out cloak—stained, rugged, and undoubtedly once owned by an actual slaver.

Lucas picked it up with two fingers, scowling. "This thing stinks."

Sylmira smirked. "Good. It’ll make the disguise more convincing."

Lucas groaned. "I swear, if this thing has lice—"

"Put it on," she ordered, ignoring his complaints.

With a sigh, Lucas draped the cloak over his shoulders. It was heavier than expected, and the faded emblem on the chest—a twisted insignia resembling chains intertwined with an eye—made his stomach churn. He had no love for slavers, but if this was what it took to blend in, so be it.

He adjusted the cloak, pulling the hood over his head. "So, how do I look?"

Sylmira stepped back, tilting her head slightly as she examined him. A mischievous glint entered her emerald eyes. "Like an absolute bastard."

Lucas exhaled. "I hate that you’re enjoying this."

A few nearby elves turned their heads, catching sight of him. The shift in their gazes was immediate—wariness, uncertainty. Even though they knew who he was, the mere sight of him in that attire sent shivers down their spines.

Sylmira seemed satisfied. "Perfect."

Lucas rolled his eyes. "Remind me never to do undercover work again."

Before he could complain further, the slime bounced onto his shoulder, its small gelatinous form shifting slightly. "Lucas! Lucas! You look scary!"

Lucas arched a brow. "That’s... not really a compliment."

The slime giggled. "It is if you want to be a slaver!"

Lucas sighed, massaging his temple. "Great. Even the slime’s in on it."

Sylmira ignored his sulking and gestured toward the nearest carriage. "You’ll ride in the second wagon with a few of the others. Act natural, avoid unnecessary eye contact, and if someone does question you, remember—slavers don’t make polite conversation."

Lucas let out an exasperated sigh. "Yeah, yeah. Be an asshole. Got it."

She gave a curt nod before turning to the others. "Everyone, positions! We move now!"

With swift efficiency, the disguised elves mounted the carriages. Lucas climbed into his assigned wagon, stepping inside only to realize just how tight the space was.

Seated inside were four elves, all women, their hoods pulled low to conceal their faces. Despite their attempts to appear passive, he could feel their discomfort. It didn’t help that his new attire made him look like the very people who had enslaved them.

Lucas shifted uncomfortably, pulling his hood down slightly. The tension was thick, and the way the elves avoided looking at him only made it worse.

And then there was the other problem.

He had spent the last several days with pent-up frustration, and now, being crammed into a confined space with four beautiful elves—whose fair skin and revealing attire did nothing to help his predicament—his body was reacting in ways he wished it wouldn’t.

His pants suddenly felt too tight.

Lucas gritted his teeth, trying his best to focus on anything but the smooth, exposed thighs before him or the subtle curves peeking through their torn garments.

The situation was not helped by the fact that the damn slime—who had chosen to sit in his lap—was shifting around, moving in a way that was decidedly too stimulating.

"Stop squirming," he muttered, gripping the slime lightly to keep it still.

The slime wobbled innocently. "But Lucas! I must get comfortable!"

Lucas clenched his jaw, feeling the soft, gelatinous form pressing against his lap in ways that were borderline dangerous. He exhaled sharply, trying to will away his discomfort.

The elves, meanwhile, remained silent, but he could feel their occasional glances in his direction. One of them shifted slightly, her thigh brushing against his knee. He stiffened, forcing himself to remain still.

This was going to be a long ride.

The carriages began moving, the wheels creaking as they rolled over the uneven dirt path. Outside, the sound of hooves and the murmurs of disguised elves filled the air.

Lucas closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. He needed to focus—on the mission, on getting to Velmoria, on freeing the others.

Not on the warmth of soft thighs mere inches away.

Not on the subtle scent of elven perfume lingering in the air.

And certainly not on the slime in his lap, which had just started shifting again.

"Goddammit..."

Lucas’s eyelids grew heavier with each passing second. The warmth of the slime against his chest, combined with the rhythmic sway of the carriage, pulled him into an inevitable drowsiness. His grip on the creature loosened slightly as his body succumbed to fatigue.

And then, the world faded.

---

A strange, blurry sensation washed over him.

Lucas blinked. The surroundings were vague, shifting like smoke in the wind. The ground beneath him felt uncertain—solid yet formless. He stepped forward, but his foot met nothing, and yet he remained upright, as if the laws of physics had momentarily abandoned him.

Where am I?

The thought echoed in his mind, but no answer came.

Then, movement.

In the shifting mist of his dream, a figure emerged. A woman—no, a warrior—moving with purpose. She wielded a sword in her right hand, its blade gleaming unnaturally in the dim haze. Her left hand, however, drew Lucas’s attention more than the weapon.

A circle.

Glowing, spinning—a mechanism he recognized instantly.

Spin Defense?

His heart pounded in his chest. That technique, that formation of energy—he knew it. It wasn’t just similar to his skill, Wheel Spin—it was identical.

Lucas’s breath caught in his throat as he studied her more closely. Her stance, the way she parried and counterattacked, the controlled aggression in her movements—it all spoke of experience. But more than that, something about her was deeply, disturbingly familiar.

And then it hit him.

The woman looked eerily similar to the one who had been consumed by the slime.

Lucas took another step forward, but the scene suddenly shifted. The woman turned sharply, as if sensing something—someone—watching her. Her eyes locked onto him.

Golden irises, piercing through the void.

For a brief moment, time froze.

Lucas felt an inexplicable weight press down on his chest. He wanted to say something, to demand answers, but his voice refused to work. The woman’s lips parted, forming silent words he couldn’t hear.

Then, without warning, a pulse of energy exploded from her outstretched hand.

The dream shattered.

---

Lucas jolted awake, his breath uneven. His fingers still clutched the slime, but his body was drenched in cold sweat.

The carriage rocked gently beneath him, the sound of wheels against dirt the only thing grounding him back to reality.

"What the hell was that?" he whispered.

The slime stirred against him, emitting a sleepy wobble. "Lucas... bad dream?"

He swallowed, shaking his head. "I don’t know."

Lucas pressed a hand to his forehead, trying to steady his breath. The sensation of that woman’s gaze lingered, as if her golden eyes had burned their way into his mind. His heart pounded—was that just a dream? Or... was it something else?

A memory?

A warning?

His thoughts spiraled as he tried to make sense of what he had seen. The technique, the familiarity—none of it made sense. He had thought himself to be unique in this world, the only one with such skills. But that woman... she had wielded the same ability. Not just a variation, but an exact replica.

The possibility clawed at him.

"Was she like me? Another otherworlder?"

But if that were true... why was she dead?

Lucas clenched his fists, his mind racing with conspiracy after conspiracy. If she really was from another world, what had happened to her? Had she been killed? Betrayed? Was she some kind of failed experiment?

Before Lucas could dwell further on the implications of his dream, the carriage came to an abrupt stop.

The sudden jolt nearly sent him toppling forward, but he braced himself against the wooden side. Outside, voices rose—sharp, urgent.

Then, a familiar voice cut through the commotion.

"Lucas," Sylmira’s voice was steady but held an underlying edge of urgency. "We’ve arrived at the first location."

Lucas quickly straightened, shaking off the remnants of his unsettling vision. He adjusted his hood, ensuring his disguise remained intact, then stepped out of the wagon.

As soon as his boots touched the ground, his gaze locked onto the bizarre sight before him.

A massive tent loomed in the middle of the clearing, its colors faded yet unmistakably vibrant—reds, blues, and yellows clashing in an unnatural contrast against the darkening sky. It was enormous, nearly the size of a small fortress, with frayed ropes and tattered fabric swaying gently in the wind.

A circus tent.

Lucas barely had time to process the absurdity of a circus tent in the middle of nowhere before movement caught his eye.

A figure stepped out from the tent’s entrance—large, round, and lumbering. The man’s gut protruded beneath a patched-up coat, and his thick fingers scratched at his greasy neck as he yawned. His jowls wobbled with the motion, and when he finally spotted Lucas and the disguised elves, a wide, toothy grin spread across his face.

"Ahh! More goods, I see?" The fat man’s voice was a sickly blend of amusement and greed. He lifted a meaty hand and waved toward them, his beady eyes scanning the group hungrily.