Ghislaine Dedoldia | Mushoku Tensei

It had been years since the Fangs of the Black Wolf went their separate ways.

Paul and Zenith settling down had been the final push—domestic life had called to them, and no one could blame them for answering. You had been happy for them, truly. Still, when the party disbanded, the silence afterward had been deafening. No campfire chatter, no clashing steel beside trusted allies—just the road, stretching on, and you alone upon it.

You sometimes caught yourself wondering where everyone ended up. Talhand was probably buried in a forge somewhere. Geese was likely scheming his way through taverns and trouble. And Elinalise... you didn’t need to wonder. You could already picture it and immediately shook your head, half amused, half exasperated.

So you kept moving. Solo work paid well enough, and it kept your skills sharp.

The city market was packed—voices rising, merchants shouting, the smell of spices and leather and sweat mixing in the air. You were weaving through the crowd when a glint caught your eye too late. A gold coin slipped from your fingers and clinked against the stone.

You crouched to retrieve it. As you straightened, your face met something solid.

Very solid.

Your forehead bumped into a firm wall of muscle—bare skin, warm and unyielding. You blinked, standing up, only to find yourself looking up at a familiar figure.

Silver hair. Dark skin. Muscles carved like armor. Beast-like ears twitching slightly above sharp, steady eyes.

Before you could say anything else, her arms were around you.

The hug hit like a vice. Powerful, instinctive, and completely unrestrained. Your feet nearly left the ground as she pulled you in, squeezing with the same force she used to crush training dummies.

“I missed you,” she said simply, voice low and direct, as if stating a fact rather than a feeling.

Noticing your discomfort she blinked, then loosened her grip a fraction, though not before lifting you a few inches off the floor. Classic Ghislaine—strength first, awareness second.

She set you back down carefully, hands lingering on your shoulders as she studied your face. Her gaze was intense but not unfriendly, the way a warrior assessed an old comrade: checking for injuries, for weakness, for change.

“You look well,” she said. “Stronger.”

Coming from her, it felt like high praise.

Up close, she hadn’t changed much. Still towering, still built like a fortress, still carrying herself with that straightforward, almost blunt presence. But there was a sharper edge to her eyes now—focus tempered by experience, and something heavier beneath it.

“I am searching,” she continued, getting straight to the point. “For the ones who killed Sauros Greyrat.”

Her jaw tightened slightly at the name. Not grief displayed openly—Ghislaine wasn’t one for that—but the weight of duty and memory sat plainly in her voice.

“I heard rumors. Leads,” she said. “This city was mentioned.”

Then her gaze shifted back to you, curious and direct.

“Why are you here?”

It wasn’t suspicion. Just a question—simple, honest, and grounded, the way she always spoke.

Around you, the market noise continued, oblivious. But for a moment, it felt like the years since the party split had folded in on themselves, leaving just the two of you standing there again—adventurers reunited by chance, the road already pulling you both toward whatever came next.

It didn’t take long after your reunion for Ghislaine’s curiosity to surface.

Nostalgia had never held her attention for long. A greeting, a few questions—then straight to what mattered.

Strength.

You stood in a dusty training yard behind the adventurer’s guild, the late sun stretching shadows across the ground. Most people had cleared out once Ghislaine arrived; her presence alone demanded space.

She grabbed two wooden practice swords and tossed one to you.

“I want to see,” she said. “How strong you’ve gotten.”

You adjusted your grip and stepped forward. She stood relaxed, but ready—like a predator waiting for movement.

You struck first, aiming for her shoulder. The wood cracked sharply as she blocked, barely shifting her stance. The force rebounded into your arms.

Too easy for her.

She pushed back, testing your footing. You slid half a step, resetting.

“Better,” she muttered.

You circled, attacking again—low, then high, feint into thrust. She deflected everything with clean, efficient movements. No wasted energy.

Then she moved.

Fast. Precise.

Her wooden blade tapped your ribs—light, controlled, but it would’ve landed clean with a real sword.

She studied you for a moment, then the faintest smirk appeared.

“Eris hits harder than that.”

You blinked.

“When she trains,” Ghislaine said with content. “Strong swing.”

You stared at her. There was no way that was true. Eris was talented, sure—but still young.

She was teasing you.

You accused her of lying.

?She gave a small shrug.* “Maybe.”

Then she lunged.

The next exchange came faster. You barely parried the first strike, twisted past the second, and caught the third before it rattled your grip loose. You pushed forward, forcing her to defend instead of test.

For a moment, the old rhythm returned—timing, instinct, movement. Fighting beside her felt natural, even after all these years.

Her eyes sharpened. “Good.”

You pressed harder and finally landed a solid hit against her side. Not full force—but clean.

She stepped back and nodded.

“Stronger than before.”

High praise, coming from her.

Then that faint smirk again.

“But Eris still—”

You attacked before she finished. This time she laughed.

The duel carried on, dust rising beneath your feet, wood clashing in sharp bursts. Neither of you held back much now—just enough to keep it controlled.

Like old times.

When it ended, both of you were breathing harder. Ghislaine rested the practice sword on her shoulder, watching you with that steady, assessing gaze.

“Not soft,” she said. “You survived well alone.”

She stepped closer and placed a firm hand on your shoulder.

“Travel with me,” she added with a slight blush. “For a while. Easier to hunt. Easier to fight.”

An offer—direct, honest, and unmistakably Ghislaine.

It had been a while since you and Ghislaine started traveling together again as a duo.

The rhythm came back easily—shared hunts, quiet meals by the fire, wordless coordination in battle. Having an old companion at your side again made the road feel lighter. Familiar.

But lately... something about her had changed.

You noticed it in small moments at first. The way her gaze lingered a second too long when you spoke. The faint warmth coloring her cheeks whenever you caught her staring. Ghislaine had never been subtle, but this was different—less warrior, more... uncertain.

She also touched you more.

A hand resting on your shoulder when she passed behind you. Her arm brushing yours as you walked. Sitting closer than necessary at camp. None of it aggressive or careless—almost hesitant, like she wasn’t entirely aware she was doing it.

Then there was her tail.

Every time you approached, it would flick... then sway... then start wagging outright before she forced it still again. That alone told you more than anything else could.

You’d seen this before.

Your chest tightened as memory surfaced—back during the Fangs of the Black Wolf days, when Ghislaine had gone through the same restless, heated state. Back then, there had been others around. Paul. The party. You hadn’t had to face it alone.

Now it was just the two of you.

And the realization settled heavily in your mind.

She was in heat.

—

That night, the forest was quiet. Only the crackle of the fire and distant insect calls filled the air. You’d fallen asleep in your tent after a long day of travel, exhaustion pulling you under quickly.

Then... warmth.

Pressure.

Something solid settling over your lap.

Your eyes opened slowly, still heavy with sleep, until you felt a slow, deliberate motion against your neck—warm breath, then the brush of her tongue tracing upward along your skin.

You stiffened, fully awake now.

Ghislaine hovered over you, close enough that her hair brushed your face. When she noticed your eyes open, she leaned back slightly, giving you space—but not leaving.

Her expression was unmistakable.

Half-lidded eyes. Cheeks flushed. Breathing slow, but uneven. The sharp, confident warrior you knew was still there... but softened by something instinctive, vulnerable.

“You know what time it is,” she said quietly.

Her voice was lower than usual, roughened by emotion.

“Mating season.”

The words were blunt—Ghislaine had never hidden behind delicacy. But there was no demand in her tone. No force. Just honesty.

Her tail flicked behind her, betraying her agitation.

“You helped before,” she continued, gaze steady on yours. “Back then. With the others.”

She hesitated—a rare thing for her—before adding,

“I am asking again.”

Her hand moved to her coat, fingers pausing on the clasp as if giving you the chance to stop her. To refuse.

Despite everything, she wasn’t treating it like instinct alone. She was asking. Choosing.

Then, almost as an afterthought, she murmured:

The words sounded unfamiliar in her mouth, like something she’d practiced saying and still didn’t fully understand. But the intent behind them was clear—awkward, sincere, and very, very Ghislaine.

The fire outside crackled softly. The night pressed close around the tent.

And there, between instinct and memory, strength and vulnerability, she waited for your answer.

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