It had taken the entire week for Phei to truly understand his DxD Elements.

Not the sterile, bullet-point descriptions the system had dumped into his brain like a lazy PowerPoint presentation—he'd memorized those in a single afternoon. No, this was deeper. Practical. The kind of knowledge you only earned by pushing the abilities to their limits, over and over, until they stopped feeling like foreign cheats and started feeling like extensions of his own flesh.

Dragon's Rod.

It has hree pillars. Three ridiculous, god-tier gifts that would have made lesser men weep with gratitude or terror.

First: Infinity Growth.

The system had not been indulging in hyperbole.

Infinity was, in fact, infinite.

His baseline—fully awake, fully aroused—was now on an absurd 12 inches of thick, unforgiving dragon. The 9- and 8-inches the Paradise had glimpsed before? That was half-mast. Morning wood. The beast still yawning in its lair.

Twelve(12) inches of now were already borderline monstrous. In a world of polite averages, it was a war crime.

Among his women, only Melissa could tolerate any growth at all past twelve—and even then, only girth. Never length.

The 12 inches already stretched her to her absolute capacity, her body trembling around him, always leaving a few inches exposed no matter how deep he buried himself. She'd take the extra thickness with a gasp that sounded half pain, half prayer, but that was her limit.

He'd hoped Maddie, once sufficiently trained, might handle more.

She couldn't.

Sierra couldn't either.

In the end, he never activated Infinity Growth. Not once. He kept himself locked at natural maximum—still more than enough to leave them limping—and filed the ability away under "future problems."

Because who knew?

Somewhere out there might lurk a woman built for this kind of dick apocalypse without breaking her... literally. A succubus? A goddess? Someone who could take everything he had and still beg for the rest.

A man could dream.

A lustful dragon too.

Second: Endless Stamina.

This one had been… humbling, at first.

In the early days of the past week, his body would betray him. Muscles burning, lungs heaving, every mortal fiber screaming surrender—while his cock remained stubbornly, insultingly ready. Hard as steel, pulsing, utterly indifferent to the rest of him collapsing.

He'd lie there, wrecked and panting, while Sierra and Maddie took turns riding him like a shared, inexhaustible toy. They'd come again and again, laughing breathlessly at his predicament, until they finally collapsed in exhausted heaps.

Pathetic, really.

His women never went unsatisfied—that was non-negotiable—but they missed him active. Missed his hands gripping, his hips driving, the feeling of him actively claiming them instead of just enduring their pleasure.

Then his training intensified.

The system's monstrous physical gains started bleeding over. His body began to catch up, becoming a vessel strong enough to channel the dragon's stamina instead of buckling under it.

Now?

A threesome with Maddie and Sierra was light exercise.

He'd leave them shattered—voices hoarse, bodies trembling, sheets ruined—while he still had fuel in the tank. Sometimes, if he was feeling particularly smug, he'd carry them to the shower, clean them up, then cook breakfast while they watched from the couch, dazed and worshipping.

He'd started wondering about a foursome.

Him. Maddie. Sierra. And Melissa.

All four in the same bed.

His two princess girlfriends watching the Maxton family mother, his aunt—elegant, untouchable Melissa—ride her nephew's cock with desperate abandon. Sierra waiting her turn, thighs slick, while Maddie kissed her to keep her quiet. And somewhere across town, in the mansion, Harold quietly plotting murder he'd never quite manage to commit.

It would be depraved.

It would be poetic.

It would be so catastrophically hot he almost felt bad for thinking about it.

Almost.

Third: Endless Ejaculation.

Full control. Any volume. Any time.

This one was Sierra's undisputed favorite.

She was addicted—openly, shamelessly—to drinking him. On her knees, eyes locked on his, throat working greedily while she milked him for every drop. And when he was empty by normal standards, she'd pull off with a wet pop and whisper, "More."

So, he'd give her more.

A mouthful. A flood. Enough to paint her face, her chest, drip down her chin while she smiled like a cat in cream.

He didn't pretend to understand the psychology. Former Ice Queen turned Phei-cum-addicted-princess for the boy she used to torment? There was probably a thesis in there. Maybe three.

He didn't care.

He just gave her what she craved.

These two weeks of relentless, glorious debauchery had taught him more than technique.

They'd taught him his women to the most atomic understanding.

How Maddie liked to be overwhelmed—pinned, taken, made to feel small and safe in the storm of him.

How Sierra needed to surrender—needed him to strip away the Hell Bitch Queen armor piece by piece until only the raw, wanting, girl-in-love remained.

How Melissa wanted to be worshipped, then dominated and finally ruined in equal measure—reminded that even perfect wives could be filthy in the dark.

And with understanding came hunger.

Not just for their bodies.

For all of it.

Soon, he thought, watching Sierra sleep with her head on his chest and Maddie curled against his back, I'd be the only man any of Paradise's princesses think about as their only ideal man.

Delilah. Amber. Natasha, Gianna, Jade Park, all of them. Also, there is Maya—patient, brilliant Maya, who watched from the sidelines with that sharp, starving gaze.

Every last one.

A normal man's ambition had limits.

A dragon's—especially a lustful one—did not.

Four: Permanent Taming.

The name sounded almost tame itself—clinical, understated, like a veterinary procedure for particularly stubborn livestock.

It was anything but.

This was the fourth pillar of Dragon's Rod, the one the system had described with its usual bland efficiency. Phei had read the tooltip weeks ago and filed it away as "useful but extreme." Only now, after days of relentless practice, did he grasp how insidious, how absolute, it truly was.

Simple on paper: any woman who took his cock fully—deep enough, long enough, and came hard enough around it—would never again find satisfaction with another man.

Not "might not."

Would never.

Other men became ghosts in her eyes. Inadequate shadows. The thought of seeking pleasure elsewhere wouldn't even occur to her and disgust the thought of it really. Her body would know, on some primal, irreversible level, that only one cock in the universe could finish what it started.

His.

The draconic original.

But the system, in its typical fashion, had left out the footnotes.

Phei had discovered them himself.

The more he fucked them, the worse the addiction became.

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