DISCLAIMER:

Circumcision offers potential health benefits, primarily focusing on reducing the risk of certain infections and complications. These include a lower risk of urinary tract infections (UTIs), some sexually transmitted infections (STIs), and penile cancer. Additionally, circumcision can improve genital hygiene and prevent conditions like foreskin infections and phimosis. 

Here's a more detailed look at the potential benefits:

Reduced Risk of Infections:

• UTIs: Circumcision is associated with a slightly lower risk of UTIs in newborns.

• STIs: Circumcision can reduce the risk of certain STIs, including HIV, although the effect varies depending on the specific STI and geographic location.

• Foreskin Infections and Phimosis: Circumcision prevents infections and complications related to the foreskin, such as balanitis and phimosis (where the foreskin can't be retracted).

Improved Hygiene:

• Easier Cleaning: Circumcision makes it easier to clean the penis, reducing the risk of bacterial buildup and infections.

Other Potential Benefits:

• Reduced Risk of Penile Cancer:
  Circumcision is linked to a slightly lower risk of penile cancer later in life. 

• Improved Sexual Health:
  Some studies suggest improved sexual satisfaction for women whose partners are circumcised, potentially due to better penile hygiene. 

By the Tip of General's Sword

It was a cold night in the war encampment. The kind of cold that gnawed at bones and made even the fires burn quieter. All was silent—eerily so. Only the occasional, dutiful crunch of patrolling boots broke the stillness.

Then, without warning, the General’s main tent shook. Voices—sharp, urgent. A heavy thud. The guards on duty flinched, snapped to alertness. Within seconds, soldiers and aides rushed in, weapons half-drawn, only to behold a sight none of them had ever prepared for:

Blood.

Their Lord General, Isaac Cornouaille—undefeated, untouchable, five-star Force Master and certified demigod of the battlefield—was clutching his side. Bleeding. Visibly injured. As if the world itself had tilted off its axis.

“My Lord!”

On the floor lay an unconscious, faceless assassin. Not dead. Just unconscious. Which, frankly, was both terrifying and impressive. After all, to wound the general enough to make him bleed? That took power. Real power. The kind reserved for people who wore stars on their sleeves and drank lightning for breakfast.

Still, the fact that Isaac had knocked him out rather than killed him said plenty. Mostly that Isaac was still stronger. Still terrifying. Just... mildly inconvenienced.

“Sever the limbs and chain him up. Later, I will interrogate him,” Isaac commanded with all the calm of a man ordering tea, blood soaking through his side like it was just an annoying wine stain.

“Yes, sir. Uh... the doctors are on the way.”

And that—that—was when it happened.

Isaac, the general who had stared down death, monsters, and politicians without flinching, visibly paled.

“The doctors?” he repeated, as if the word itself might kill him faster than blood loss. “Who did you cal—”

But it was already too late.

She entered.

A young woman. Beautiful, composed, radiant. Her hazel hair nearly black in the dim lighting of the tent. The way she moved—like she owned the battlefield, the war, and the general’s blood supply—without ever needing to raise her voice.

Leonor. The physician.

Her eyes landed on Isaac—just one glance—and narrowed.

Not cruelly. Not in anger. Just... knowingly. Like a schoolteacher who’s walked in on a very naughty student bleeding all over the homework.

Isaac, battle-hardened, knife-in-his-side Isaac, swallowed. Or tried to. His throat had other plans.

“Yes, I’ll circumcise you.”

The words echoed in his mind like a church bell rung during a funeral.

This was it.

Not the assassin.

Not the bleeding.

No. This was his reckoning.

And Leonor? She was here to collect.

“Sit down,” Leonor said. Moonlight from the tent’s small window spilled over her face, making her look like some ethereal deity sent to dispense either healing or vengeance—depending on her mood. “No circumcision tonight.”

“Ohhh… God…” Isaac exhaled like he’d just dodged divine judgment. A sacred sigh of relief, as though heaven itself had spared him. Maybe because—for once—he was actually injured. Not like the usual “oops-I-fell-on-my-sword” performances he gave just to get her attention.

Sir Cornouaille, proud Knight of the Round Table, slayer of armies and women’s hearts alike, obeyed. Sat himself down like a good boy. Leonor, all business, pulled up a stool. Her fingers didn’t hesitate as she gripped his torn, bloodied shirt and sliced it open without ceremony.

And yet—only he knew. Deep in that war-hardened, idiotic heart of his—he was disappointed. Profoundly, tragically disappointed. No scissors threatening his dick. No sweet, menacing flirtation between sterilized instruments and his pride.

He was bleeding, yes. But more importantly: he was mourning.

The sacred ritual was broken. The holy banter that kept his loins and ego equally bruised was gone. Now, all he got was her genuine worry. Her care. Her professionalism. It felt like betrayal.

He wanted her to care—yes—but did she have to care so… earnestly?

Oh, how sweet it would be if she could patch him up with a loving kiss and the promise of imminent genital mutilation. He longed for the duality of fear and desire. The foreplay of scissors and affection.

Somewhere between almost blurting out, “Please circumcise me,” and her eyes narrowing at the gaping wound in his ribs, time stood still. Her assistants awkwardly busied themselves. His aides turned their heads away, suddenly fascinated by absolutely nothing. The tent fell into a soft, tense silence—like nature itself didn’t want to intrude on the drama.

“It was pointed at your heart,” she said flatly, examining the gash on his left side. “I suppose they finally realized your neck is too far-fetched a dream. So they aimed lower. A bit slower, and you’d be dead.”

She said it the way one might comment on soup being slightly over-salted.

Isaac looked down at the wound. His ribs ached. His shirt was ruined. His pride was bleeding alongside his body. And yet—he felt just a little proud of himself. Because, you know, close call. Brushed with death. Very impressive.

“I was actually worried,” she said, her voice quieter now. “Don’t make me feel like that again.”

And just like that, the undefeated general turned redder than the blood seeping from his side.

Somewhere, in the background, God laughed.

***

Assassins had always been a recurring nuisance. So regular, in fact, that Isaac had stopped filing reports about them altogether. It was starting to feel like logging each mosquito bite—annoying, predictable, and not worth His Majesty’s inbox space. King Arthur didn’t need to lose sleep over every dagger aimed at his northern general’s back, after all.

But then—two weeks after Isaac’s most recent brush with the afterlife—the frequency of attempts hit such comical heights that even without Isaac sending a single word, the capital still caught wind of it. The kind of news that traveled faster than gossip at a royal wedding.

King Arthur, alarmed yet gracious, offered reinforcements.

Isaac, mortified and flattered all at once by his liege’s attention, sent back a note that basically read: “Thanks, but I’ve got this. Also, it’s that idiot general from Wintersin. Again.”

After all, the King had just taken the throne. There were more important things to worry about than some bloody border beef—like keeping the crown from falling off his head.

Still… with his side mostly healed and his ego only mildly bruised, Isaac found himself wandering toward the medbay late one night.

He knew she’d be there. Of course she’d be there. Who else would willingly stay behind to wrestle paperwork no one else dared touch? Who else could recite every supply count from memory like she was reciting scripture?

Leonor Ruchbah. Surgeon, quartermaster, night owl, and reluctant goddess of order.

It was that meticulous brilliance that made her hate his antics so much. Every fake injury was a line item on her ledgers. A bandage used unnecessarily. A stitch wasted. A sigh stored and weaponized for later.

He stepped in, calm as ever, hand near his ribs like he wasn’t absolutely fishing for attention.

“Miss Ruchbah,” he said, voice smooth like butter on battlefield bread, “can you pull the stitches out for me?”

Translation: Please touch me, and also, scold me like you mean it.

Leonor looked up from her desk, eyes sharp and lazily unimpressed behind the rim of her reading glasses. The kind of look that said she already regretted not pretending to be asleep. Still, she stood, silent and clinical, and gestured for him to sit as she headed to wash her snow white hands.

“It’s healing too slowly. Aren’t you a five-star, Lord General?” she asked, as if five-star warriors were supposed to bounce back from stab wounds like paper cuts.

“I think it’s laced with poison,” he replied, far too casually. “The kind that slows recovery.”

Ah yes. Poison. A convenient excuse for why he was milking his injury like a man trying to get free medical fondling.

She didn’t dignify that with a reply. She pulled off his tunic with all the gentle grace of a woman stripping wallpaper, eyed the lightly bandaged gash, and frowned.

Then came the tools. Then the silence.

She began removing the tightly spaced stitches. Forty of them. One by one. Snip. Clamp. Pull.

Snip. Clamp. Pull.

The tent was dead quiet—no assistants, no aides, no scandalized witnesses. Just the faint sound of her scissors and the echo of his desperate dignity slowly unraveling.

Until—

“Circumcise me?”

She didn’t even look up. “For God’s sake—”

“For God’s sake,” he repeated like it was a prayer. “Yes. I’ll… I’ll become a believer. I came from the North. Not many of us believe in God. It’s uncut because my parents never felt the need to… cut it. When I was a baby.”

Leonor paused, mid-stitch, her frown deepening.

“Don’t lie, Sir Cornouaille.”

“Alright,” he said, hand to his heart like he was swearing an oath. “For you, Miss Ruchbah. So we can marry.”

And there it was. The spiritual evolution of Isaac Cornouaille: from blood-play masochist to earnest wife guy in the span of two medbay visits and a failed genital threat. It was somehow both disturbingly horny and romantically stupid.

The kind of proposal that didn’t just bypass etiquette—it strangled it, buried it, and said, “Cut my dick so I can prove I’m yours.”

Silence.

Sileeeeeeeeeence.

Clack—rattle—

PFFFT—

Leonor burst into a laugh. Not a full laugh, no—she still had her pride. But the moment she saw him seriously taking off his belt and pants, it broke. A strained, silent wheeze of disbelief. “Oh God—Isaac, no—stop—no, stop—”

But he didn’t stop. The man dropped his pants like a martyr offering up his sacrifice.

How. How did it come to this?

“Fine, fine, fine,” Leonor gasped between hiccupping laughter, trying to regain composure and absolutely failing, “but Isaac—look, it’s not appropriate to let your unmarried lady and future wife cut your dick—pffffffuuu fuufuhuhuh—and we can’t marry if it’s uncut—”

“What kind of theological blackmail is this?! Why such conundrum?!”

“Pfffftttt— just ask someone else to cut it, silly…”

He looked horrified. “You want me to let someone else handle my dick?”

“Pffftppptfptfpfpfppfffsssssfuuu—!”

There was no coming back from this.

Isaac frowned, deeply, heroically, tragically—at this paradox of medieval proportions. She couldn’t touch his manhood before marriage. But she wouldn’t marry him unless it had been, quite literally, touched by steel.

“…Alright,” he said. “Teach me how to cut it myself.”

Leonor collapsed. Off the stool. Onto the floor. Knees down, hands splayed, doubled over in a mess of disbelief and hysterics.

“I’m serious,” he insisted, as noble as any man proposing his own genital surgery. “If we can’t marry unless it’s cut, and you won’t do it—then I must learn the blade.”

“I swear to God,” Leonor choked, eyes watering, “if you—if you go into the battlefield with a self-circumcision limp, I will end you—”

“Then let’s do it together?”

“Do not say ‘do it together’ while still holding your dick, Isaac.”

Isaac, solemnly, handed over his heart (and the other still on his pants), “Only you can make it look pretty. It'll be yours after all.”

Leonor, immediately combusting, bending over the med desk, wheezing, “Pffff—shut up—shuhtup shut up shut—” snort “—shhhhhh—PFFFFF—!!”

She slapped a tray to regain composure. It fell. Someone peeked in the med bay, saw Isaac half-naked, and just… backed away.

***

A makeshift curtain was drawn in the back of the med bay.

Leonor, gloved, frowning in surgical concentration. Isaac, lying flat, red-faced, gripping a tray of sterilized tools.

“Alright. You sure about this?”

“I’d let you carve your name into my bones if you wanted.”

“Just hold it. Still. Still.”

She positioned the clamp.

“This is… strangely intimate.”

“It’s literally your dick, Lord Isaac.”

He breathed. Hard. The clamp clicked into place.

Leonor started to cut—careful, surgical, professional. Then—she paused.

She looked up. Squinted.

Leonor, voice flat, threatening, “Isaac.”

Isaac, innocent,  “…Yes?”

“Don’t get hard.”

“I’m not—”

Leonor, pinching his side, “STOP getting hard.”

Isaac, half-whimpering, “It’s you holding my dick and a scissor while whispering death threats, Leonor, what do you expect?!”

Snip.

“Uuuughhhhsss…!”

***

Sir Isaac Cornouaille was the terror of the Northern border—undefeated, unshakable, the iron wall against every invasion. Assassins came and went like seasonal wind, but nothing ever made him falter.

Until now.

The cold, no-nonsense general—who had risen to glory by merit alone—was currently navigating the fortress halls like a man harboring a concealed weapon somewhere deeply inconvenient. Every step was careful. Cautious. Like he was afraid of setting off a trap located squarely in his trousers.

Soldiers respectfully stepped aside, watching him limp past with growing concern.

Some whispered.

“Sir, are you injured?” a lieutenant asked.

“Battle wound,” Isaac would answer, deadpan, with the ghost of pride.

The lieutenant looked confused. There was no battle nor assassins that week.

Now, backin the med bay, Leonor heard him approach from thes ound of his awkward shuffle. She didn’t even look up.

“You better not be here for a kiss on it.”

“I’m here to log a formal complaint. You’ve crippled my gait.”

“You look like you lost a duel to a chair.”

…Silence.

“It was a chair. I sat too fast.”

This military-grade himbo who voluntarily gave up his foreskin for love and was unironically proud of the limp that proved it sat slowly on her stool. She sighed, drew the curtain and knelt in front of him.

It was healed but still a bit swollen. It was a relief but as she tried to soft bandage it again, it started to rise.

“Oh, come on…”

“It’s tender. It’s more sensitive too now, no foreskin to shield it from the cruel breeze…”

“So, you want me to blow on your boo boo?”

“Please?”

“Get out.”

“You're just mad you made it pretty.”

“GET. OUT.”

“You’ve seen it! Take responsibility!”

***

On their wedding night, she—who had seen his dick, bandaged it, and even personally cut it—remained entirely unbothered.

They had kissed. They had undressed. She had watched this man bleed from a dozen battle wounds and whimper when she accidentally grazed his circumcision stitches. Nothing about him could surprise her anymore.

Or so she thought.

Because this—

She finally saw it at its full engorged potential. The first time she saw it fully erect.

Not semi-hard. Not sheepishly stirred. This was full power. Battle stance. Maximum setting. It looked… angry. Veiny. Stupidly big. Just a shade thicker than her wrist. She instinctively shifted back on the bed.

“It looks scary with the circumcision scar, huh?” he asked, half-proud, half-shy.

She stared.

It did look scary. It looked like a weapon that had seen things, something forged in war. Scarred, solemn, and solemnly ridiculous. The kind of appendage you wouldn’t be surprised to learn had been knighted for service.

“Why does it look like a whole limb? Am I going to get fisted tonight?”

“…What?”

“…What?”

***

“Did she just… limp?”

“Wasn’t he the one who used to limp all the time before they got married?”

“Balance has been restored.”