Chapter 95 Amorous Pleasures in Wine

Beneath the dim, amber glow of the streetlamps, a reeling silhouette darted past in a blur. The figure moved in anything but a straight trajectory, swaying and weaving in erratic, serpentine arcs.

A fierce blast of nocturnal wind swept across the cobblestones. The staggering figure halted abruptly, doubled over with a sickening heave, and began vomiting violently against the curb.

The convulsion tore through his gut like a churning tempest, heaving until bitter green bile scalded his throat.

Only after a prolonged shudder did Richie finally draw a ragged breath.

Now he finally understood why seasoned drunkards feared a sudden draft of cold air. A blast of wind inevitably provoked violent retching; thus, veterans of the bottle who felt their limits approaching would always slump in a sheltered alley corner rather than brave the open breeze.

Having purged the sour spirits sloshing in his belly, Richie felt a faint semblance of clarity return to his muddled thoughts.

The first memory that resurfaced was how that boisterous crowd had cajoled him into downing cup after cup. Each pour had been modest, yet tallied together, he had drained well over half a bottle of the fiery brew.

Was this not textbook proof of a frog boiled in slowly warmed water?

He silently congratulated himself on making a swift exit; otherwise, he would have ended up sleeping on the freezing gutter tonight.

Evidently, he needed to practice drinking more frequently to temper his alcohol tolerance.

A real man ought to handle his liquor. Although he held little affection for those Rossotto brutes, he had to concede one truth: when knocking back tankards, those fellows possessed an untamed swagger and genuine masculine grit.

Yet mere posturing was not the sole reason. Far more compelling was the peculiar, half-intoxicated trance he had fallen into.

Inside the smoke-choked tavern, he had noticed nothing amiss. But the moment he stepped out into the night air, he discovered something extraordinary: the Combat Aura within his flesh had begun circulating autonomously, vibrating with an eerie, rhythmic pulse.

He had no clue what practical purpose this bizarre pulsation served; he only knew that autonomous circulation of Combat Aura was a hallmark restricted to the lofty realm of Honor Knights.

Fortunately, though his aura had slipped beyond conscious command, it coursed along the meridian pathways of Heavenly Hearing. Had it surged into the brutal circuits of the Vajra art, his modest reserves of aura would have burned out in heartbeats.

To Richie himself, such passive circulation held little utility; after all, he enjoyed the vastly superior shortcut of Dual Cultivation. For other warriors, however, its implications were revolutionary. Certain disciplines possessed no ceiling on their daily circulation cycles—such as earth-aspected techniques and the specialized arts of scout knights. Regrettably, the cultivation efficiency of these methods was notoriously sluggish, leaving most knights who relied on them with mediocre combat strength. Yet if his hypothesis proved viable, the entire paradigm would be overturned.

What captivated Richie most was the martial manual of scout knights. Haigert had been the first to reveal that cross-training in reconnaissance disciplines yielded immense benefits for shattering cultivation bottlenecks, with even richer rewards blossoming thereafter. Battle experience had already validated that truth.

The mere thought sent a shiver of fierce anticipation coursing through his chest.

Wiping his lips with the back of his cuff, he pushed away from the besmirched curb.

His head still swam with residual dizziness, yet his senses were far sharper than before.

A sudden gust of wind lashed directly into his face—fractured, howling, churning with chaotic vortexes.

Richie's frame began to sway again. Yet this was no drunken stumble; his body undulated in instinctive harmony with the whirling air currents.

The wind intensified. Richie shifted his stance, his boots skimming the flagstones in oblique, skewed strides. Having stepped in the filth while retching, his soles left a distinct trail of tracked imprints across the pavers.

The footprints appeared wildly erratic at first glance, yet within that disorder lay a subtle, intricate geometric cadence.

This was no sudden revelation conceived on the road tonight; it was the agile evasive movement and footwork demonstrated to him when he had first donned the Crown of Wisdom.

He had drilled these motions relentlessly, yet had never grasped their animating essence. For weeks, a frustrating intuition had nagged at him: he had reproduced the superficial mechanics, but the living soul of the technique remained out of reach.

As he had stumbled out of the tavern earlier, his feet had accidentally crossed, catching against each other. Thanks to his razor-sharp reflexes, he had instinctively thrust a boot out to arrest his falling momentum.

That single recovery step had dovetailed flawlessly with the tempo of the mysterious footwork. Purely on reflex, he had transitioned into a second glide, and then a third, stepping through the sequence unbroken.

Curiously, while his sober mind had yielded zero breakthroughs, this drunken haze had unexpectedly cracked the barrier, unlocking the elusive rhythm.

This movement doctrine had originally been distilled from his martial repertoire, merged with the chaotic, unconstrained dynamics of the Wisdom King armor. When completely sober, his deliberate motor control was far too rigid to channel its subtle mysteries. In this liminal state between drunkenness and wakefulness, his loosened reflexes were ideally calibrated.

He felt a pang of regret for not bringing his skateboard; with rollers beneath his soles, his velocity would have been blistering and his trajectory even more phantom-like.

Unfortunately, the skateboard demanded pristine terrain. It required a hard, glassy surface; cobblestones, gravel paths, and compacted dirt roads rendered it completely useless.

At that thought, an old ambition stirred within him anew. If opportunity allowed, perhaps he could engineer a traversal device capable of gliding across any terrain imaginable.

In the past, he would never have harbored such audacious confidence; most of his past breakthroughs had been like a blind hound stumbling upon a dead hare, pure serendipity. But now, with the Crown of Wisdom backing his intellect, genuine confidence surged through his veins.

Weaving and swaying through the nocturnal avenues, Richie finally located his family's villa.

Several hundred meters away, he stopped dead in his tracks.

The estate was ablaze with light. Every chandelier and sconce burned brightly, casting a flurry of silhouettes dancing against the window curtains. The rhythmic strains of buoyant music drifted out into the night air.

A party was in full swing.

The puzzle was: his mother and Aunt Ling hardly knew a living soul in the Parkington Holy Kingdom.

Could the three women have forged an entire social circle so rapidly?

Richie was genuinely astonished. In his memory, the citizens of Parkington were infamous across the continent for their haughty elitism and xenophobic pride.

Meandering closer, he reached a perimeter about a dozen meters from the gates when his skin prickled: someone was watching him.

The scrutinizing gaze emanated from a villa diagonally across the boulevard.

No deduction was necessary; that property had unquestionably been commandeered by operatives from the Intelligence Bureau.

He knew that after the recent security debacle, the intelligence agency had undergone a brutal reckoning. The most wretched was that veteran operative, who had vanished without a trace.

Richie had originally assumed the veteran agent would merely be demoted to an expendable penal battalion on the front lines. Now he realized his naivety. Spies traded in lethal state secrets; their careers ended either with a lavish pension after decades of flawless service, or with total, silent erasure from existence.

The thought stirred a pang of discomfort in his chest. Yet even had he foreseen that gruesome end, he would have acted no differently. Any soft-hearted mercy on his part would have placed his family directly in the line of fire.

The deterrent had clearly borne fruit. The new sentries dispatched by the bureau were obsessively vigilant, tracking every shadow that drew near the residence at this ungodly hour.

Unwilling to provoke a trigger-happy misunderstanding, Richie swayed toward the observation post, fished out the gold insignia bestowed upon him by the Magitech Armor Crafters Council, and held it aloft, waving it toward the dark second-story pane.

Upstairs in that darkened chamber sat two men. The one stationed by the sash had recognized Richie's gait the instant he stepped beneath the streetlamp; the glint of the council medallion erased any lingering doubt.

"Notify Section Nine," the spotter muttered to his partner without turning his head. "Their lost bird has finally landed. He is right at his front door. Tell them to stop buzzing around the city like headless flies."

The watcher at the window addressed his slumbering partner.

The second operative had been asleep, tasked with the late-night watch, but now groaned and rolled off the cot.

Stifling a yawn, the man stretched his stiff limbs. No one relished running dispatches in the dead of night, yet he dared not drag his feet. With their predecessor's grim fate fresh in memory, nobody wished to forfeit his life over a bureaucratic lapse.

Oblivious to the reality that he had become the premier headache of every intelligence department in Parkington, Richie tottered up the stone pathway toward his door.

He pulled out his key and pushed the door open.

Stepping across the threshold, Richie froze dumbfounded.

The ground-floor parlor was packed with people—and every single one of them was a woman.

As his gaze swept across the salon, dozens of feminine eyes locked onto him. A sharp, collective gasp echoed through the room, punctuated by several startled shrieks, and the phonograph music ground to an abrupt halt.

The commotion was brief. Within moments, amused whispers replaced the alarm; clearly, the ladies had deduced who the intruder was.

A flurry of hurried footsteps descended the staircase as his mother, Aunt Ling, and his cousin rushed down, trailed by another cluster of well-dressed women.

"Oh—son! What brings you here?" his mother cried, her voice filled with affectionate surprise and mild reproach. "Every time you show up, it's out of nowhere! You never give a word of warning beforehand."

She chided him fondly.

Richie stared at his mother in utter bewilderment. Had it not been for her unmistakable voice, he would scarcely have recognized her.

Her dark hair was styled into an elegant, aristocratic chignon. She wore a tailored lemon-yellow silk gown, lustrous pearl necklaces draping her throat, with matching bracelets upon her wrists. Her bearing radiated regal poise, refined yet strikingly vivacious.

Was this truly his own mother?

Richie could hardly believe his eyes.

"You arrived at quite the curious moment," she said, bustling forward to explain.

"These ladies are all alumnae from the girls' academy I attended in my youth. You could call this an alumni reunion."

The girls' academy? The realization clicked instantly. That was the very academy Aunt Ling and his cousin had attended!

Richie retained an indelible impression of that legendary institution.

Judging by the eccentric, uninhibited temperaments of his mother, his aunt, and his cousin, one could readily imagine what manner of astonishing breeding ground that academy had been.

"Good heavens, son, are you drunk?" The moment she leaned close, his mother reverted to her familiar domestic vigilance.

"Of all the wicked vices to pick up, you chose boozing? Just smell yourself, reeking like a tavern floor!"

"There, there, what the boy needs most right now is a bed," Aunt Ling mediated smoothly, nudging her daughter with an elbow.

His cousin was exceptionally perceptive. Slipping under his arm, she supported him with practiced tenderness, steering his stumbling steps toward the upper landing like a dedicated nurse tending an invalid.

In truth, Richie’s drunkenness had largely evaporated, yet he possessed enough cunning to realize that playing the helpless drunk was his safest refuge.

Escorted into the second-floor chamber, he was guided to the large bed.

The bed was enormous and the mattress decadently plush; collapsing onto it, the downy cushions cradled his entire frame. He had never indulged in such sybaritic comfort before. In his impoverished youth, he had lacked the coin; after becoming a knight, though wealthy, ascetic military life had denied him the leisure for soft living.

The sheets were warm, holding the radiant heat of someone who had recently occupied them.

Suddenly, a rigid object jabbed against the small of his back. Richie rolled onto his side and yanked back the satin sheet.

With a soft clatter, an oversized dildo tumbled onto the floor.

His cousin’s cheeks flushed crimson. Scooping up the synthetic phallus, she hastily shoved it into the nightstand drawer.

In that brief second as the drawer slid open and shut, Richie caught sight of an array of erotic implements, leather straps, and sensual toys. A surge of raw lust stirred deep within his groin.

Toward this cousin of his, he had always harbored an unresolved obsession.

She was one of the few women in his inner circle whom he had never properly conquered. What rankled him was that she was no bashful, innocent maiden like Audrey; by nature, she was wanton and shameless. Back when he had still been a green, wide-eyed youth, it was Lina and this very cousin who had corrupted him and dragged him into worldly depravity.

She possessed an inexhaustible repertoire of wicked games and coquettish teasing, yet had stubbornly guarded her final threshold against him.

Recalling those past frustrations, an unyielding hunger flared in his chest.

Richie reached out and pulled his cousin into a tight embrace.

To his astonishment, she offered no resistance. Instead, she collapsed willingly across his chest, murmuring in a sultry whisper, "I know you've hungered for me all this time. In the past, propriety forbade me from yielding to you. But now... I can grant you what you desire."

As she spoke, the moist tip of her warm tongue traced the sensitive contours of his ear.

Her technique was uniquely intoxicating: she loved to flick her wet tongue along the outer cartilage before plunging deep into the ear canal itself, sending an exquisite shiver of pleasure radiating down his spine.

Richie was thoroughly acquainted with her routine; in their youth, he had frequently indulged in her tantalizing ministrations.

Teased to tingling madness, he reached down, his palms seeking the lush swell of her buttocks.

Unexpectedly, she swatted his hands away. "Keep those wicked hands to yourself! Not a single touch from them."

"What's... wrong with my hands?" Richie slurred in feigned indignation.

He pouted stubbornly.

"Don't think I'm ignorant," she scoffed playfully. "You love concealing aphrodisiacs in your palms, rubbing the oils over a woman's most vulnerable crevices while bedding her, until she is hopelessly enslaved to you, unable to leave your side."

His cousin scolded him teasingly.

Richie blinked, genuinely baffled as to where she had unearthed such rumors. Granted, he was no righteous gentleman, and he had indeed slipped illicit potions to women on occasion, yet precious few had ever qualified for such bespoke treatment.

"Slander... absolute slander," Richie protested, though he obediently withdrew his offending hands.

He hastened to defend himself, folding his arms behind his head.

"Stay just like that—completely still," she purred, her eyes gleaming with seductive mischief. "Let me serve you tonight."

Clearly, she placed zero faith in his disclaimers.

Unfastening his shirt buttons and unbuckling his leather belt, her nostrils suddenly twitched. Her brow furrowed into an irritated scowl: "What is that stench? Have you been fooling around with filthy, loose harlots outside?"

She planted her hands on her hips, assuming the posture of an imperious matron.

Watching her domineering display, Richie could not help offering silent condolences to poor Binder.

He had no idea how she comported herself under her own marital roof, but he knew for a fact that in his own household, his mother held absolute dominion. His mother had also remarked that Aunt Ling ruled her home with an iron fist, and the elusive uncle Richie had never laid eyes on was supposedly terrified of his wife to an even greater degree than his own father.

Evidently, henpecked husbands were an inviolable family tradition.

"Don't vent... your sour jealousy... on me," Richie fired back unyieldingly. He was no spineless weakling like Binder.

He yielded not an inch.

"I'm looking out for your health!" she retorted, her eyes a venomous blend of petulance and feigned maternal concern. "Sluts on the street carry foul rot. Mind you don't catch some pestilence."

She pouted with patronizing righteousness.

A cold shiver ran through Richie. His cousin was beginning to sound eerily identical to his mother. Was marriage truly such a terrifying crucible, transforming a mischievous, playful maiden into a nagging shrew virtually overnight?

While his mind drifted in philosophical melancholy, nimble fingers freed his throbbing manhood from his trousers. His cousin took the heavy, scalding shaft in her grasp and began rubbing its crown gently against her glistening vulva.

Tantalizing and withholding was her signature art, a routine Richie was thoroughly accustomed to.

After several agonizing strokes, he felt an excruciatingly tight, puckered aperture begin to engulf his tip, dragging his thick length inch by inch into a stifling passage.

Richie’s eyes snapped open in outrage. Though blind in the dimness, the physiological distinction between the forward passage and the rear entrance was unmistakable. "That's... not what I asked for!"

His cousin snickered wickedly, resembling a vixen that had successfully plundered the henhouse. "I was only offering you a nostalgic stroll down memory lane. What, you don't appreciate it? My maiden voyage back there was surrendered to you, ungrateful wretch!"

Richie shot a cynical glare toward the nightstand drawer. "Don't treat me like the greenhorn I used to be. Was your rear flower truly broken in by me... or was it surrendered to one of your toys or oiled fingers?"

She spat a playful scoff, a guilty blush suffusing her cheeks—he had struck the nail squarely on the head.

"Fine, my wicked tormentor. Have it your way," she purred, leaning down to nuzzle his chest. Her earlier maneuver had merely been teasing foreplay; she had never intended to deny his true desire.

She murmured seductively, shifting her posture above him.

Richie immediately felt his tumescent shaft slip smoothly from the tight rear sphincter and realign against her sopping-wet feminine vulva, gliding into the molten depths of her forward sheath.

"Hiss—good gods, your cock is monstrous!" she gasped, wincing with a mix of sweet pain and intoxicating fullness. "It feels even thicker than before!"

Her teeth gritted as her slick walls stretched to accommodate the immense invasion.

"Compared to... Binder... who is more formidable?" Richie teased brazenly. Yet the moment the words tumbled from his lips, he regretted them. Why bring up her husband in the middle of lovemaking? It was awkward, distasteful, and completely ruined the mood.

He cursed his loose tongue.

"How could you compare to him?" she fired back defensively. "He is a proper gentleman; you are an untamed jackass, a rutting donkey!" Naturally, she felt compelled to shield her spouse's dignity. She might lack marital fidelity, but she maintained unwavering loyalty to her matrimonial pact.

She compartmentalized her wanton passions from her domestic duty.

Richie held his peace. Squabbling over verbal trifles was pointless when his throbbing manhood was already buried hilt-deep inside her dripping cunt; pursuing the quarrel would only prove him a fool.

Silence enveloped them. Regretting her sharp tongue, his cousin redoubled her efforts, determined to soothe any brewing resentment with sensual bliss.

Her fundamental technique was not peerless, yet her repertoire of wanton tricks and coquettish maneuvers was inexhaustible, broadening Richie's horizons anew. Surrounding him were countless women, many possessing transcendent erotic mastery.

The undisputed sovereign among them was Nora—the sole woman capable of hurling his soul into breathless, transcendent ecstasy. Yet Nora relied on zero bizarre contrivances; she required none. Her art was pure, stripped of all superfluous theater, elevated to the pinnacle of sublime perfection.

Directly below Nora stood Lina. Her prowess was equally devastating, seasoned with a flair for erotic games; lately, the female knights throughout the legion had been eagerly studying her seductive secrets.

Those who indulged heavily in kinky variations were seldom knights. Aside from his cousin, only Ksenia and her cohort employed such exotic games. Broken and conditioned under Varedin captors, their erotic routines were heavily laced with humiliating subjugation and bondage. In sheer visceral dominance, bedding them yielded the fiercest thrill of conquest.

Beyond those circles were the courtesans of the Women's Gang. Serving men was their trade; their bespoke repertoire was designed either to elicit unimaginable bliss, provoke instant ejaculation, or pamper the male ego with submissive devotion, often interwoven with dark, masochistic spice.

Yet the games his cousin played belonged to an entirely different realm.

Her tricks not only bestowed intense pleasure upon her partner, but elevated her own carnal ecstasy to matching heights.

Lacing his fingers behind his head, Richie shut his eyes. Drifting on the mellow undertow of wine, bathed in her attentive, tender caresses, there existed nothing under the heavens more intoxicating. Imperceptibly, his perception of carnal intimacy underwent a quiet metamorphosis. In bygone days, he had pursued only raw conquest; yet now, he realized that when a man and woman achieved sublime erotic harmony, it eclipsed mere domination by tenfold.

He did not crave poetic soulbound vows or eternal star-crossed romance—such ideals were too lofty. At best, he could weave affection and desire into a single tapestry, fusing sexual lust with genuine fondness, uniting flesh and spirit in mutual bliss.

The soft cadences of music drifted up from the salon below. His hips, his breath, and his pulsing consciousness undulated in perfect symmetry with the melody. The rhythmic reverie he had experienced on the dance floor resurfaced, now sharpened and magnified by the pleasant lucidity of his subsiding stupor.

A flurry of whispering rustles and soft footfalls outside the threshold caused a minor ripple in their sensual rhythm, though fortunately not enough to shatter their reverie entirely.

The door creaked open, and seven or eight women slipped into the bedroom.

Although the chamber was cloaked in darkness—his cousin having snuffed the lamp when stripping him bare—Richie could sense that these intruders were around his cousin's age. Clearly, they had snuck upstairs to witness the spectacle.

"Get out! Out!" his cousin hissed over her shoulder, flushed with indignant embarrassment.

She flapped her hand in dismissal, trying to drive them back.

"Have you forgotten our pact?" a young woman whispered in a sultry giggle. "Whenever someone discovers a treasure, she never hoards it for herself!"

From her intimate tone, it was obvious she was his cousin's academy classmate and confidante.

Another maiden was far bolder. Darting directly to the bedside, her daring fingers reached down, grasping the slick junction where cock met cunt. She let out a breathless trill: "What a magnificent beast! So thick... so massive!"

Then she sighed in petulant envy: "Why did you girls get to marry so young? I haven't found a single man to my liking, nor can I take a handsome lover to cuckold a husband like you!"

Hearing this scandalous lament, Richie nearly choked on his breath. What manner of academy was that? Every single graduate turned out as a depraved, shameless vixen!

What overwhelmed him completely was that the other maidens, spurred by the commotion, crowded forward. Eager hands brushed and stroked across his chest, thighs, and groin in wanton frenzy. The mattress dipped heavily as another supple body crawled onto the sheets.

"Don't be so ravenous!" his cousin protested reluctantly, sliding her dripping channel off his engorged manhood.

Reaching into the bedside drawer, she fished out an object.

Despite the gloom, Richie recognized the leather contraption instantly. It was a sensory hood—an implement he knew intimately.

Back during his escapades in Glasslovar, he had worn such hoods on countless debauched nights.

The night deepened. One by one, the chandeliers throughout the villa were extinguished. The parlor ceased its raucous chatter; outside the phonograph's continuing melody, all idle conversation faded away.

Yet silence by no means implied sleep. Masked beneath the rhythmic tempo of the music were waves of breathless gasps, muffled shrieks, and wet, wanton moans of carnal abandon.

The debauchery raged through the twilight hours. Only when the eastern horizon blushed with the first pale streaks of dawn did the room finally sink into exhausted slumber.

At daybreak, Richie slipped out from beneath the tangle of silk sheets.

He had not slept a single wink, yet his vitality was remarkably vibrant, brimming with invigorating vigor.

He stepped down with utmost care, mindful not to disturb his cousin, who lay curled in deep, heavy slumber.

Easing the door open, Richie was greeted by a corridor carpeted with mattresses. Women slept sprawled in every direction, flushed complexions bearing the lingering radiance of nocturnal ecstasy.

The scandalous abandon of the past night would undoubtedly remain etched in their memories for the rest of their lives.

The adjacent door was shut tight. That was the bedroom originally prepared for him; Richie dared not venture near, knowing his mother and Aunt Ling were slumbering inside, undoubtedly in deep exhaustion.

Picking his way across the floor like someone playing hopscotch, Richie carefully skirted the sprawled limbs and descended the staircase. The grand salon below was likewise covered with makeshift floor beds. Fortunately, it was high summer; had this been the dead of winter, sleeping on floorboards would have been a grueling trial.

Last night, he had found no leisure to inquire why his mother had convened this massive gathering of academy alumnae, yet he could deduce the underlying motives with reasonable accuracy.

His mother was acting on his father's behalf, just as his cousin was orchestrating support for Binder. They were assembling an influential faction for their husbands.

The true foundation was not these women themselves, but the husbands, fathers, and sons standing behind them.

Most alumnae of that elite finishing school had, like Aunt Ling, married into immense wealth and landed prestige. Women like his mother, who had willingly embraced an impoverished life for romance, were an eccentric rarity.

Society was an unyielding pyramid. These families had formerly occupied the upper-middle strata. With the Monstoke Republic dissolved into exile, that entire pyramid had to be reconstructed from its foundations. The oligarchs formerly entrenched at the summit would inevitably be purged or cast aside; consequently, these influential patricians of the middle tiers had become the prime targets of political co-optation.

Quite likely, Malone and the leadership had nudged this effort along. These women had all received impeccable educations. As evident in his mother, aunt, and cousin, their command of foreign tongues was flawless; deploying them as diplomatic liaisons to interface with the Parkington hierarchy was an inspired stratagem.

At this pivotal juncture, communication with the Three Great Empires was a matter of supreme survival. Through this salon, these ladies had secured prominent standing among the Monstoke diaspora.

Whether for public interest or private ambition, it was a masterful arrangement.

Such was the ruthless elegance of politics.

Filled with boundless contemplation, Richie slipped out of the villa. His sole desire right now was to wash away the memory of last night’s unbridled frenzy.

It had simply been too unhinged.

Just as he stepped onto the corner of the crossroad, he spotted a vehicle idling at the curb.

It was a bespoke conveyance. In stark contrast to the lumbering, armored equipment transports, this carriage was sleek, lightweight, and engineered with only two passenger seats.

At the steering wheel sat a figure who took him entirely by surprise.

"Your Highness? What brings you here?"

Toward Princess Mithra, Richie naturally maintained punctilious courtesy.

"Yesterday, the Military Intelligence Department reported you missing, giving me quite a fright," the princess declared, displaying a calibrated touch of displeasure that was entirely genuine. "Fortunately, the Intelligence Bureau subsequently reported you had returned home."

Her annoyance was far from feigned.

Last night, several intelligence branches had nearly torn the city apart in frantic mobilization, convinced the Norman Alliance had executed an audacious abduction. Only in the end did they discover it was merely a squabble between drunkards. What left the spymasters between tears and laughter was that after exchanging bloody knuckles, the two brawling mobs had made amends and marched off to another tavern to drink together!

"My apologies for causing such a commotion," Richie replied, offering the only diplomatic platitude available.

"You are our most honored guests. No one here restricts your freedom," the princess remarked with veiled firmness. "However, should you wish to venture out, a prior notification would be appreciated."

Her rebuke was soft yet edged with steel.

"How is that agent from Military Intelligence doing?" Richie inquired. His pointed query subtly reminded Princess Mithra that the fault lay not with him, but with the utter incompetence of the tail they had assigned.

He gave her a knowing look.

The incident was indeed an acute embarrassment, leaving the princess momentarily tongue-tied. The operative who had trailed him into the tavern had been knocked unconscious, which was somewhat forgivable given the overwhelming numbers of the brawl. However, the surveillance officer stationed outside had committed gross negligence: he should have breached the doors immediately, whether to join the fray or observe from the shadows, rather than loitering passively on the pavement.

"You were entirely correct last time," the princess conceded, seizing the opportunity to bridge the awkward impasse. "Communication between our parties remains sorely deficient. However, the liaison officer you selected previously was hardly suitable. I have procured an alternative for you."

Finding a graceful exit, she snapped her fingers toward the corner of the avenue.

The jaunty gesture was thoroughly unbefitting an imperial princess.

From around the cobblestone corner stepped a young woman, her face pulled in a sullen pout, radiating sheer reluctance with every stride.

Richie recognized her instantly.

She was the very minx he had encountered in the imperial academy library—the one with whom he had shared a steamy tryst, and who had subsequently embroiled him in a sticky spot of trouble.

Today, she wore a crisp imperial service uniform, hands clasped demurely behind her back and head bowed low, devoid of her former haughty flirtation.

"Allow me to introduce Shemiel, your newly assigned liaison officer," Mithra declared. "She is a direct scion of the Shadow King, one of the Four Sovereigns."

The girl stood obediently at attention. While she dared run wild before anyone else, in Princess Mithra's presence she was as meek as a chastened lamb. The reason was painfully simple: years ago, Mithra herself had reigned as the supreme troublemaker of the capital. With her imperial bloodline, she was the undisputed ringleader of the noble daughters; among them, only Sophie, descendant of the Thunder Emperor, possessed the pedigree to rival her. Any girl who defied Mithra was disciplined with ruthless precision.

Drifting behind Shemiel, the princess suddenly reached down and gave the girl's perky buttocks a stinging slap. Turning to Richie, she grinned: "To prevent yesterday's fiasco from recurring, she will shadow you twenty-four hours a day. Wherever you step, she follows."

Perhaps weary from maintaining the facade of a regal, dignified imperial princess, Mithra had unconsciously slipped back into her youthful persona. Her lips curved into a signature mischievous smirk, momentarily shedding her royal gravitas to reveal the brazen little demon of old.

Shemiel, usually a reckless menace feared throughout the academy, now cowered like a hare pinned beneath the unblinking gaze of a python, frozen stiff and barely daring to breathe.

Richie understood the princess's underlying intent perfectly. Yet he was genuinely startled: for a continental titan like the Parkington Holy Kingdom, one could understand treating ordinary Honor Knights as expendable assets, but could a bloodline descendant of the legendary Four Sovereigns truly be gifted away so casually?

Was the price not somewhat exorbitant?

"Get in. I'm driving you back," the princess commanded briskly. After last night's pandemonium, she had been deprived of sleep and dragged out at dawn; an irritable temper simmered close beneath the surface.

Her tone was sharp and frosty.

As though intent on pouring oil over the flames, Richie scratched his head and remained rooted on the pavement, refusing to climb aboard.

"Is there something else?" the princess asked, straining her patience.

She tapped her fingers against the steering wheel.

"Do you know where I might purchase some good liquor?" Richie asked, feigning ignorance of her smoldering temper.

He widened his eyes innocently.

"Have you not drunk your fill?" Mithra stared in disbelief. She had believed her intelligence briefings provided an exhaustive profile of this young man, yet now she felt completely out of her depth.

The reports were bafflingly contradictory.

Every dossier compiled on Richie painted him as an incorrigible lecher, yet not a single line recorded him as a hopeless drunkard!

"I can gift you several bottles of vintage from the imperial cellars," she proposed. That gambit had never failed in the past; she knew full well the hypnotic allure imperial commodities held for this boy.

Imperial prestige was typically irresistible.

Regrettably, her infallible trick fell flat. Richie shook his head. "I am not looking for a mere bottle or two."

He scratched his unruly hair again: "Truth be told, I am not entirely certain of the exact volume. Perhaps a crate or two, maybe more, maybe slightly less."

"What in the heavens do you need so much liquor for?" Mithra was genuinely confounded. Was he plotting a grand banquet? A simple request to her staff would arrange an extravagant celebration. Did he intend to drink it himself? Again, a casual word would see casks delivered to his quarters.

Her sleep-deprived mind refused to untangle the riddle.

Unwilling to overtax her wits on an empty stomach, Mithra decided to shelve the inquiry. The intelligence apparatus could dissect his motives, and with Shemiel glued to his side, any eccentric scheme would be reported immediately.

The Parkington Holy Kingdom enforced no prohibition, making the procurement of spirits effortless.

Climbing aboard, they drove into the bustling city center, where Mithra pulled up directly outside an upscale restaurant.

What nearly caused the princess to faint in mortification was that Richie had not brought a single coin and unabashedly asked to borrow cash from her.

How could an imperial princess carry pocket change? Mithra cast a glance over her shoulder at Shemiel squeezed into the rear space; Shemiel merely spread her empty hands. Aristocratic daughters of their station rarely walked public streets, much less handled physical coin.

Fortunately, the restaurant proprietor possessed keen eyes. Recognizing the aristocratic craft of the bespoke conveyance, he knew instantly that his patrons were of eminent lineage. Without inquiring after their identities, he dispatched waiters to the subterranean cellars to fetch bottles of every premier vintage, presenting them in an array for Richie's inspection.

What did Richie know of fine viticulture? His criteria were blunt and utilitarian: it had to pack immense potency, possess a long-lasting kick, and not scald the palate with bitter astringency.

Following the proprietor's seasoned recommendation, he selected a vintage at random without caring whether it was economical or exorbitantly priced, ordering two full wooden crates on the spot.

Without parting with a single copper, Richie hauled one crate under his arm and stepped out to the carriage, thrusting the second crate into Shemiel's arms. Such trivial bills would naturally be settled by palace quartermasters upon their return.

The trio climbed back into the conveyance. Throughout the journey, the princess wore a stony expression. Her frustration had simmered since yesterday, and what rankled most was Richie's infuriatingly secretive demeanor.

She had a distinct premonition that this insolent youth had hatched another audacious scheme.

That nagging suspicion scratched at her nerves like an itch she could not reach. She longed to clap him in irons and subject him to a ruthless interrogation, yet that was politically unthinkable.

Richie had long noted the princess's taut posture. Sensing her burning curiosity, he decided to turn the screws further, deliberately keeping her dangling.

Tormenting a woman's anticipation was his favored tactic, though usually he reserved it for bedchambers during frantic climaxes.

"Those ten knights I trained for you—were you satisfied with the results?" Richie asked casually.

He broke the silence.

The princess shot him a sideways glare. Initially inclined to ignore him, a second thought arrested her: this young man was coldly pragmatic; he never uttered a syllable without an underlying objective.

"Very satisfied," she replied through gritted teeth. "Do you require me to express my gratitude more elaborately?"

Her voice dripped with dry sarcasm.

"That won't be necessary," Richie replied smoothly. He felt his nocturnal escape had been richly rewarded, if only for the rare privilege of seeing this haughty princess lose her composure. Yet serious business beckoned, leaving no time for idle flirtation. "I wish to partner with you once more. What say you?"

He laid out his proposition.

Mithra let out a startled gasp and braked the carriage at the curb.

Had the Three Great Empires not strained every diplomatic sinew to court this prodigy precisely for the chance to partner with his genius? Hearing his proposal, the princess instantly cast aside her petulance, adopting an intensely grave demeanor.

"A word of caution beforehand: I cannot guarantee success," Richie remarked. He was slightly taken aback by the predatory gleam in Mithra's eyes; perhaps his provocation had been a touch too potent.

Her gaze burned with unmasked hunger.

What Richie feared was failure.

The higher the expectations, the more catastrophic the fall. Should the experiment collapse, this imperial princess's mood would plummet into the abyss, and there was no telling what volatile reprisal might follow.

"What do you require?" Mithra asked directly. She did not even inquire into the nature of the project, effectively granting unconditional assent to his overture.

Her decisive commitment was breathtakingly bold.

It was an exquisite demonstration of imperial patronage, stroking Richie's pride immensely.

"I need a contingent of scout knights," Richie stated plainly, refraining from extortionate demands.

He kept his request modest.

"Have you engineered another new model of Magitech Armor?" Mithra could not help speculating.

Her mind leaped immediately to armaments.

"Not quite. I merely gleaned some novel insights regarding combat cultivation and wish to verify them empirically," Richie replied. He neither concealed the truth nor elaborated, deliberately keeping her appetite on edge.

He was baiting the hook.

His cousin was a grandmaster at teasing and withholding; from her, Richie had absorbed several masterclasses in psychological torment.

Dangling a prize just out of sight was amateurish. The truly sublime art lay in offering a tantalizing bite so the victim savored the richness—and then snatching the dish away.

Predictably, Mithra's curiosity flared into an agonizing burn.

Suddenly, she thrust out an open palm toward Richie. "Give me that requisition list. That is what you're truly angling for, isn't it? I will secure it for you."

Richie froze in utter shock. He had never anticipated such a breathtaking windfall!

"I didn't intend..." He fumbled for words, momentary speechlessness overtaking him. Yet an instant later, pragmatism swept through his mind: why spurn a golden opportunity delivered directly into his lap?

To refuse would be sheer madness.

"The original list is obsolete," Richie pivoted smoothly. "I shall draft a new one for you." In truth, that revised manifest had not yet been finalized—Haigert had merely scribbled an initial draft—but circumstances had drastically shifted.

His tactical landscape was transforming by the hour.

Mithra's sharp eyes narrowed in calculation. Just yesterday, Richie had carried that very requisition list from bureau to bureau, begging for scraps. Now he declared it obsolete. The only individual capable of enacting such a radical pivot was that man named Haigert.

The Parkington intelligence apparatus held an exhaustive dossier on the internal politics of Monstoke and Haigert's precarious predicament.

Richie had intended merely to tease Mithra with a playful riddle, but the imperial princess was reading subterranean depths into every word. Her strategic mind had already leaped to the fracture line tearing through the Monstoke Resistance.

Viewed through that geopolitical lens, the "cooperation" Richie had proposed took on monumental, terrifying weight!

Her primary deduction was chillingly clear: the two foremost luminaries of Monstoke's rising generation had exhausted their patience with the corrupt, dithering old guard. Haigert and Richie were preparing to stage a mutiny—and they were seeking the full, unconditional backing of the Parkington Holy Kingdom!

To Parkington, the Monstoke Republic itself held minimal strategic relevance; the ragged remnants of its resistance army were utterly inconsequential to the Coalition's grand balance of power.

Preserving the resistance served a twofold purpose: first, as a political stage-play to reassure the secondary and tertiary client states that the Coalition would honor its mutual defense treaties, ensuring that even if their sovereign lands fell, an honorable government-in-exile would be sheltered; second, it was an anchor to tether Richie, this inexhaustible cornucopia of magitech innovation, providing Parkington with leverage to barter for his genius.

Now, this brewing crisis had exploded far beyond the scope of what an imperial princess could decide on her own.