Dungeon Overlord: Monster Girl Harem!-Chapter 138: Leonhardt’s plan - Preparation for the Goblin Village (II)

Leonhardt didn't blink.

He picked up the bottle from the tray the girl had left behind, popped the wax seal, and filled her glass with a careful hand, slow, deliberate, the kind of pour that said I'm humouring you, not surrendering.

The liquid shimmered like dusky moonlight.

Veronica smiled, resting her chin on her hand. "Oh my. Dangerous and obedient. I might have to steal you from the goblins."

"I don't come cheap," he said, tone dry.

She took a slow sip of the Papillon, eyes closing briefly.

"Mmm… Gods, that's good. You ruin me with this stuff." Her gaze flicked open. "And I mean that in more ways than one."

He raised an eyebrow.

She leaned back in her chair, running a finger down the stem of the glass. "Here's a counter-offer, dragon-boy. You help me build this second inn—your way, your goblins, your plan… but"—her tongue touched her top lip, slowly "you give me the exclusive contract for all the Papillon."

Leonhardt blinked once. "You want all of it?" He then narrowed his eyes, feeling her feet sliding up his leg, and reached out, grasping her soft, meaty thighs.

"Can you handle all of it?"

Her body shuddered, eyes aflame like small beacons, narrowing into a seductive glance.

"All that leaves the dungeon," she said, swirling her glass. "Not the stuff you guzzle or sell privately—just what makes it to market. I'll handle distribution, branding, bottling. We make it a luxury. Humans love the idea of something they can't get."

"And what do I get?" he asked, though he already knew.

Veronica smirked. "A steady gold stream. And me, dressed like this—" she gestured to herself pulling on her tight neckline, "—doing whatever you say in front of a roaring fire with a Papillon in hand."

A long pause.

(Take the deal.)

Dravanna hissed in his mind.

(Take the woman. Take the wine. Take the damn fire. Take everything!)

[Or pour the wine on her head and walk out. She's playing you.]

Ifrit snapped.

Leonhardt reached for his glass and clinked it gently against hers. "We'll draft terms later."

"Ooh, listen to you. All formal and proper." Veronica smiled, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. She leaned in again. "I won't forget who really owns everything in this room, including myself." A hot sigh left her lips as she pecked his cheek.

Leonhardt's eyes didn't move. She pulled back slowly, deliberately—her lips brushing just enough to feel the heat of his skin, then lingering in the air between them like a secret.

"And I expect a receipt for that," he murmured.

Veronica giggled low in her throat, a sultry sound. "Mm… don't worry. I always keep records—especially for things I plan to collect on later."

Her thigh slid free from his grasp with a faint, tantalising rub, the hem of her skirt falling back into place like nothing ever happened.

He stood slowly, adjusting his coat as she watched him with the sort of satisfied grin a cat wore after cornering a bird. It had no intention of killing—yet.

"Will you be staying the night?" she asked, voice feathery-light.

He paused at the door. "Depends how many more contracts you try to slip under the sheets."

Veronica gave a little hum. "I'd make sure the ink was still wet."

He turned just enough to glance at her over his shoulder, lips quirking. "Don't tempt me."

She leaned back in her chair, swirling the Papillon in slow circles.

"Darling, I am the temptation."

"Haha." He left her inn with a small laugh, waving back to her, ignoring the fiery gaze she sent his way. Although he could easily enjoy an hour in the back with her, he was busy, but walking with the uncomfortable chub in his pants was a little annoying.

*Jangle*

The air outside was warm and rich with the scent of wet earth and baked bread from the nearby ovens. Arlet's streets were alive compared to his original thoughts—farmers hauling carts, children chasing a wooden hoop, and a few mercenaries laughing over lunch.

He thought it might become a ghost town after the wolf issue.

'Well, Sylvie became their de facto hero thanks to killing them.'

Leonhardt walked with a purpose.

He wanted to meet Aella and avoid making her his enemy. Because her mother was apparently a battle maiden, something even Nyxara mentioned in fear.

[She's too confident. That's dangerous.]

Ifrit's voice was sharp in his skull.

(That confidence is what makes her so fun!)

Dravanna purred, clearly still smirking in whatever recess of his mind she haunted.

(Did you feel how wet was got the moment your hand slid under that table? Mmm… juicy woman.)

Leonhardt didn't answer.

His hand idly adjusted his belt, mind already shifting from flirtation to business.

Rather, facing Aella was another form of flirtation, because she would be the one trying to seduce him like always.

He crossed the wide street where the guild banner swayed lazily in the breeze—black ink etched over white cloth, the sword-and-flame sigil bold as ever. The Mercenary Guild of Arlet stood proudly, its heavy doors open to the usual storm of complaints, contracts, and tavern gossip.

But he wasn't here for noise.

Time to see if Aella was in the mood to talk.

***

The guild hall smelled like oiled leather, sweat, and roasted meat. And of course, beer! Not that it was an unpleasant smell, just a very strong and pungent one.

Sunlight flowed through the tall windows, casting angled beams across the wide stone floor scored by boots and blade scuffs. On the walls, wanted posters and quest missions curled slightly at the edges, the parchment dirty from human touch.

Leonhardt stepped inside, the heavy door slamming shut behind him.

A few heads turned. Some mercs nodded with casual respect. Leonhardt was still a newcomer, but he solved several issues, and the people knew him.

Not to mention, the priestess and Sylvie always talked about him.

He now wore an elegant black jacket over his white tunic with a dagger at his waist, and neat, well-tailored pants from the dungeon store. He looked noble through and through.

Maybe closer to a royal.

However, the atmosphere was pleasant, so Leon greeted them back. He walked to the counter with a deep thud, his steel boots loud and heavy.

At the long counter of worn oak stood Aella.

She was leaning forward, arms crossed under her chest, her white hair pulled into a tight battle-tail that hung just past her shoulders. Her skin was the deep almond typical of her kind, with just a hint of violet sheen when the light hit it right. Her eyes were a sharp, heated purple—half-lidded and bored.

She was glaring at a short man across the desk, a poor bastard holding a crumpled contract and visibly sweating.

"For the last time," she said, her voice low and clipped, "we don't take requests to kill your wife's lover unless your wife puts in the request herself. Grow a pair or get a lawyer."

The man stammered something, but she was already dismissing him with a flick of her hand.

"Next."

Leonhardt stepped forward. She didn't even look up at first—just shoved the request board aside with her elbow, reached for a quill, then paused.

Her nostrils flared. Not in surprise. In irritation.

"…So the mighty Leonhardt does remember where the front door is," Aella said flatly, her voice edged with that particular blend of dry sarcasm and wounded pride only a woman like her could wield properly.

Leonhardt stopped a few paces from the counter.

"You've been busy," he said, tone even.

"So have you." She didn't blink. "Just not with me."

He didn't answer that immediately. Her stare was unrelenting. He could see the faint red tint in her cheeks, subtle but there. She wasn't angry about the missed paperwork. She was furious that he didn't bring it.

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"And here I thought sending Sylvie was a sign of respect," he said. "I figured you'd enjoy watching a proper mage do her paperwork with perfect margins."

Aella leaned forward over the counter, the muscles in her arms tightening as she braced her weight. "Sylvie isn't a hot, half elf that makes me want to break many treaties and laws."

Leonhardt's lip twitched, just enough to suggest a smile without fully committing.

"Well," he said, voice soft and low, "you could've just written that on a complaint form."

Aella scoffed, looking away for a half-second—just enough time to reset her scowl. But her ears were pink now. She hated that he still got under her skin with so little effort.

"You're an ass," she muttered. "A smug, probably-freshly-laid ass."

"I wasn't."

"What?"

He looked her in the eyes, unblinking. "I haven't been laid."

The pause that followed was… intense.

Aella blinked. Then blinked again. "…Why the hell would you say that?"

"You seemed the type who'd ask eventually."

She choked on a sound—half-laugh, half-growl—and rubbed her temple like he was some kind of paperwork-related migraine.

"Gods, you're exhausting."

"You're the one fantasising about war crimes."

Her fingers curled into fists against the desk. "I was fantasising about choking you. Now I'm fantasising about charging you for emotional damages."

Despite her harsh words, Aella's hands slipped closer... brushing against his hand.

[Another slutty elf!]

(You would be far worse if you had a body!)