Champion Of Lust: Gods Conquer's Harem Paradise!

The banquet hall had gone dead silent—the kind of silence that happens right before someone either becomes a legend or becomes a cautionary tale.

The only sounds breaking the silence were the soft drip, drip, drip of wine from the Emperor's stained robes and Song's continued whimpering apologies, which had now reached the level of performance art. Every eye in the vast chamber was locked onto the spectacle like they were watching the season finale of their favorite drama series.

'And honestly,' Pyris mused, 'this is better entertainment than anything I watched in my previous life.'

The Emperor stood there like a statue of imperial humiliation, his ceremonial white robes now looking like someone had used them as a canvas for abstract art—if the artist had been drunk and only had red wine as paint.

'Those stains are spreading like they have a personal vendetta against his dignity,' Pyris observed with satisfaction.

The wine had soaked through multiple layers of fabric, creating dark patches that seemed to mock his divine authority. But here's where it got interesting—and Pyris had to fight to keep his expression neutral—the Emperor's light magic was flickering uselessly against the stains like a broken flashlight.

'Oh, this is beautiful,' Pyris thought, watching the Emperor's growing panic. 'He's trying to use magic to clean wine stains and it's not working. Someone's about to have a very bad realization.'

The Emperor's hands trembled—just barely, but Pyris caught it—as he attempted another cleansing. Golden light washed over the stained fabric like a gentle wave, only to fade without leaving so much as a hint of improvement.

'That's not ordinary wine, is it?' the Emperor was clearly thinking, though his face was trying very hard not to show it. 'How is this possible? This should be child's play!'

But of course it wasn't ordinary wine. Song had made sure of that. You don't orchestrate the humiliation of an Emperor with regular vintage—you use the good stuff. The special stuff. The kind of wine that had been "enhanced" to make sure this moment would be permanent and memorable.

'Sorry, Your Majesty,' Pyris thought with mock sympathy, 'but when you're playing games with House Obsidian, we play to win.'

The Emperor's gaze swept across the assembly like a man looking for a lifeline, desperate for some anchor of support. Instead, he found his fellow sovereigns watching him with expressions ranging from barely concealed amusement to outright mockery.

'Ouch,' Pyris thought, genuinely feeling a tiny bit of sympathy. 'Nothing worse than realizing your peers think you're an idiot.'

Dracula, in particular, wore that same infuriating grin—the one that seemed to say without words: What are you going to do now, you impulsive fool? You've been played, and you brought this humiliation upon yourself.

'Classic vampire energy right there,' Pyris noted. 'Dracula's probably lived long enough to see this exact scenario play out a hundred times, and he's enjoying every second of it.'

The weight of expectation was crushing down on the Emperor like he was Atlas trying to hold up the world, except the world was made of judgmental stares and social embarrassment.

'Here's the thing about being a Leader in this realm,' Pyris thought, understanding the Emperor's predicament perfectly. 'When you're Rank 20—the most powerful mage in the mortal world—people expect you to be perfect. They see you as a flawless being who makes no mistakes, whose mercy is legendary, whose judgment is swift and fair. Lose your cool here, and that image shatters like... well, like the crystal currently decorating the floor.'

But there was more at stake than just the Emperor's personal reputation. He was also the father of Prince Kaelion—the Champion of the Eternal Sun himself, whose name was currently trending across the realm like he was some kind of celebrity.

'That legacy matters more to him than revenge,' Pyris realized. 'He can't afford to look petty or cruel in front of this audience, not when his son's reputation is tied to his own behavior.'

It was a masterful trap, really. The Emperor was caught between his desire for revenge and his need to maintain the image of the perfect, merciful ruler.

'Check and mate,' Pyris thought with satisfaction. 'Sometimes the best victories are the ones where your enemy defeats themselves.'

From across the hall, Emberly's voice cut through the tension like a knife through butter, warm with maternal pride: "Yeah, that's more like my son!"

'Thanks, Mom,' Pyris thought, his smile widening. 'Nothing like a proud mother to really drive the point home.'

Her soft laughter followed—musical, knowing, and absolutely devastating to what remained of the Emperor's dignity. The sound seemed to break whatever spell had held the other observers in check, like someone had just given everyone permission to stop pretending this was all an accident.

Astrid and the other Empresses made no attempt to hide their understanding of what had truly transpired. Their barely contained chuckles rippled through the air like the death knell of the Emperor's carefully maintained facade.

'Oh, the Empresses are having the time of their lives,' Pyris observed, watching the chain reaction of amusement spread through the female rulers. 'They know exactly what happened here, and they're not even trying to hide it.'

The other Empresses, catching on to the not-so-subtle manipulation faster than their male counterparts, allowed their own laughter to join the chorus. Each laugh was another nail in the coffin of the Emperor's dignity, each smile another crack in his facade of infallibility.

'Women really are better at reading subtext,' Pyris thought with appreciation. 'The men are still trying to figure out if this was an accident, but the women? They know a political assassination when they see one.'

But the Emperor was trapped in a cage of his own making. To rage would be to admit defeat. To punish Song would make him look petty and cruel. To acknowledge the manipulation would be to admit he'd been outplayed.

'There's only one move left on the board,' Pyris realized, watching the Emperor's face carefully. 'And it's the move we're counting on him to make.'

Drawing upon reserves of self-control that had probably been honed over centuries of political bullshit, the Emperor slowly extended his hand toward the still-kneeling Song.

'Here we go,' Pyris thought. 'Time for the performance of a lifetime.'

His voice, when he spoke, carried the measured tones of practiced benevolence—the kind of tone that said "I am being merciful and magnanimous, please notice how merciful and magnanimous I am being.