Chapter 105 Exquisite Flavor Ominous Premonition

The bed was strewn with scarlet rose petals, upon which the two lovers lay intertwined in a fierce embrace, holding each other so tightly it seemed as though they might melt into one.

There was not a trace of frantic frenzy, nor any contrived technique—only tender affection flowing straight from the depths of their hearts. In truth, this was perhaps the gentlest, most subdued intimacy Richie and Lina had shared since the day they first met, yet the devotion coursing between them was so thick it could scarcely be dissolved.

Casting a wistful, lingering glance toward the faint pallor of dawn creeping past the window, Lina sighed softly. "What a pity... only for this single night did you truly belong to me alone. It was still so much better back in Glasslovar. At the very beginning, you were my personal plaything and no one else's."

"The fact that I've turned out like this is entirely your doing."

Richie delivered a playful smack to Lina's rounded buttocks by way of reprimand. Back then, it was precisely this vixen who had forced him to take the three sisters—the very act that had inaugurated his debauched, unbridled career.

Stunned for a moment by the blow, Lina could not help but drift into contemplation. If she had not indulged in such mischievous malice back then, and if Richie had never touched the three sisters, would everything have unfolded differently? Perhaps Richie would have remained unremarkable and ordinary forever. Had that been the case, he would merely have served as her plaything, discarded and forgotten once she grew bored, while she herself would have continued her wild, wanton existence. When viewed from that perspective, she felt that their present reality was far better after all. Suddenly, Richie rolled over and sat upright.

"Day has broken. From this moment forth, a new day begins."

With a swift motion, he turned Lina onto her stomach. "However, before that, I must mete out punishment for your conduct yesterday."

At the mention of "punishment," Lina pouted like a petulant schoolgirl. Deep down, however, she harbored no true dread of his penance; indeed, she was not alone in this, for none of the women throughout the Independent Corps offered any genuine resistance to such punishments. "Wait here a moment. I'm going to fetch a few items."

Richie slipped swiftly out through the doorway.

This was his private quarters, and last night had marked the very first time he had slept within his own room, which meant that the apparatus he truly intended to employ was not kept here. Lina knew full well what he had gone to retrieve, and she had long since prepared herself mentally to endure whatever was to come.

Yet when Richie returned, Lina was nonetheless taken aback, for trailing closely in his wake was Victoria. Her astonishment lasted only a fleeting heartbeat before realization promptly dawned upon her.

Her sentiments toward Victoria were undeniably intricate; beyond lingering resentment, she also harbored a grudging respect for the woman. The secret wedding held the night before had severed Lina's ties with the past once and for all, washing away the bitter enmity of bygone days. Thus, seeing Victoria step inside provoked no violent outburst from her; she merely watched the woman with cool, measured detachment.

Setting aside the implements he had brought up from the basement, Richie bade Victoria disrobe and lie at the center of the bed, after which he instructed Lina to lie directly atop Victoria's naked form. Even though the knot of hostility in their hearts had supposedly untangled, forcing two women who had once loathed each other to press their flesh together so intimately was an ordeal more agonizing than death itself.

Both Lina and Victoria turned their faces aside, stubbornly refusing to meet each other's gaze.

What Richie had brought from the cellar were several leather restraining straps; with methodical precision, he bound the two women together at the knees, waists, elbows, and wrists until their limbs were firmly locked.

Having finished the bindings, he reached for a glass syringe.

At the sight of Richie neatly arranging more than a dozen glass ampoules bearing the concentrated-potency emblem upon the nightstand, both Lina and Victoria inhaled a sharp breath of cold dread. Neither woman uttered a sound, however. Lina had surrendered herself entirely to Richie, sworn never again to let another man touch her body, and thus no longer cared what trials she was subjected to. As for Victoria, she had long ago pledged that Richie could treat her however he pleased, even as a mere plaything, and she was a woman of her word.

One injection after another was administered, alternating between the two women.

First came their sensitive nipples, then their delicate feminine crests, followed by the surrounding petals and the tender cleft behind—the latter delivering the sharpest, most piercing stings of pain.

At first, utter silence reigned within the bedchamber, but by degrees, faint, ragged whimpers of torment began to filter through the quiet.

Neither Lina nor Victoria wished to show the slightest weakness before her former nemesis, yet their bodies were completely beyond their own mastery. Though they clamped their teeth firmly together, the damned whimpers seeped helplessly through their noses. Even with their heads averted in opposite directions, their faces had already flushed a vivid, scorching crimson.

Having administered every drop of the serum into the most sensitive thresholds of these two stubborn women, Richie rested a hand over their joined, pressed portals and began to caress the heated flesh in slow, deliberate circles.

He employed his practiced art of sensual stimulation.

Lina and Victoria were already engulfed in an inferno of raging desire, and this deliberate pouring of oil upon the flames brought them to the brink of frenzy. A sliver of fleeting doubt even flickered across Lina's mind: had marrying this little devil been a terrible mistake? Just as the two women were languishing in sweet agony, an abrupt knock sounded upon the chamber door. Startled, Richie rose to his feet and unlatched the door, revealing Shemiel standing upon the threshold. "Her Majesty summons you. Immediately."

Glancing out at the dim sky, Richie asked with lingering uncertainty, "Are you certain it must be right now?"

"I just rushed over from the palace."

Shemiel's face was etched with exhaustion.

Last night, upon receiving the urgent intelligence, she had hurried into the imperial palace under cover of darkness, only to discover the Empress and the Princess locked in a council that dragged on until two in the morning. Only after the session adjourned was she granted an audience, whereupon she was commanded to fetch Richie. In other words, she had gone without a single wink of sleep the entire night, leaving her in a distinctly sour mood.

The heavens bore only the faintest veil of dawn's twilight, an hour when the streets ought to have been desolate of pedestrians, yet upon entering the central district, hurried figures could be seen rushing to and fro in every direction.

The palaces on all sides were ablaze with illumination, suggesting that officials had been toiling throughout the night. The chamber to which he was summoned was the very same hall as his previous audience; this time, however, Empress Annielia was not buried beneath stacks of official dossiers, but was reclining languidly upon a divan sculpted in the likeness of a blooming rose.

"Come over here."

Annielia patted the cushions beside her with a gentle gesture. Instinctively, Richie glanced back toward the grand portals of the hall; the heavy doors were barred shut.

He shuffled toward Annielia step by measured step, his boots feeling as heavy as if they were laden with lead. "Do you know the history of this Rose Palace?"

Annielia inquired in a leisurely drawl as she watched Richie draw near.

"The Rose Palace?"

Richie swept his gaze across the chamber once more. Only now did he notice that if one regarded the cascading draperies as petals, the entire grand hall resembled an immense, blossoming rose.

"The Rose Dynasty? Mary II?"

He ventured cautiously.

"A fine guess. This Rose Palace was indeed commissioned by that illustrious ancestor of mine, and it was upon this very seat that she governed the empire."

Annielia stroked the rose-shaped chaise lounge with graceful fingers. In her countenance and her every movement, there lingered an indescribable, intoxicating allure.

The moment Annielia had invoked the legendary name of Empress Mary II, the famed sovereign of the Rose Dynasty, Richie had in fact already deduced why Her Majesty had summoned him at this ungodly hour.

Annielia reclined there with her eyes half-closed, appearing on the verge of slumber as she murmured in a drowsy, dreamlike tone, "It was fortunate you ventured to Casmolina and saw through the Alliance's machinations; otherwise, our realm would have been cast into dire peril."

"Have the research findings on the wreckage already borne fruit?"

Richie mentally calculated the passage of time. From the moment he handed the pouch containing the wreckage to Trisli's father until now, a mere seven or eight days had elapsed—scarcely enough time for anything beyond a preliminary appraisal report.

Sure enough, Annielia's words corroborated his conjecture.

"A preliminary report has indeed been compiled. The Alliance appears to have uncovered a discipline akin to our Wind-Control Art; its efficiency is certainly inferior to true Wind-Control, but it suffices to grant them flight."

Richie felt no great astonishment. There were many martial disciplines capable of manipulating the winds, yet such faculties had long lacked practical battlefield utility and were consequently dismissed as trivial novelties.

Halting beside the rose divan, he felt somewhat at a loss. Though breathtaking beauties had never been absent from his side, and though he had even bedded female Heavenly Stage Knights and now had two female Glorious Knights attending him day and night, he had never dared imagine that he would one day share carnal congress with the reigning Empress of the Parkington Holy Kingdom. Sensing Richie's hesitance, Annielia smiled wryly to herself.

Were it not for that insidious Heart-Linking Curse, she would never have granted him an audience in such a compromising manner; even if she had deigned to visit his bed, she would surely have adopted a concealed identity.

"I must apologize for sending you forth on such a perilous assignment."

Annielia shifted her posture slightly, drawing Richie forward and guiding his hand onto her slender waist.

"During the era of the Rose Dynasty, victorious commanders returning from triumph were granted an extraordinary audience. Upon this very divan, they would receive the very first reward they so richly deserved."

Richie's hand stroked leisurely along Her Majesty's waist. Discerning not the slightest displeasure in her demeanor, his boldness finally flared to life. The voluminous gown Annielia wore proved quite cumbersome, and stripping the garment from her body cost him considerable effort and contrivance.

This minor struggle made him realize that being a person of exalted nobility was hardly an effortless affair, and far less delightful than he had once imagined; the mere chore of dressing and undressing from such convoluted finery each day was enough to irritate anyone.

Beneath the outer gown lay a deep purple corset, black garter straps, and a pair of sheer mesh panties trimmed with black lace. Easing the panties down and off her legs, Richie left the remaining items untouched. A woman clad in such intimate accoutrements was undeniably far more alluring than one standing stark naked. Pinched snugly by the corset and blessed by the maturity of having borne a child, Annielia's contours were breathtakingly voluptuous: her bosom was lavishly endowed with taut, prominent peaks, while her hips were exquisitely rounded and plush.

Richie was struck by the realization that this mature physique possessed an irresistible magnetism, much like the first time he had laid eyes upon Velia's unclad form. It occurred to him that he harbored an innate, potent weakness for ripe, seasoned women. Upon closer reflection, it was undeniably true: the majority of the women around him were older than he, with his own generation represented only by Margaret, Didi, Shemiel, and Emily and her young peers.

Cupping Her Majesty's buttocks in his palms, Richie began to knead the flesh with slow, rolling strokes. This was undeniably his preferred kind of posterior—yielding, lush, and abundantly fleshy. The imperial lineage of Parkington comprised both Psions and Knights, yet their scions were spared the brutal, sinew-hardening drills of common warriors, leaving their musculature delicate and unmarred by rugged sinew.

Such women were without question his absolute favorites: gifted with soft, supple bodies that felt sublime simply to hold in his arms, let alone in the fervor of carnal coupling, yet endowed with ample stamina and resilience to endure his unrestrained appetites. Previously, the only women possessing such a peerless blend of traits had been Randy, Velia, and Trisli.

Randy, like the Empress, was both a Psion and a Knight, yet she had taken up the knightly path late in life and possessed mediocre strength, leaving her stamina and physical endurance somewhat wanting. Trisli owed her physique to her extraordinary discipline; anyone who cultivated Heaven and Earth Sundering developed a body that was astonishingly limber and elastic. Velia, on the other hand, was purely blessed by nature; what blind luck Mosalai had stumbled into to marry such a magnificent prize of a wife was something Richie had privately grumbled over for ages.

Richie's touch was an art that melted bone and soul; after merely moments of his skilled fondling, Annielia began to respond.

Her rounded hips lifted slightly from the cushions of the seat.

"Give it to me... quickly."

She breathed softly, her eyes remaining closed.

Richie had originally intended to tease her a little longer, but an imperial command was not something to be ignored. Lifting Annielia's shapely legs, he pressed the broad head of his shaft directly against her glistening entrance. With a firm, measured thrust of his hips, he drove his rigid length deep within.

Annielia's entire frame shuddered violently as the exquisite sensation she had experienced over a fortnight ago washed over her once more. Yet the sensations this time were somewhat different: back then, Loralis had worked the lad up to the brink of eruption before Annielia swiftly took her place, and the overwhelming intensity had nearly stolen her very breath away. This time, while the initial rush was less frenzied, she was wearing a tight corset; the garment cinched her waist so severely that her internal organs were compressed into a tight bundle, and having such a massive shaft forcefully breach her interior yielded an intensity that was easy to imagine.

Richie, too, felt an astonishing tightness; having coupled with so many women, he had never encountered such immense resistance. The friction within her passage was truly immense, making every plunge and withdrawal an arduous labor, yet that very exertion generated a fierce, extraordinary ecstasy. He silently resolved to purchase a tight corset for every single woman in the Independent Corps.

Pounding forcefully for a dozen strokes, Richie was suddenly struck by an uncanny sense of familiarity. Every woman's anatomy was unique: the height of the portal varied, the depth and breadth of the floral canal differed, and the shape of the chamber and position of the cervix were even more distinct. He possessed the knack of remembering the intimate physical traits of every woman he had ever bedded. Rummaging through his memories, he abruptly recalled those wild nights spent with Loralis, and the shadowy woman who had invariably replaced Loralis at the climactic moment. Could that mysterious woman have been Annielia all along? Richie was thunderstruck by his own deduction. He had previously speculated about that unknown woman's identity and motives; while her identity had eluded him, her purpose had been unmistakable—it was clearly done to conceive a child. Though this revelation shook him to the core, he was hardly astonished, for this was scarcely the first time he had been utilized as a breeding stud.

The realization dissolved all his remaining inhibitions. Hoisting the Empress's legs higher until her knees nearly brushed her shoulders, he loomed over her and drove his massive shaft home like a relentless pile driver, burying it to the hilt within her body. At the same time, those forbidden bedchamber techniques he rarely dared employ were unleashed one after another.

"Oh—oh—ah! Ah! Heavens... you're too... too strong—!" The Empress cried out in shameless groans, her wanton cries echoing through the vastness of the Rose Palace.

With a faint click, the doors of the Rose Palace drifted open. Court ladies-in-waiting filed in carrying washing basins and grooming implements, striding directly toward the rose divan. Upon the cushions, Richie and Annielia lay entwined in slumber, with the Empress beneath and Richie sprawled atop her form. Annielia's legs remained wrapped snugly around Richie's hips, secured firmly by a leather strap so that even in deep sleep, her thighs had not slipped down.

Richie's member had softened, yet it remained embedded within Annielia's body, having plugged her depths throughout the entire night.

It was a scene of unbridled decadence and lechery, yet the court attendants appeared entirely blind to it.

When the doors swung open, Richie had already awakened, but at a loss for how to conduct himself, he had no choice but to feign sleep. A warm, damp towel was smoothed across his back; the cloth was exquisitely soft and perfectly tempered, wiping away sweat with blissful comfort. First his back, then his buttocks, and onward down his legs—more than one handmaiden was attending to his form.

Annielia was being ministered to in identical fashion, though unlike Richie's stiff embarrassment, she was evidently accustomed to such pampering.

After wiping his entire body three times over with damp cloths, the attendants switched to dry linen towels, drying both him and Her Majesty until they were immaculate.

Only then did the handmaidens unbuckle the strap and gently lower Annielia's legs. Preserving that wanton posture throughout the night had been calculated solely to facilitate conception.

With lingering reluctance, Richie finally slid his length out from her body.

To his utter astonishment, one court lady approached bearing a basin of warm water, while another took his limp shaft gently in her hands, immersing it in the water to wash him with painstaking thoroughness.

Such imperial luxury was an experience entirely novel to him.

Having sampled it firsthand, he finally comprehended why so many men dreamt of becoming emperors; the indulgence was truly far too intoxicating.

He turned his gaze toward Empress Annielia.

The attendants were helping the Empress change into fresh attire; her stockings, panties, and garter straps were replaced anew, while the constricting corset was set aside. A middle-aged matron was gingerly inserting a soft absorbent plug deep into the Empress's passage. Richie surmised it was intended to prevent his seed from leaking out. In his estimation, such precautions were wholly superfluous, as he had discharged his load directly into the womb itself, making it difficult for anything to spill free.

"Are you satisfied with such a reward?"

The Empress inquired softly.

Richie was at a loss for words; though he had undergone basic etiquette training, those lessons certainly contained no instruction on how one ought to address an empress after sharing her bed.

"This is both a reward and an apology. I offer it on behalf of Mithra for her reckless indiscretion."

Having risen from the couch and donned her sovereign garments, Annielia seemed an entirely transformed person. Richie had anticipated as much. "I have an agreement with His Majesty Carlos."

Richie murmured, wearing a troubled look.

"I shall negotiate with him personally. All I wish to know is whether you can forgive Mithra's rash behavior."

The Empress had no intention of affording Richie room for refusal, yet neither did she wish to press him too hard. "I shall assign only a single person to participate in this project. Would that be acceptable?"

A curtain was parted, and Loralis stepped forth from behind the heavy velvet folds without a sound.

"I have a modest request."

Richie recalled the matter Trisli had mentioned to him. "I wish to consult the Book of Power."

"Very well. Loralis will escort you."

The Book of Power was housed within the depths of the imperial palace.

In the innermost sanctuary of the palace stood an imperial library—a rotunda hall that appeared somewhat modest compared to the sprawling palaces around it, yet guarded with exceptional rigor. When they were still over a hundred feet away, Richie could already sense several razor-sharp gazes sweeping across his frame. Fortunately, Her Majesty's imperial decree had preceded their arrival, granting them unhindered passage throughout the approach.

Upon stepping inside, Richie was thoroughly dumbfounded.

There were no towering rows of bookshelves as he had envisioned, nor any ponderous tomes pressed shoulder-to-shoulder. The entire circular hall contained merely a single row of racks—not book shelves, but compartmentalized lattice racks divided into compartments barely the size of a palm, each stuffed with a rolled cylinder. Could these truly be the legendary relics known as scrolls or parchment codices?

Richie was shaken to his core; he had never imagined anyone in this era still preserved the written word upon such ancient relics. In this vast hall, aside from the solitary row of racks, there was only a writing desk and a single chair. Walking over to the shelves, Richie casually drew out one of the scrolls. It was indeed fashioned from parchment; through some forgotten tanning art, the skin had been pressed remarkably thin while retaining supple resilience.

Richie was in no rush to unroll it. The exterior bore dense lines of minute calligraphy that served as a brief summary; regrettably, it was penned in ancient Parkington script, which differed markedly from the contemporary vernacular. The only portion he could decipher was the opening line noting the date—this scroll was already over six hundred years old.

Richie did not dare pull out a second scroll. Toward these ancient scrolls he harbored absolute reverence, for within them were inscribed the lifelong insights and epiphanies of a legendary Sword Saint.

Sitting at the desk, he gingerly unrolled the parchment and glanced across the text. Sure enough, every word was indecipherable to him. He turned a helpless gaze toward Loralis.

"Allow me to translate."

Loralis was well acquainted with Richie's shortcomings, which was one reason she had accompanied him. "Would you like me to translate these texts for you just as my daughter did?"

She asked with a mischievous glint in her eyes. Richie found himself struck dumb.

When Shemiel had translated for him, she had sat astride his lap with his member joining her depths, translating the ancient texts while they coupled in passionate rhythm.

He would have been delighted had Loralis done the same, yet the security here was suffocating, with countless unseen eyes lurking in the shadows. He was not Trisli; he harbored no fondness for being put on display.

"Do not take it to heart; I was merely teasing you."

Loralis said with a chuckle. Stepping to the side of his chair, she traced her finger along the parchment lines, reciting a passage of the original text before rendering it into translation, occasionally interjecting her own explanations.

Richie had previously perused transcripts of the Book of Power, but back then he had enjoyed no such privileged treatment; he had been reduced to clutching a lexicon in one hand and a grammar manual in the other, grinding his teeth through the pages. It had been an exhausting labor, and he had understood next to nothing.

Just like the transcript given to him by Uncle, the records inscribed upon these scrolls consisted solely of martial insights and mental comprehension, devoid of concrete execution formulas. Furthermore, the writings of different predecessors varied wildly in style—some were lucid and approachable, while others were profoundly arcane.

The original archives naturally contained vastly more content than the transcripts, yet the copies were by no means worthless; they had been compiled by various Sword Saints who transcribed select passages of the Book of Power from memory and curated them. Anything engraved deeply enough into the memory of a Sword Saint was bound to be extraordinarily potent.

When Richie had first obtained the transcript, despite failing to comprehend the bulk of it, he had invested tremendous toil into committing every word to memory; now, comparing his recollections against the original manuscripts, absorbing their insights proved considerably smoother. Nor did he attempt to swallow everything whole; back when he first received the copy, he had realized that trying to force comprehension was an exercise in futility. Only when confronting specific bottlenecks during cultivation and cross-referencing the texts could one hope to unearth the answers.

When a man threw his entire soul into a single endeavor, time slipped away with astonishing speed; before they knew it, the light of day had faded into dusk.

"Let us call it a day and resume tomorrow. No lanterns or flames are permitted within these walls."

Loralis suddenly ceased her translation.

Richie blinked in bewilderment, struggling to comprehend such a restriction.

"When this hall was first erected, many modern contraptions had yet to be invented, leaving only oil lamps and tallow candles. To safeguard these treasures against accidental fire, the rule was established; though modern lighting poses no such peril today, the edict has been preserved as an unbroken tradition."

Loralis explained.

Since such was the rule, Richie could hardly justify lingering any longer.

Upon stepping out of the palace, he abruptly remembered that Lina and Victoria were still bound to the bed! Summoned into the imperial precinct at the crack of dawn, the whirlwind of events had driven the matter entirely from his mind. At this thought, Richie dared not tarry for an instant; without even bidding Her Majesty farewell, he rushed back toward their encampment as fast as his legs could carry him.

Arriving at the garrison, he likewise had no time to greet anyone, bolting straight toward his own quarters. Sure enough, Lina and Victoria were still bound tightly to the bed, presenting a spectacle of breathless, unbridled decadence.

Lina and Victoria were locked in a fervent, tongue-tangling kiss; their nipples were swollen and taut, grinding against one another, while down below the scene was identical. Their hips rose and dipped in frantic counterpoint, their bare feminine thresholds chafing against each other slick with glistening juices, so drenched that the mattress beneath Victoria's buttocks was thoroughly soaked.

The panic in Richie's chest instantly melted away. Clicking his tongue in quiet marvel, he congratulated himself on his stroke of accidental luck—by an unexpected twist of fate, a mishap had blossomed into a triumph. The wanton state Lina and Victoria were in now rivaled even the intimate bond shared by Trisli and Robin. No matter how deep their past hatred had run, after being reduced to such intimacy, it would be a miracle if they could ever bicker again.

He had originally sprinted back in terror to purge their aphrodisiac fever, never imagining that the two women, driven beyond the brink of endurance, would be forced to rely on their former nemesis to find release. Richie backed out softly; he had no intention of disturbing their revelry, nor did he pull the door shut behind him.

Stepping out into the corridor, Richie waved toward a group of female knights gathered nearby. Over a dozen female knights were conversing along the hall; ignorant of what had occurred, they hurried over, only for Richie to point silently toward his open chamber.

The women peeked inside, their jaws dropping in utter disbelief, before several of them burst into irrepressible giggles.

Women were gossipmongers by nature; the dozen or so onlookers dashed away at once, and within moments, the entire garrison had caught wind of the spectacle, swarming over to relish the scene. Meanwhile, Richie, the chief culprit, had long since melted into an unobtrusive corner. This was no petty prank; he deliberately wanted the entire corps to witness the spectacle of Lina and Victoria's entanglement so that neither woman could ever walk back their reconciliation.

The liveliest hour within the encampment was always dinnertime.

Tonight's banquet was exceptionally sumptuous, arranged in celebration of Richie's safe return. The feast ought to have taken place the previous evening, but Richie had spirited Lina away for their secret wedding, forcing the festivities to be postponed until tonight.

Yet because of the delay, the occasions worthy of celebration had multiplied considerably.

The central theme remained Richie's triumphant return. Richie and Lina's marriage also warranted commemoration, though the subject was fraught with quiet awkwardness—nearly every female knight in the garrison shared an intimate history with Richie, to say nothing of the original members of Squad 105. Many harbored a twinge of melancholy in their hearts, damping their collective enthusiasm so that only a ceremonial cake was presented as a token gesture.

Beyond that, Trisli's formal enlistment and the reconciliation between Lina and Victoria were both achievements worthy of hearty toast.

The latter in particular was an unmitigated blessing for the harmony of the Independent Corps.

The relationship between Lina and Victoria still appeared somewhat frosty on the surface, yet subtle details proved beyond doubt that they would never cross swords again. In the past, whenever their eyes locked, their gazes would either snap away like coiled springs or ignite with venomous sparks; now, while their eyes still darted away swiftly, it was out of bashful fluster rather than hatred.

There was yet another piece of damning evidence.

Once freed from their bonds, the two had not even paused to dress, storming out in their bare skin to pummel Richie. Lina spearheaded the assault, pinching, twisting, and biting at him, while Victoria played second fiddle, sneaking in a kick or a pinch here and there. In days past, the two would never have cooperated in any venture; if one attacked, the other would either sneer in detachment or turn on her heel and leave. Furthermore, the female knights discerned something deeper from their division of labor: Lina was unmistakably the dominant party, while Victoria had voluntarily ceded into a subordinate role—an outcome wholly unthinkable in times gone by.

Not everyone at the banquet table was radiant with smiles; from start to finish, one person glared at Richie with a gaze venomous enough to slaughter, and that person was Robin.

The table where Richie sat was reserved exclusively for the veteran members of Squad 105, including Trisli, who had indeed served within their ranks during earlier campaigns.

By protocol, seating was ordained first by rank and then by martial prowess: thus Calli occupied the head of the table, flanked by Merlin and Dana, followed by Trisli and Lina. When it came to Richie, his formal rank was merely that of an Apprentice Knight, relegating him to the very foot of the table. To his dismay, seated right beside him was Robin, whose combat strength was the weakest in all of Squad 105, falling short even of Didi.

Throughout the entirety of dinner, Richie could feel waves of fury, grievance, and murderous intent radiating from Robin's form.

Robin's eyes were rimmed in red, bearing the unmistakable traces of weeping; without question, her tears had been shed on Trisli's account. This woman was an unending headache for Richie. If Lina and Trisli were natural adversaries, then he and Robin were another pair of born nemeses. From the day he entered Squad 105, her demeanor toward him had never held a shred of warmth, though to her credit, she had never bullied him either.

Toward every other woman in Squad 105 he had entertained lustful inclinations, with Robin standing as the solitary exception. For the longest time, he had regarded Robin as entirely genderless. Yet now... Richie cast a cautious glance toward Trisli.

Sensing his gaze, Trisli raised her chin and tossed him an encouraging, meaningful wink. The moment he caught that look, Richie understood: Trisli had undoubtedly already broached the topic of her joining their fold. Testing the waters, he slipped his hand gently around Robin's waist to observe her reaction. The instant his palm touched her, Robin flinched violently, instinctively raising the dinner fork in her hand. A chill ran down Richie's spine; he half expected the tines to plunge into his flesh the very next second. To his utter shock, the fork never descended. Robin merely cast a look of miserable grievance toward Trisli, her lower lip trembling as though she were about to burst into tears.

Richie was privately awestruck; he had never imagined Trisli possessed such formidable sway as to compel Robin to swallow such indignity. Could this truly be the transcendent power of love? Richie could not suppress an involuntary shudder.

Just then, Shemiel glided over from across the hall. Drawing alongside Richie, she leaned down to whisper into his ear, "Her Majesty instructed me to inform you that she has two more councils to attend, which will likely run until eleven o'clock."

Shemiel said nothing further, but Richie easily deciphered the underlying implication: he was expected at the palace by eleven sharp.

He had originally planned to spend tonight in Lina's embrace, perhaps even roping in the women of Squad 105 to conquer Robin in the process, but that scheme was now thoroughly undone. There remained several hours before eleven o'clock, during which he needed to confer with Trisli and Lina to organize and analyze what he had gleaned from the archives today.

Richie did not have to wait until eleven, for Annielia's proceedings concluded earlier than anticipated, wrapping up shortly past ten. The venue was once again the Rose Palace, though the rose divan had been replaced with a bed—an immense couch sculpted to resemble an enormous rose petal.

When Richie arrived, the Empress was already waiting for him, fully prepared and adorned in her corset, panties, stockings, and garter belt.

"Isn't that terribly stifling?"

Richie clambered onto the bed and nestled down beside the Empress. Stroking the rigid boning of her corset, he reflected that while such garb was undeniably intoxicating and sensual on a woman, it was a living torture to wear.

At rest it might be tolerable, but once vigorous exertion began, the agony would multiply twofold.

"Isn't this what you enjoy?"

Annielia kept her eyes half-closed, just as she had the night before. Such a retort was wholly beyond Richie's expectations, yet it emboldened him with newfound audacity. "So long as it pleases me, any desire can be granted?"

Richie actually dared to trade flippant banter with the most powerful woman in the empire.

"What you enjoy? And what might that be? Oral pleasuring? Bosom caresses? The back door? Or perhaps some further perverse amusements? Ah, yes—and those potent aphrodisiacs... Do you wish for me, too, to belong solely to you alone?"

Annielia looped her arms around Richie's neck, drawing him down before her face with an amused smile.

Uncertain of the Empress's true intentions, Richie hesitated, not daring to offer an immediate answer. "Fret not. Some cravings I can indulge, while others I cannot—such as those vile aphrodisiacs."

Annielia opened her eyes. Richie felt as though his very soul were being drawn into their depths, so hypnotic was the sorcery dancing within her gaze.

"Enter me first; we shall speak after."

Annielia parted her shapely legs.

Her cleft was already slick with nectar, allowing Richie to glide into her depths with minimal effort. The resistance within remained as staggering as before, accompanied now by a ferocious suction; Richie could feel the inner ring at the depths of Annielia's passage clamp firmly around the crown of his shaft, alternatively drawing, rippling, and pulling him deeper within.

"Is my technique not exquisite? Last night, you seized the initiative from the outset, leaving me no opportunity to display my mastery; tonight, I strike first."

Her Majesty revealed a playful demeanor. "Lie still tonight and let me serve you; I shall allow you to taste what true imperial luxury truly is."

As she spoke, her entire body went into motion: her hips undulated in slow rhythms while the walls of her passage clamped and rippled with ferocious force, the inner and outer reaches twisting in opposing directions. Her full, prominent breasts swayed tantalizingly above him, radiating an intoxicating wantonness.

Annielia's bedchamber artistry was undeniably superior even to Lina's; one wondered whether this was a shared gift inherited through the royal bloodline.

Unbeknownst to them, a retinue of court attendants had entered and climbed onto the bed, bearing crystal flacons filled with fragrant oils. With delicate care, they anointed Richie and Annielia's naked forms; once both bodies were slick with oil, the handmaidens set to work kneading their limbs.

The massage technique of these attendants was peerless, leaving Richie floating upon waves of pure bliss. What stunned him most was that Annielia redoubled her internal contractions, elevating his shaft to the heights of ecstasy. Both forms of pleasure melded without the slightest discord, sparking an alchemical reaction that birthed an indescribable sensation. Richie was utterly enraptured, wishing only that this paradise might endure forever. Suddenly, his body jolted as a slender finger began tracing circles around his rear portal. While a woman's back door was his favorite plaything, his own was an absolute sanctuary he would never permit another to touch.

Richie hastily reached down to deflect the encroaching hand.

"Do not be tense; relax your body. You will feel no discomfort. We women possess an art distinct from that of men—it is neither domineering nor predicated on bitter trials before sweetness."

As Annielia spoke, a trace of wistful grievance colored her voice; even the most powerful woman in the world occasionally felt that life was far better suited to men.

"Too much pleasure is hardly a blessing; I fear I may become addicted to such sensations, growing ever more ensnared."

Richie sighed. He had witnessed the phenomenon of slowly heating the cauldron far too often; indeed, that was precisely how he broke the defenses of his own women.

"That is precisely why one must establish a baseline."

The Empress said with a soft laugh. She had been waiting for Richie here because she understood that with the passage of time, the effects of the Heart-Linking Curse would grow increasingly pronounced. At present, she could still retain her self-mastery and deny certain demands of his, but a year or two hence, matters might well be beyond her control.

Thus, she had to make Richie accept certain boundaries, foremost among them being never to transgress a woman's bottom line at whim.

This was not merely for her own sake, but for the sake of every woman throughout his corps.

"You can be an angel, or you can be a demon; you have the power to make life feel like paradise, or drag everything into hell. Your days in Casmolina must have been delightful, weren't they? So many women at your disposal to toy with day in and day out, however you pleased. Yet did you ever pause to consider how those women felt?"

The Empress abruptly turned solemn and detached, completely discarding the persona of a passionate lover. Being reprimanded while locked in carnal embrace was an experience Richie had never before encountered, yet her words struck a resonant chord within his heart. He realized with a start that during his time in Casmolina, his camaraderie with the noble scions of the Varedin Empire had indeed been jovial—so much so that they had shared a natural affinity in their debauchery.

Richie shut his eyes as harrowing memories of past tragedies surged into his mind. The rescue of Emily and her sisters' mother, and the heartbroken wailing when mother and daughters reunited, echoed once more in his ears.

"It is not entirely your fault."

Cradling Richie's head against her bosom, the Empress gently caressed his hair as she soothed him softly: "Other people mature through unbroken progression; from childhood, we are taught what duty requires and what path we are to walk. But you are different. You once had your own modest visions of the future, yet the moment your bloodline awakened, everything shattered. Ordinarily, one might adjust over time, but you were too exceptional, growing at such a terrifying pace that you leaped over countless stages of life... I will not dictate what you must do, for that answer is yours alone to discover. What I can tell you is: do not lose yourself."

Silence fell across the grand chamber; not a soul uttered a sound. Richie was deep in contemplation, while Annielia waited patiently for him to unravel these truths.

After a lengthy pause, Richie broke the stillness, asking with palpable awkwardness, "Could you let me sit up?"

"Why? Are you uncomfortable?"

The Empress asked in surprise, glancing down at him.

Richie wore a thoroughly peculiar expression, caught between rapturous enjoyment and profound unease. "Holding me like this while speaking such words... it feels as though I've done something wrong and my mother is scolding me, yet here we are... doing... that sort of thing."

Richie finally managed to stammer out the words weighing upon his chest.

Annielia froze instantly, her expression shifting into intricate complexity. Richie's words had triggered a realization in her own mind—she recalled their earlier hypothesis regarding his true origins. If he was truly the culmination of the pure-blood experiments, then creating him would inevitably have required grafting the direct lineage of the Holy Emperor, and the purest Holy Emperor's bloodline in this world could only have been harvested from her own body.

Turning Richie's face toward her, Annielia scrutinized his features from every angle. Though she knew she could discern little—his countenance had shifted following his physical refinement—in her heart she felt an eerie resemblance to herself. It felt as though a dozen caterpillars were crawling across her skin, or as if she had just finished a sumptuous banquet only to discover the mangled half of a worm at the bottom of her plate—an unspeakable revulsion. Worse still, she was at a loss for how to proceed; was she supposed to shove this lad away?

Would that achieve anything?

Setting aside the Heart-Linking Curse already bound to him, pushing him away now was far too late: between last night and that mad week a fortnight ago, they had coupled repeatedly, and her womb was already brimming with his seed.

While her thoughts were in turmoil, she suddenly realized Richie's head had slipped free from her hands. Yet that was not the worst of it; he laid his cheek once more against her bosom, resting peacefully like an obedient child nestled in his mother's arms. Simultaneously, she felt the shaft buried deep within her passage swell dramatically in girth and length, nearly piercing straight into the mouth of her womb. Most terrifying of all, the rod had turned scalding hot, sending waves of dizzying ecstasy crashing through her senses.

This was by no means a deliberate bedchamber technique, but an instinctive physical reaction born of intense, taboo stimulation.

Annielia's eyes nearly bulged from their sockets; Richie's visceral reaction shocked and frightened her, for she could easily deduce what forbidden thoughts were racing through his mind. Her composure crumbled completely. People often described a tangled mind as a nest of snarled hemp, but she felt her heart was like a silkworm cocoon—to unravel its threads, one would first have to scald it in boiling water.

Right at that moment, Richie spoke up: "My blueprint requires referencing a vast repertoire of martial disciplines. I previously struck a pact with His Majesty Carlos: he would provide the advanced manuals I required, along with five supreme arts..."

"I can bestow those upon you as well."

The Empress temporarily pushed the chaotic thoughts from her mind; when attending to affairs of state, she remained impeccably composed.

"Could I be permitted a glimpse of the arts of the Four Guardians?"

Richie pushed his luck. "Do not even dream of it."

The Empress's retort was instantaneous.

Richie pouted, wearing an expression of aggrieved sulkiness. Annielia felt ready to faint; the fellow sprawled atop her looked for all the world like a child denied his favorite toy, having thoroughly immersed himself in the fantasy role he had conjured.

Suddenly, Annielia's body froze, for she realized that without noticing, she had gathered the fellow's head into her arms once more, stroking his hair just as she had before. Far worse was the pleasure flooding through her—an intense, shuddering ecstasy rooted not in flesh, but surging from the psyche itself. A flame seemed to ignite within her heart, burning downward until it set her loins ablaze. Annielia clamped her eyes shut, unable to tell whether Richie had gone mad, or she had, or if madness had claimed them both.

This was far more terrifying than any Heart-Linking Curse.

Just as she was contemplating whether she ought to slam on the brakes, Richie spoke again. "Are there any disciplines you have no use for? For instance, manuals deemed failures or worthless... Perhaps I might unearth their hidden value."

He proposed a compromise.

Annielia had been intent on cutting through the tangled knot without hesitation, yet this interruption threw her composure into disarray, allowing her maternal instincts to regain supremacy. She cast aside her inner distress, for Richie's request had reminded her of a certain matter. Celebrated figures always possessed their own monikers, such as the 'Thunder Emperor' or the 'Shadow King.' Richie likewise bore an epithet—he was known as the 'King of Scraps.'

Across the millennium-long history of the Parkington Holy Kingdom, countless generations of forebears had devised innumerable disciplines and combat arts; only a tiny fraction had been deemed successful enough to endure, while the vast majority were cast aside as failures. What would transpire if the King of Scraps were paired with that mountain of discarded failures? Could a magnificent treasure trove be conjured out of thin air?

At that thought, Annielia immediately felt that no matter how perverse the arrangement, she could readily endure it. Besides, the pleasure was undeniable.