Chastity-Reversed Hard Mode: Surviving as a Steel-Minded Adventurer in Another World - Chapter 22: Bestowing Muscle with a Steel Mentality

Chapter 22: Bestowing Muscle with a Steel Mentality

So, I was back in my old room at home, asleep.

The sliding door opened, and in walked my dog—Pero. An old mutt I’d picked up and raised.

But here’s the weird part—two Peros came in.

I’d named him “Pero” because he loved licking my cheeks. And sure enough, both of them sat at my sides and started licking me. At first, they were timid—just brushing their noses against my face or giving quick little flicks with their tongues. But gradually they got bolder, slobbering all over my cheeks.

I was happy, though. It felt good being spoiled by Pero again, so I stroked them both in return.

Then, from beyond the sliding door, another Pero appeared.

“Oh, the third one’s gonna lick me from the front, huh?”—that’s what I thought.

But nope. This one bared its fangs, growled a low “Grrrr,” and glared menacingly.

The two Peros at my side panicked and bolted to the corner of the room.

Looking closer as they fled, I noticed they didn’t have any balls. Guess they were females.

The real Pero chased the fakes away, then padded back over and gave my cheek one gentle lick. After that, he turned and walked through the door—into a dazzling light so bright I couldn’t see anything beyond it.

Yeah, it was just a dream.

I was just happy I got to see Pero again. That’s it—no punchline. Dreams don’t need one.

…That said, Irene and Ursna—why the hell are you two drenched in sweat?

As I told that dream story, the three of us were busy swapping out the bed sheets.

When I woke up in the morning, the bed was completely soaked. Must’ve been all the sweat from us sleeping so close together. Really drives home the point—you need baths. The smell that clung to the sheets was… yeah, pretty ripe.

Oh, and my fingers were all crusty. Didn’t feel like sweat. Out of curiosity, I gave them a lick—and for some reason Irene and Ursna both went beet red and turned away.

Irene blushing, sure, that made sense.

But Ursna? Seeing her embarrassed face was such a rare sight it felt like I’d hit the jackpot first thing in the morning. In this world, boobs and asses are everywhere, but a shy reaction? That’s rare—and way more valuable.

The two of them looked sleep-deprived, dark circles under their eyes. Guess being stuck on either side of my stiff, muscle-bound body made it hard to sleep comfortably.

But oddly enough, their skin looked silky smooth and glowing, so maybe the quality of their sleep wasn’t so bad after all.

As for me, I slept like a baby. Noble beds are ridiculously fluffy and soft. I felt amazing when I woke up—top condition!

Breakfast was brought in by the maids. No invitation from the Count, which probably meant she didn’t want to see me. Honestly, I preferred it that way—having a quiet meal with just the three of us was much nicer.

When I handed the maids the swapped-out sheets along with the breakfast dishes, one of them gave me a knowing little smile.

“Looks like you enjoyed yourself last night.”

“…The hell are you talking about?”

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After breakfast, with nothing else to do, I decided to take a stroll around the mansion.

Seriously, there was nothing to do.

I couldn’t even read the books here since I didn’t know the language.

How did people in this era even kill time?

Then I thought—maybe jogging would be nice. So I wandered out into the gardens.

As expected of a Count’s estate, it was gorgeous.

I figured autumn meant no flowers, but nope—blossoms were everywhere, pink, orange, white, all in full bloom.

I didn’t know their names—none of them were species you’d ever see in Japan.

Honestly, I’ve never been the type to get emotional over flowers. But even I found myself stopping to admire them. Whoever the gardener was, they were seriously talented.

In one corner of that colorful garden, I spotted someone already there.

A well-dressed, stout man in his forties.

If I remembered right, he’d been introduced yesterday during the treatments—Count Longfield’s husband.

“Good morning.”

“Ah, Saint. A pleasure to see you. Thank you again for yesterday.”

For a man who had married into the Count’s household, I assumed he must have come from a prestigious family himself.

And yet, his manner was meek—bowing his head to me again and again, almost timid.

The Count carried herself like a fierce, iron-willed woman.

Her husband, on the other hand, seemed her complete opposite—humble, lacking confidence.

Even with me calling myself a Saint, I was still just a commoner. He could’ve treated me with more ease, more dignity.

“…About last night. I heard my wife acted shamefully toward you. I deeply apologize.”

“It’s fine. Nothing happened—it stopped before it went too far.”

Honestly, if anyone should be apologizing, it’s me—for Deabolica’s little honey-trap stunt.

I half-expected her to end up a corpse by morning, but no—she was alive and well, happily eating breakfast.

Guess the Count really did decide to let it slide.

…Still, I couldn’t shake the worry. Was Deabolica actually okay?

For someone who always tried to act like a master strategist, her moves last night were sloppy as hell.

It was like she stumbled onto an undeserved treasure—me—and completely lost her head.

Or maybe she was just desperate for money?

But whatever the reason, shaking people down with blackmail was crossing the line. Especially if she was using me as bait.

“Really, I should be the one apologizing. My companion acted disgracefully. Whatever she demands from you about last night, feel free to ignore it completely.”

But the Count’s husband only shook his head, lowering it even further, his whole posture sagging with guilt.

“No… I intend to grant whatever she asks. The fault lies with me. My wife trying to claim you, my wife taking in so many consorts… it’s all because I’m worthless. If only I were stronger…”

“…If you’d like, I can listen. They say half of illness lies in the mind. Sometimes just sharing your troubles lifts the weight, and with a lighter heart you might even avoid sickness.”

Normally, I don’t give a damn what other people think of me. But this time, I decided to try something different.

…Mainly because yesterday the Count never gave me the “answer” to our debate, so I was left unsatisfied.

“If the Saint insists… then very well.”

And so, the husband began to tell his story.

His name was Midra.

He came from another count’s family and was about seven years older than Count Rose.

Because his health was frail, he didn’t marry until after he’d passed twenty. But the late Count had asked him to become Rose’s husband, and so he entered her household.

Their marriage was actually good. The year after he joined the family, Rose bore a legitimate heir—a baby girl.

The Count was overjoyed and showered Midra with gratitude.

But that first child passed away soon after birth.

Not from accident or disease—just natural causes.

Apparently, many noble children are born frail, and only a handful ever survive to adulthood.

Especially those with extremely high mana—their odds of dying young rise sharply.

So yes… even “too much magic” could be a curse.

The following year, a second child was born. Then a third.

But those children also died within a few years, this time from illness.

This world is crawling with lethal plagues—smallpox, plague, measles—and there are no reliable treatments. Even nobles face terrifyingly high infant mortality.

It nearly broke the Count.

Even so, up until she turned twenty, the Count kept trying every night with her husband, desperate to bear a successor of his bloodline.

But no matter how much effort they put in, every child born died young.

There was one who survived—but it was a boy, and in this society, sons didn’t count as legitimate heirs.

The idea of taking in consorts actually came from the husband.

He’d always been frail and began to suspect the problem lay with his seed.

He admitted he wasn’t exactly passionate in bed either. Compared to the Count, whose appetite was voracious, he was lukewarm.

Apparently, he never once managed to satisfy her fully.

So, they brought in consorts from viscount and baron houses—families slightly below her own in rank.

But that didn’t work either. The children born had high mana, yet every one of them died young.

On the other hand, if the child was born with little or no mana, noble society refused to recognize them as a proper heir.

As the years passed, the Count grew increasingly desperate.

“Try enough times and eventually it’ll work” might sound fine in theory, but her window to bear children wasn’t unlimited.

She had to produce a daughter—no matter what.

So the number of consorts grew, and the bar dropped lower.

If high mana doomed the babies, then she would stop aiming for the highest pedigree.

Maids, gardeners, cooks—if they had even a modest spark of mana, she took them too.

Each time, the couple promised to support the consort for life, and the Count faithfully continued to keep them as her partners.

But despite everything—despite all those attempts—she never managed to give birth to a healthy daughter.

“My wife is not at fault. All of this… it’s because I was too weak, too worthless.”

Hmm… not so sure about that.

From what I’ve heard, the real issue sounds more like the Count’s body constitution.

After all, she can get pregnant, and there’s even a son who survived. Sounds more like bad luck than anything else.

Not that I could just blurt that out—I was an outsider here, and tossing out careless opinions wasn’t my place.

“If only I’d been able to satisfy my passionate wife…”

Midra’s shoulders slumped as he spoke.

“…Wait, if you’d managed to please her, would that really change anything?”

“The physician we had until recently claimed so. He said the reason strong children weren’t being born was because I couldn’t satisfy her. A child can only be strong when a man’s seed and a woman’s spirit mingle in perfect balance. But my wife’s spirit is too strong, and our seed is too weak to match it.”

…Yeah, that was the same quack who told people syphilis could be cured by standing under icy waterfalls. Not exactly a reliable source.

Honestly, whether it’s a full load or just precum—if sperm meets egg, that’s all it takes to make a baby.

Midra’s eyes flicked toward my stomach.

“You wouldn’t understand, Saint. You have abs like steel, and… clearly, a manly endowment as well. If only my wife had conceived with you, perhaps then a strong child would…”

Then his gaze dropped to his own soft belly, his face sinking into pure, hopeless sorrow.

“No… forgive me. I shouldn’t have said that. Envying others only makes my own shortcomings stand out even more…”

“Lord Midra…”

“Please, just go. The more I look at you, the more pathetic I feel.”

He turned his back to me, shoulders trembling.

…Hmm.

Alright, I get it.

There’s a saying—“at least do a parting favor.” And honestly, I still felt like I owed him something after Deabolica’s mess last night. Might as well do a little here to clear my conscience.

I couldn’t magically cure the Count’s infertility. Pretty sure [Disease Resistance] wasn’t gonna cut it.

But there was still something I could do.

Basically—give this guy some stamina and boost his confidence, right?

“Understood! Then let me help you! I was once called the Six-Pack-Making Machine, after all!”

“…Huh?”

Midra rubbed his eyes and turned back, staring at me like a pigeon hit with a slingshot.

“You mean… you’ll grant us a child?”

“No, not that. What I mean is—I’ll help solve at least part of your problem! First, go change into something easy to move in! And if your consorts have time, gather them too!”

“Uh… okay…?”

A few hours later, a group of men in light clothes gathered in the garden.

Honestly, I wished they had something more absorbent—sweat-friendly workout gear didn’t exist in this world, apparently.

They all lined up in rows, bellies sticking out.

Apparently, noblemen here didn’t do much in the way of physical activity—spending their days on embroidery, arts, or other refined hobbies instead.

“Um, Saint… we gathered just like you asked, but what exactly are we doing here?”

“I’m not the Saint! From now on, call me Big Brother!”

“…B-Big Brother…?”

“And you guys—are my soulmates, bound by the power of muscle!”

“Uh… what?”

“Listen up! As long as I’m here, I’ll burn every ounce of fat off you—every single day! In one week, you’ll be tight, toned, and ripped enough to be proud of your bodies! Get ready!”

“Uh… um… wait, what!?”

“Alright, we’re starting with light stretches! Copy my movements—ready, go!”

“What is this man even doing!?”

And so began… the week from hell!

…Well, okay, not that bad.

Basically just aerobics with a few dance moves thrown in.

“Okay, warm-up stretch done! You’ll be doing this before and after every workout, so burn it into your heads! Now, time for the real deal! First—high knees! Come on—clap-clap, clap-clap!”

I lifted my thighs high, alternating left and right, sliding my hands under them as I clapped to keep the rhythm.

“Hhh—hhhaaah…!”

Midra and the others followed, looking nervous at first. It seemed easy in the beginning—but before long, beads of sweat were already streaming down their foreheads.

“Nice! That’s some sharp movement! Look at that—those muscles you never use are loving it! Come on, let’s make those little muscle buddies even happier!”

I showered the uncles with praise like my life depended on it.

Sure, in reality their movements were sluggish and clumsy as hell—but I didn’t let even a hint of that show.

Compliment, compliment, compliment—nonstop.

Even if they knew deep down it was flattery, being praised still felt good.

Soon, they were smiling, moving not like men being forced through drills—but like men who wanted to.

Perfect. That little dopamine hit was kicking in.

Once I saw they’d gotten used to the motions…

“You guys are amazing! Way more talented than I expected—very good, very good! Alright, let’s shift gears! Time to speed it up! Keep up with me! Ready—clap-clap, clap-clap!”

“Eh—whaaat!?”

They flailed a bit, but scrambled to keep up, doing their best to match my tempo.

“Yes! Perfect! That’s exactly it! Sharp moves! Can’t believe this is your first time—you’ve been hiding your skills, haven’t you?”

Once that round was done, I smoothly transitioned them into the next exercise.

That was the trick—before boredom set in, I kept the workouts changing.

Fun rhythm, nonstop praise, fresh movements one after another, and never scolding them.

That’s the secret to making workouts actually feel good.

“Okay, next up—spin those fingers while side-stepping! Two steps right, two steps left, two steps right, two steps left! We’ll speed it up bit by bit, so keep up! Spin-spin, spin-spin! Come on, everyone say it with me—spin-spin, spin-spin!”

““““Spin-spin, spin-spin!””””

Nice! They were shouting it now.

Sure, from the outside it probably looked like some shady religious ritual, but hey—who cares right now?

“Spin-spin, spin-spin!”

“Hhhggh… I-I can’t… keep going…”

Oh no, Midra was about to drop out.

Time for the magic words.

“It’s the first day—of course your body isn’t used to it yet! Don’t push yourself too hard—rest if you need to! But look around—everyone’s exhausted, and they’re still pushing through, right? You’re not the only one hurting! How about giving it just a little more?”

Midra glanced sideways.

There were his fellow soulmates, gritting their teeth, fighting through it. When their eyes met, they flashed him a big grin.

How could any man not fire up after that?

“I-I can still keep going!”

“Good! That’s the spirit! Women show courage—men show grit and charm! Don’t forget to smile—work hard together and have fun! And if the guy next to you looks like he’s struggling, cheer him on!”

“Yes, Big Brother!”

“Let’s all keep going together!”

“I’ll get muscles like Big Brother’s!”

“Alright then—spin-spin, spin-spin!”

““““Spin-spin, spin-spin!””””

“You guys are killing it! Next—squats! Focus on bending those knees properly. Start slow at first—ready, one-two! One-two!”

““““One-two! One-two!””””

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“…What the hell are they doing over there…?”

The female guards tilted their heads as they watched from a distance.

In the middle of the Count’s garden, a bunch of noblemen and consorts—who normally stayed cooped up in their rooms, absorbed in embroidery or painting—were now moving in sync to some bizarre rhythm, like part of a strange ritual.

“Well… it’s the Saint leading it, so I’m sure it must have some meaning…”

“Are they… trying to train their bodies? But why would men who never fight need to get strong? Feels completely pointless.”

“Maybe so, but… I don’t know… I kinda like it.”

“…Yeah. It’s… nice…”

Several of the women broke into goofy grins, eyes glinting as they watched.

One of the senior guards, exasperated, mimed slicing her throat.

“Oi! If the Count catches you staring, you’ll be in deep trouble.”

“Ah, right! We’ll… try not to look too much.”

“But you think it’s nice too, don’t you, Captain?”

“…It’s nice.”

≪Explanation Time!

This is that mysterious sex appeal women get when they strip down to lighter clothes and start sweating through exercise.

Think “mom volleyball team” or “dance class” vibes!

Sure, they’re a little plump, but remember—they were handpicked by a Count, so it’s a line-up of bona fide beauties!

And if someone prefers them younger and juicier, well—there’s always the Saintess herself, acting as their coach!≫