He tried to lift his right arm for the soap. It rose six inches before the shoulder issued a categorical veto and collapsed.

Left arm.

Same treason.

Brilliant. I've trained so hard I can't even wash myself. Peak performance, right here. The dragon rises—straight into basic hygiene failure.

He managed a rudimentary scrub of what he could reach—chest, stomach, thighs—by bending and twisting in ways that would have been mortifying if anyone had borne witness. His back remained a lost continent.

His hair received a cursory rinse.

Good enough for a man who smells like defeat and determination.

The ice pool was ready when he emerged.

Steam rose from his heated skin in thin, defiant curls. The water glowed an unforgiving blue, crushed ice drifting across the surface like the wreckage of some polar expedition. It looked aggressively cold—the kind of cold that harbored grudges.

This is going to suck.

Do it anyway.

Phei lowered himself to the marble edge, dangling his feet into the water.

The cold struck like a betrayal. Sharp. Immediate. Every nerve in his feet detonating at once, shrieking that this was wrong, this was lethal, this was—

He slid in.

"FUCK—"

The curse tore from him raw and involuntary as the icy water swallowed legs, hips, torso. Breath seized. Heart stuttered. Every exhausted muscle snapped rigid, shocked awake by the brutality of it.

Cold. So, fucking cold. Why did I think this was a good idea? This is the opposite of good—this is voluntary self-torture dressed up as science.

He forced the breath. Slow. Deliberate. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Battling the ancient instinct to vault out and flee to warmth like a sane creature.

The first thirty seconds were agony.

Pure, unfiltered suffering. His body screamed for escape, for mercy, for any reality that did not involve sitting in a pool of arctic spite like a complete masochist.

But then—

Something shifted.

The initial shock ebbed. The shrieking nerves dulled to a low, resentful growl. And beneath that, something else crept in.

Numbness. Sweet, treacherous numbness.

The numbness crept in like a thief—slow, insidious, and utterly merciless.

At first it was only the extremities: toes and fingers surrendering first, the prickling agony fading into a dull, distant hum as if those parts of him had been quietly amputated without the mess. He welcomed it, that small mercy, like a condemned man grateful for the hood before the drop.

Then it spread.

Up the calves, over the knees, coiling around thighs that had trembled moments ago. The burning in his quads—the fiery protest of muscles pushed past their pathetic limits—simply... ceased. Not eased.

Not dulled.

Ceased, as though someone had reached inside and switched them off.

His core followed, the grated-raw sensation in his abs area dissolving into a profound, hollow quiet. The ache in his lower back, the one that had screamed with every twisted rep, vanished so completely he almost doubted it had ever existed.

Higher still.

Chest. Shoulders. Arms hanging heavy in the water, no longer dead weight but something weightless, ethereal. The cold no longer bit; it cradled. Enveloped. Claimed.

Even his face succumbed—cheeks, ears, the tip of his nose going blissfully blank. Breath that had come in sharp, ragged gasps now flowed slow and even, unhurried, as if the ice had taught his lungs a new rhythm.

And beneath the surface of the skin, deeper still, something stranger stirred.

The inflammation retreated like a routed army; lactic acid flushed away in silent surrender. Blood vessels constricted, then began their slow, deliberate expansion, carrying fresh oxygen to starved tissue.

Recovery not as a gentle process, but as an invasion—cold, efficient, absolute.

He floated there, suspended in the blue glow, city lights glittering beyond the glass like distant, indifferent stars.

This is what victory tastes like, he thought. Frozen, bitter, and absolutely worth it.

The dragon endured.

And in the silence of the ice, he began to rise.

His breathing steadied. His heart rate, which had spiked on entry like a cornered animal's, began to slow—deliberate, measured, as if the ice had seized the reins and forced a calmer rhythm upon him. The cold stopped feeling like assault and started feeling like... relief.

Oh~

So, this is why athletes do this.

The ice water was doing something more profound to his muscles. He could feel it—an almost visceral squeeze, inflammation being wrung out like poison from a wound, blood vessels clenching tight in disciplined retreat, the accumulated wreckage from three hours of brutal training being processed.

Managed.

Contained.

He stayed in for three minutes.

Then five. Then seven.

By ten minutes, the cold had become almost comfortable. His body had ceased its futile rebellion and begun to adapt, core temperature dropping just enough to transform the ice from a vicious enemy into a stern, unyielding ally—a firm handshake from something ancient and unforgiving.

His arms floated in the water, weightless, as though the cold had severed them from gravity's claim. His legs hung suspended, no longer leaden but strangely buoyant. For the first time since the workout's end, nothing hurt.

I could stay here forever.

He didn't. Fourteen minutes was the recommended maximum for ice baths, and he was already courting danger.

But when he finally hauled himself out—a herculean effort that required gripping the pool's edge and summoning sheer, bloody-minded refusal to remain submerged—he felt... different.

Not healed. Not fully recovered. But manageable.

The soreness lingered beneath the surface, coiled and waiting. Tomorrow it would erupt into something spectacular—the kind of full-body agony that turned stairs into personal vendettas. But for now, the ice had bought him time.

Had blunted the blade.

Had rendered sleep possible instead of a distant, mocking theory.

Phei seized a towel from the heated rack—because of course the towels were heated, why wouldn't they be in this temple of excess—and dried himself with movements slow but functional.

His robe hung on a hook by the door. Soft. Dark blue.

The kind of luxury he'd never owned before, fabric that felt like surrender against his ravaged skin.

He pulled it on.

The walk from bathroom to bed was approximately fifteen feet.

It felt like a marathon run on broken glass.

Phei padded across the bedroom floor, each step careful and deliberate, his body running on fumes and the last dregs of stubbornness.

The massive bed waited—emperor-sized, sheets probably threaded with gold and the tears of underpaid artisans, pillows arranged like they were posing for a magazine shoot no one would ever see.

He didn't bother pulling back the covers.

Just collapsed face-first onto the mattress, robe still on, hair still damp, body still humming with residual cold.

His phone sat on the nightstand. The new one Melissa had provided, sleek and expensive and probably full of messages he should check.

He'd changed her contact's name again earlier—from whatever embarrassing thing he'd saved her as before to something more practical. 1st HM. First Harem Member. Clinical. Accurate. Less likely to raise questions if anyone ever glanced at his screen.

Should check the phone. Might be important. Might be— The thought dissolved before it finished forming.

His eyelids were already closing. His consciousness was already sliding away, pulled under by exhaustion so profound it felt like drowning in warm, welcoming darkness.

The phone screen glowed briefly in the dark room:

1st HM: 17 Missed Calls

But Phei didn't see it.

He was already gone.

Asleep before his next breath.

Dead to the world, wrapped in luxury, ninety-eight floors above a city that had no idea what was coming.

The Dragon rested.

But who knew the world had weird sense of humor in surprises.

Well, he was going to discover that when he wakes up.

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