Reborn in Milfloria: The Only Man in a World of Seductive Queens-Chapter 66: Jiggle. Strut. Unlock

The sun in Gushgard didn’t rise. It woke up, stretched like a scandalous courtesan, and spilled golden light over the city like honey over a warm thigh. It was a new day—and Henry’s cheeks were already tense.

In the mirror of the dressing chamber, Henry stood bare-chested, towel secured at his hips, breathing in deep, slow counts. Around him floated enchanted puffballs that dabbed his skin with confidence oil and whispered motivational thirst-quotes like:

> "Real kings don’t chase. They strut, and everything follows."

> "Your booty is the key."

> "Left cheek... destiny. Right cheek... prophecy."

He flexed slightly. The towel applauded.

Across the chamber, Seraphina lounged on a velvet chaise, lazily twirling a strand of hair. Her towel was still barely hanging on. In fact, Henry was starting to suspect the towel was a sentient creature, clinging for dear life.

"So," she purred, voice smooth like wine and sharper than daggered heels, "are your cheeks ready to change the course of destiny?"

Henry gulped. "They... jiggled once in defiance yesterday. I think they’re awakening."

"Good," she said, rising. "Because what lies ahead... is no ordinary walk."

---

The Gait of Gush awaited them atop the Sultra Spires—a stairway so erotic in design, it had to be climbed with reverence. Each step was shaped like a goddess’ hip, and shimmered with magical body oil.

The gate at the top wasn’t a gate at all. It was a glowing silhouette of a woman’s figure—hips arched, legs parted just enough to be sacred. The passage was literal: only those who strut with the exact harmony of thirst and grace could pass through the silhouette.

"This is it," Vebrissima said, unfolding her parasol, which now had glittery phrases like "WORK IT" and "CLAP FOR FREEDOM" written across it.

"One wrong sway," Prudencia warned, adjusting her scroll-pouch. "Too much thirst, and the gate moans closed. Too little, and it ghosts you."

Henry stared up at the silhouette. The thighs of prophecy.

"So... I just... walk?"

Climaxa descended from above like a slow-motion cherry blossom of inappropriate dreams.

"Not just walk," she said, eyes gleaming. "You must perform... the Strut of Salvation."

A beat of silence.

Then a saxophone started playing in the distance. From nowhere. From everywhere.

---

Henry stepped forward onto the First Thigh Step.

A low hum echoed.

He moved his left foot forward. Slow. Deliberate. His hip swayed.

The second step lit up.

He exhaled.

Another step.

Behind him, the girls watched.

"He’s got rhythm," Prudencia whispered.

"His cheeks are syncing with the sax beat," Climaxa noted.

"The towel’s holding on by willpower alone," Vebrissima added. "Respect."

Step after step, Henry ascended.

His walk became a story.

Each hip sway narrated Chapters of longing.

Each heel-click confessed ancient thirsts.

By the eighth step, the steps themselves were sighing.

By the tenth, a light drizzle of sensual rain fell from above—just enough to make his chest glisten.

By the fifteenth... the gate shimmered.

The silhouette began to shift.

It matched his posture.

It mirrored his movements.

Henry locked eyes with it—a final test of confidence.

One last sway.

The cheeks aligned.

CLICK.

The silhouette opened.

Henry stepped through.

The air beyond was cooler.

Brighter.

A breeze kissed his thighs with validation.

Behind him, a soft moan echoed as the gate sealed.

---

They had arrived.

The Garden of Lushlong.

Lush grass. Floating petals. And in the middle, a throne shaped like a lap.

And seated upon it...

A woman.

She wore nothing but stardust and unread fanmail.

Long hair flowed like enchanted syrup.

Eyes like twin galaxies filled with forbidden DMs.

Her aura was so potent, Henry nearly tripped on his own knees.

"Welcome," she said. "I am High Empress Gushira. Keeper of the Final Gush."

Henry bowed. His towel bowed with him.

"We seek the final key."

Gushira smiled.

"Then kneel, Thrusticator."

He did.

She leaned in.

Whispered.

> "Only those with the purest downbad heart can receive it. I must... test your true essence."

Her finger traced his chest.

His heart thudded.

And as her hand lowered...

Henry steeled himself.

"I—I will not fold."

She grinned.

"Good."

She snapped.

And the sky parted.

From it fell the final key.

A heart-shaped crystal glowing with blush light.

Henry caught it.

The girls cheered.

His towel did a victory twirl.

The Empress nodded.

"You have passed the Gait. The Gush is yours to command."

Henry stood tall.

"Then let’s end this thirst... and bring back the men."

The prophecy had reached its climax.

And Milforia... would never be the same.

And Milforia... would never be the same.

As Henry stood there, towel draped like a divine sash of suppressed urges, the bathhouse behind him let out a final hiss of steam—as if even the building itself needed a cold shower. The golden fog curled at his feet like an affectionate cat with a very specific fetish.

Vebrissima approached him from behind, her parasol now folded and holstered like a weapon of grace.

"You’ve done it," she said softly, eyes gleaming. "You passed the Trials of Moisture. Bathed beside your deepest desire. Faced your Lustagram shame. And didn’t get licked even once."

Henry didn’t reply.

Because Seraphina was still beside him.

Still towel-clad.

Still steaming.

Her lips curved into a half-smile that could have broken lesser towels.

"You know what happens now, right?" she murmured, voice low, sultry, and possibly illegal in seven provinces.

Henry blinked. "We... walk?"

"No," she said. "Now we train."

Suddenly, the mists parted—revealing a massive glowing dojo. Suspended in the sky by two levitating thighs carved from crystalized desire, the temple pulsed with soft moans and motivational chants.

Above the gates, a sign sparkled in cursive:

BOOTYMONASTERY – Only the Most Disciplined Cheeks Shall Pass

Climaxa gasped. "The sacred training grounds of the Gait of Gush. I thought it was a myth! Like ethical landlords or thigh-free anime intros."

Prudencia stepped forward, adjusting her scroll-glasses. "According to ancient lore, this is where the Sisterhood used to train their most seductive warriors. Every step was studied. Every wiggle, weaponized."

A booming voice echoed from within.

"ENTER... THRUSTICATOR."

Henry’s towel tried to retreat. He held it in place.

They entered.

---

The inside was... moistly majestic.

Silken ropes hung from the ceiling, swaying as if dancing to the beat of an invisible R&B ballad. The floor was a pressure-sensitive platform that responded to every movement with musical moans of encouragement.

Step left?

"Yesss, walk it, daddy."

Step right?

"Oooooh, slow down—don’t tease me like that."

In the center stood a towering woman in a spandex robe split down the middle, revealing a six-pack sculpted by pure erotic discipline. Her eyebrows were shaped like commas—always ready to pause your breath.

"Welcome," she boomed. "I am Mistress Jigglina, High Priestess of the Cheek Arts."

Henry gulped.

Jigglina’s thighs bounced once—just once—and the resulting quake knocked a scroll off Prudencia’s back and forced three floating candles into early retirement.

"You seek the Gait of Gush," she said, stepping closer. Her every movement echoed like a theme song about to drop the beat. "But to walk through that sacred path... your cake must speak in ancient rhythm."

Henry frowned. "Speak... cake?"

Jigglina clapped.

From the walls, disciples emerged. Dozens of them. Each one with a different walk.

The Swagger of Confidence.

The Sway of Seduction.

The March of the Morning After.

The Waddle of Post-Regret Noodles.

"Observe," Jigglina said. "And learn."

The disciples strutted around him in a spiraling formation, their steps composing a symphony of bounce, sway, and thigh-quake.

Henry stood frozen.

Seraphina leaned in and whispered, "Your cheeks must become fluent in the sacred dialect of Juicinese."

"You’re making that up," he said.

She smirked. "Am I?"

Jigglina pointed to the floor. "Begin, Thrusticator. Show me your walk."

Henry stepped forward.

The floor groaned. The air shifted.

He inhaled deeply. Channeling every shameful scroll post. Every downbad poem. Every time he adjusted his towel in public and pretended it was for comfort and not concealment.

He walked.

One step.

The floor moaned softly. Encouraging.

Two steps.

The wind picked up. A gentle swirl of rose petals surrounded his legs like a fan-service tornado.

Three steps.

The platform beneath him turned gold.

Jigglina’s eyes widened. "By the sacred cheeks of Lady Gloopa... He’s twerking destiny."

Climaxa burst into tears. "It’s like watching a hentai opening performed by ballet dancers and emotional furries."

Henry turned.

Pivoted.

Dropped slightly into a power squat—then rose, cheeks clapping once, respectfully.

A scroll unfurled from the ceiling on its own.

Written in glittering script:

THE GAIT IS UNLOCKED.

The temple shuddered.

The roof peeled open.

A beam of light shot into the sky like a glorious vertical climax.

Jigglina stepped forward and bowed. "You... have become one with the bounce."

Henry panted. "I... just walked."

"No," Seraphina said softly. "You became the walk."

Behind them, the entrance to the Gait of Gush revealed itself.

Two towering legs carved into the mountain pass.

Each foot posed delicately apart.

Between them, a narrow path.

Glowing.

Waiting.

Henry adjusted his towel.

"Alright... thighs of fate... let’s take a stroll."

And together, with cheeks that now whispered poetry and calves that rhymed with freedom...

They walked toward destiny.

Toward the next Chapter.

Toward the Gait.

And Milforia... was officially out of tissues.