Maddie, bless her insatiable little heart, had the sex drive of a lab experiment gone gloriously wrong. She got twitchy, cranky, downright feral if she didn't come at least four times a day—like a smartphone that needed constant charging or it would brick itself in protest.

So, they'd fuck in the pre-dawn gloom: quick, filthy, kitchen-counter efficiency before the driver even pulled up. At academy they'd vanish during lunch or skip class entirely to defile yet another empty classroom, going at it like the world was ending and orgasms were the only currency that still mattered.

Sierra joined when the mood struck her.

Sometimes a threesome of them in a glorious, sweaty tangle of limbs, laughter, and the of raw, unfiltered honesty you only get when everyone's too wrecked to lie.

Afterward, Phei would lie there catching his breath, one woman draped across his chest, another tracing idle patterns on his skin, and think: I started this to ruin them.

Now they're the only thing keeping me human.

The dragon had gone to ground.

And for the first time in his life, hiding didn't feel like defeat.

It felt like the calm before the most beautiful, catastrophic storm.

Maya, poor frustrated Maya, hovered on the edges like a moth batting against a porch light she wasn't allowed to land on. Always there, always watching, always the fourth wheel on a tricycle that had somehow sprouted an extra axle of pure chaos.

She'd sigh, cross her arms, and shoot looks that could was pitiful fot him at how demanding the girls were, whenever Phei disappeared into empty classroom with Sierra and Maddie.

Nothing wrong with a man giving his women the orgasms they'd earned through years of being insufferable, he figured. Charity work, really.

Melissa slipped in whenever the other two stepped out—quiet, discreet, like a very expensive ghost. They'd fuck their way through the penthouse the way other people toured museums: kitchen island modern art, living room rug abstract expressionism, bent over that ridiculous velvet fainting couch that still carried the faint, incriminating perfume of their original photoshoot.

Or the few time he went to the mansion, bend her on the wine storages, fuck her for real hard-goooood-out-of-the-world, thirty-minutes quickies while the family was oblivious.

Then she'd straighten her skirt, kiss him once—soft, almost tender—and float back to the mansion or living room (when at the mansion) to resume her role as the dutiful, untouchable wife.

Speaking of the mansion…

Three weeks now since Phei had last set foot in that gilded mausoleum. One week before the kidnapping attempt, two weeks after. And Harold? Radio silence. No furious calls demanding the apology letters.

No bellowed summons.

Not even passive-aggressive texts about family duty. Nothing. Phei figured the man could choke on his own outrage for all he cared. Silence is cheaper than therapy.

And with all that enthusiastic, multi-partner sex over the past weeks had netted him a staggering 4,000 EXP. An obscene jackpot. Enough to catapult half his abilities into the stratosphere.

He hadn't spent a single point.

Not one.

He'd pretended the system was on vacation in the Bahamas—out of office, no forwarding address. Meanwhile his abilities hummed away in the background like well-trained assassins: quiet, lethal, and entirely uninterested in his conscious input.

Charm Speech kept turning every casual word into velvet-wrapped heroin. Girls at the academy would stop mid-sentence, eyes glazing over.

As if I'd just proposed marriage in ancient Elvish.

Dominance Aura remained his faithful attack dog: terrifying lesser males on sight and making women suddenly he was a superior man. Submissive types drifted toward him like iron filings to a magnet—lingering stares, "accidental" hip checks in the hallway, whispered excuses to orbit just a little closer.

He turned them all down.

Low profile, remember? Besides, standards exist for a reason. A man couldn't just collect pussies like trading cards. Some of us have taste... occasionally.

Cool Aura stayed dormant—he hadn't done anything cinematic enough lately to trigger it. No slow-motion walks away from explosions. Tragic.

Cucklord's Dominance and Taboo Multiplier sat pretty at Level 1, both teasing 2/3 progress. He'd thoroughly cucked Renard and Harold—two solid notches on the bedpost of karmic justice.

One more lucky contestant to cuck, one spectacular and they'd both hit Level 2. He almost felt bad for whoever drew the short straw.

Almost.

Cuckold's Awareness—the souvenir he'd picked up after deflowering Maddie—let cucked men feel his superiority like a sudden drop in atmospheric pressure.

He'd tested it once at the mansion, strolling through the halls like a victory parade.

Harold had frozen, stared for one long, loaded moment… and then simply been less of an asshole than usual for the rest of the day.

Phei had nearly requested a system diagnostic. Broken ability? Defective? Until the obvious truth slapped him across the face again: Harold Maxton possessed willpower forged in the fires of pure, unadulterated spite.

Even with Dominance Aura Level 5, Cucklord's Dominance, and Cucklord's Awareness triple-teaming him, the man refused to fully crumble.

Still... small victories. Tiny, stubborn victories.

Regular guys like Danton? They folded like cheap lawn chairs. Danton now treated hallways like minefields, inventing elaborate detours whenever Phei's silhouette appeared on the horizon.

Renard had taken it to Olympic levels: full sprint in the opposite direction, Rumors be damned. Some genius had started a story that Phei intended to challenge him to an honest-to-God-duel—pistols at dawn, winner takes Maddie.

Utterly fabricated.

Phei didn't even know who'd planted it.

Renard believed it enough to rearrange his entire life: new seats, new routes, pretending Maddie was a figment of collective imagination.

The girls had cackled about it in their group chat for hours.

Yes. There is a group chat now. Affectionately titled "Phei's Harem & Complaint Department."

And then there was the crowning jewel, the ability all three women openly worshipped:

Fiery Cock Technique.

When he'd first read the description, he'd braced for the catch—EXP drain, cooldown timer, some noble sacrifice like temporary impotence after use.

Nope.

It fell under DxD Elements. No levels. No cost. Infinite duration.

He could turn his cock into a customizable furnace whenever he felt like it. Warm cozy glow? Gentle simmer? Full volcanic eruption? Dealer's choice.

The effect on his women was immediate and catastrophic.

Insertion + activation = instant, screaming orgasm. Every single time. Like flipping a light switch labeled "ruin her composure."

It was the ultimate cheat code for Maddie's four-orgasms-a-day mandate. Mid-class craving? Quick restroom detour. Slide in, flick the mental switch, watch her bite her own fist to keep from alerting security, next ten minutes later; tidy up, stroll back to calculus like nothing happened.

Efficient.

Diabolical.

Deeply, profoundly unfair to every other male on planet Earth.

On the popularity front, Phei had achieved the impossible despite he himself keeping himself from many eyes.

He was now the first boy in Ashford Elite history to openly claim Two Main Legacy heiresses at the same time. The news had spread faster than an STD at spring break, igniting every hallway, every lunch table, every late-night group chat.

Even the Vice Principal had summoned him.

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