Goddess Tricked Me into a Breeding Mission (And I Love It)

Lys placed the newly acquired jewelry inside a bag, it felt heavier with the enchanted pieces tucked inside.

The market’s energy pulsed around him, women weaving through stalls, their skirts swishing as they bartered for spices or fingered bolts of fabric, voices rising in a symphony of haggling and laughter. The sun dipped lower on the west side of the sky, casting golden hues over the dirt paths, and the scent of sizzling meat from nearby carts mingled with the sharp tang of herbs.

Lys straightened up, rolling his shoulders to shake off the lingering thrill of the deal, when a sudden swell of noise caught his ear.

He turned his head around to the noise’s direction. Ahead, a crowd had gathered in a tight knot, people pressing in shoulder to shoulder, murmurs rippling through like waves. Women mostly, their baskets forgotten at their sides as they craned necks to see, faces twisted in a mix of curiosity and discomfort.

Suddenly, a sharp crack sound echoed from inside the crowd, flesh on flesh, and a gasp rose from the group, followed by hushed whispers. Lys’s brow furrowed; whatever was happening, it wasn’t the usual market banter.

"Sis," he said, turning to her as she adjusted the parcel of crafting supplies under her arm. "Go ask around for mana stone sellers. I’ll check this out."

Mira nodded, her red hair catching the light as she slipped into the flow of shoppers. "Okay, Brother. Meet back here?" She darted off, approaching a cluster of women at a fruit stand, her voice light as she inquired about shops.

Lys moved forward, the crowd thickening with each step. He pushed gently through, excusing himself with quiet "Pardon me"s, his height giving him a slight edge to peer over heads. Women parted reluctantly, some glancing at him with that familiar lingering stare, but the commotion held their focus.

As he closed the distance from it, another crack rang out from inside, sharper this time, followed by a muffled cry. The air grew tense, charged with unspoken hesitation, people shifting feet, whispering, but no one stepping in.

He edged closer, shouldering past a pair of elderly women clutching shawls, their faces etched with worry. "Poor girl," one muttered, her voice low and gravelly. "But that’s the priest’s daughter, best not get involved." The other nodded, her basket creaking as she adjusted it.

Finally breaking through the inner ring, Lys saw her, the priest’s daughter, her fancy dress a stark contrast to the market’s dust. The fabric shimmered in deep blues and silvers, embroidered with threads that caught the light like tiny stars, far too fine for a village square. Her face was flushed with anger, her hand raised high, fingers curled into a palm ready to strike again.

On the ground before her knelt a young, slender woman, her simple skirt muddied, face streaked with tears, and a blooming red mark on her cheek. She cowered, arms raised protectively, the spilled contents of a water bucket pooling around them, the fancy lady’s hem soaked dark from the splash.

"You clumsy fool!" She snapped, her voice cutting through the murmurs like a whip. "This dress costs more than your year’s wages! You’ll pay for it, every last copper, or I’ll have my father see to it you’re out on the streets." Her eyes blazed, hand trembling with fury as she reared back for another slap.

The crowd shifted uneasily. A middle-aged woman with a basket of herbs took a half-step forward, her lips parting as if to speak, but she hesitated, glancing at the lady’s attire, the mark of status she couldn’t match. She stepped back, muttering to her companion, "Not worth the trouble. Priest John runs things around here." Others nodded too, faces tight with reluctance, the air thick with the unspoken fear of crossing power in a small village.

Lys’s jaw clenched, a surge of anger rising in his chest. He took a step forward, but a hand grabbed his arm from behind.

It was Mira, her fingers tight, eyes wide with warning. She leaned in, voice an urgent whisper. "Brother, wait, that’s Selene, Priest John’s daughter. Don’t you know what he’s like? Don’t get mixed up in this for no reason."

Lys’s eyes widened at the name, Selene. He turned his head around to really look at the lady’s face.

And there it was. She really was the same woman who had behaved rudely to him back at Harlan’s clothing shop.

’So, she was Priest John’s daughter all along?! But how can a priest’s daughter act like this?’ he thought, the hypocrisy burned in his mind. He shook off Mira’s grip gently, his voice firm but low. "So what if she’s his daughter? Does that put her above the law? How can she just hit someone like that in a crowded market like this?"

Mira tugged again, her whisper got desperate, as he was moving without heeding her words. "Lys, don’t even think about it. We can’t afford trouble with him." But Lys was already moving, his steps deliberate through the last layer of onlookers.

The crowd parted slightly, whispers following him like shadows, "Who’s that?" "Elara’s boy? He looks different." "Hey boy, don’t.... she’ll make your family’s life hell."

He ignored them, focus narrowing on Selene’s raised hand, the way it trembled with rage, the girl under her flinching as she braced for the blow.

The slap whistled down, and the girl hid her face with her arms, eyes squeezed shut in terror, her body curling inward like a leaf in the wind.

But the impact never landed. Lys’s hand shot out, catching Selene’s wrist mid-swing, his grip firm but not bruising. The force of the stop rippled through her arm, her eyes widening in shock as she stumbled a step.

The girl on the ground peeked through her fingers, her breath ragged, tears streaking her dirt-smudged cheeks. She looked up, eyes locking on Lys, tall, steady, his frame blocking the sun like a shield, hiding her behind him.

Relief flooded her face, her lips parting in a silent gasp, admiration shining through the fear as if he’d just pulled her from the edge of a cliff.