Zhao Lihua's private chambers were the heart of her power, a world away from the soot and fury of the forge. The room was vast, dominated by a large bed carved from a single piece of obsidian-dark Ironwood, the sheets a deep, blood-red silk. Shelves lined with ancient scrolls and artifacts spoke of a keen, scholarly mind, while a polished weapon rack holding a wickedly curved dao was a stark reminder of the warrior. This was the sanctuary of a queen, a predator, and now, a woman wrestling with an emotion she had long considered a disease: jealousy.
She stood by the window, the moonlight tracing her powerful silhouette. She had changed into a simple, sleeveless silk chemise that fell to her mid-thigh, the fabric doing little to hide the hardened, athletic lines of her body. When I entered, she didn't turn.
"You reek of them," she stated, her voice a low, dangerous growl. "The mother's cloying perfume and the daughter's pathetic grief. Wash."
She gestured to an adjoining room, a luxurious bathing chamber with a sunken pool fed by a hot spring. The command was clear. I was to cleanse myself of my other attachments before I was worthy of touching her. A petty, possessive, and utterly human gesture. It was perfect.
I obeyed without a word, a small, compliant smile on my face. This was not the confident partnership of the forge; this was the raw, emotional territory of the bedroom, and the rules were different. Here, her insecurities were the weapons, and my perceived submission was the battlefield.
When I returned, clean and naked, she was on the bed, reclining against a pile of silk pillows, one leg bent, her chemise riding high on her thigh. She held a half-empty glass of wine, her eyes dark and predatory in the lamplight.
"Come here," she commanded.
I approached the bed and knelt beside it, my hands resting on my knees, my gaze lowered in a perfect picture of subservience.
"You enjoyed that, didn't you?" she purred, her voice laced with a cruel, knowing amusement. "In the forge. On the filthy floor. The debasement."
"My only joy is in serving my queen," I replied, the words a perfect, practiced lie.
"Do not lie to me," she snapped, her voice cracking like a whip. "I read your confession. I know the twisted pathways of your mind. You crave humiliation from a powerful woman. It excites you." She took a long, slow sip of wine, her eyes never leaving my face. "It is a pathetic weakness. But a useful one."
She set her glass down and shifted, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. She placed her bare foot squarely in the center of my chest, pushing me back slightly. "You knelt for me in the forge out of strategy. Now, you will kneel for me out of necessity. You will show me the devotion you claim I alone inspire. You will worship your goddess until she is satisfied. And you will be silent. I do not wish to hear your clever, sarcastic remarks. I only wish to feel your obedience."
I looked up at her, at the fierce, possessive fire in her eyes. This was not about her pleasure. This was about ownership. She needed to feel, in a primal, physical way, that I was hers, that the man who gave warmth and comfort to other women was nothing more than a mindless, carnal tool for her.
"As you command," I whispered, my voice thick with a desire that was only half-feigned.
The night that followed was a masterclass in psychological warfare disguised as sex. She was a tempest, a hurricane of pent-up frustration, jealousy, and a desperate need to reassert her dominance. She used my body like an instrument, demanding, taking, pushing me into acts of submission that were both demeaning and exquisitely arousing. I was her footstool, her slave, the target of a rage she couldn't voice and a longing she couldn't comprehend.
But as I submitted physically, I fought back psychologically.
As my mouth was put to use, my mind was working. She thought my silence was obedience, but it was my greatest weapon. It forced her to confront her own sounds, her own ragged breaths and involuntary moans. In the quiet space I created, her own pleasure became the loudest thing in the room, a testament to my skill, not just her power.
When her hands gripped my hair, pulling me tighter, I would let out a soft, almost inaudible sigh, a perfect replica of the contented sound Mengue made when I held her. I felt Lihua's body tense for a fraction of a second, a flicker of discord in her rhythm.
As she rode me, her body a vision of unrestrained power, I reached up and traced a line down her spine, my touch light and tender, the same comforting gesture I had used on Fengue. She flinched, her climax hesitating for a beat, a ghost of another woman's comfort intruding on her moment of absolute power.
I was a mirror, reflecting not just her desire, but everything she felt she was lacking. Every act of pleasure I gave her was tainted with the ghost of the genuine affection I gave to others. I was proving, in the most intimate way possible, that while she could command my body, she could not command my heart. By the time dawn approached, she lay spent and panting on the silk sheets, physically sated but spiritually more starved than ever. The sex had not solved her problem; it had magnified it.
"You are thinking of them," she accused, her voice a ragged whisper in the pre-dawn gloom. "Even now."
I lay beside her, propped on an elbow, and gently brushed a strand of damp hair from her forehead. "I am thinking," I said, my voice soft and infuriatingly sincere, "that a goddess should not have to compete for the devotion of her high priest."
I had turned her own jealousy back on her, framing it as a failing of my own devotion, a subtle, masterful piece of gaslighting. She stared at me, her eyes a storm of confusion and frustration, and for the first time, I saw a flicker of the vulnerability she kept locked away behind walls of iron. She was the most powerful woman I had met, and she was also the loneliest.
The next morning, the mood in the estate was thick with unspoken tension. I gathered my three women in a private drawing room. Lihua sat in a high-backed chair, the very picture of the untouchable matriarch, though the dark circles under her eyes told a different story. Mengue stood near the window, a quiet, supportive presence. And Fengue, her eyes clear and her posture resolute, stood beside her mother, no longer a victim, but a student ready for her next lesson.
"Our industrial revolution has begun," I announced, breaking the silence. "The plans for the new forges and the concrete production are underway. But an empire cannot be built on iron and stone alone. An empire needs culture. It needs commerce. It needs a soul."
I turned to Mengue. "Mengue, you have an innate grace, a quiet strength, and an impeccable eye for beauty. I am formally putting you in charge of a new venture: Zhao Celestial Textiles. You will be its Director."
Mengue's eyes widened in shock. "Me? Master, I… I know nothing of business."
"You know what women want," I corrected her. "That is the only knowledge that matters in this industry. We are not just going to make cloth. We are going to create fashion. We will introduce new designs, new materials. Clothes that are not just functional, but beautiful, empowering."
I unrolled a piece of parchment on which I had sketched a series of designs overnight. There were flowing dresses with daringly high necklines, tailored trousers for women that spoke of power and freedom, and, most provocatively, skirts with hemlines that ended well above the knee.
"Imagine this, Mengue," I said, my voice filled with passion. "A woman walking through the market, her legs bare to the sun. The shock. The scandal. And the envy. Every woman who sees her will desire that same freedom, that same confidence. We will not just be selling clothes; we will be selling a revolution in how women see themselves."
I then unrolled a second, smaller parchment, showing it only to her. On it were sketches of delicate, intricate undergarments—the first precursors to lingerie. "And beneath it all, a secret. Something worn only for oneself, or for a chosen lover. A symbol of a woman's private power and sexuality."
Mengue's face flushed a deep, beautiful crimson. She was not shocked; she was intrigued. "Master… these are… scandalous."
"They are powerful," I said. I looked her in the eye. "I want you to wear these things, Mengue. Not for me, but for you. I want you to walk through the city in a short skirt, with nothing underneath, not as an act of submission, but as a declaration of your own liberation. I want you to feel the eyes of every man on you, and to know that you are the one in control, that their desire is a testament to your power. But only… only if you would enjoy that game. Would you?"
A slow, thrilling smile spread across her face. This was not the timid widow I had met in the Lu Clan. This was a woman discovering her own dormant power. "Yes, Master," she breathed. "I think I would enjoy that very much."
I had just given her a kingdom. An empire of silk and scandal, with her as its queen.
Next, I turned my attention to the simmering pot of resentment that was Zhao Wei. The System had been silent. His protagonist halo was shattered, but he was not dead, nor was he fully broken. The objective was incomplete. It was time for phase two of his deconstruction.
I found him in the estate's training grounds, mechanically going through sword forms, his movements sloppy, his spirit clearly broken. His mother's public rebuke had wounded him more than any blade.
"Your form is terrible," I said, announcing my presence.
He spun around, his hand flying to his sword hilt, a snarl on his face. "You! What do you want?"
"To help you," I said simply. I walked closer, my demeanor open and non-threatening. "You are looking at this all wrong, Wei. You see me as your rival. You see Fengue as a prize you have to win. You are thinking like a common street brawler."
"And what should I be thinking like?" he spat.
"Like a king," I replied. "A true king doesn't fight for a woman's affection. He earns her devotion. You tried to own Fengue. You used force and threats. And what did it get you? Her fear and her contempt. You lost."
I stopped in front of him. "Have you ever considered a different path? A path of true strength? To love a woman so completely that her happiness becomes your own? To find joy not in possessing her, but in seeing her thrive, even if the source of her happiness is not you? To be the unwavering rock she can always depend on, the one man who supports her ambitions, her desires, unconditionally. That, Wei, is the path of a man so confident, so powerful, that he does not need to own a woman to be fulfilled by her. He finds his fulfillment in her liberation."
I was planting the seeds of noble sacrifice, of a selfless love. It was the perfect, poisonous philosophy to feed to a broken, prideful man. I was repackaging the core concept of cuckoldry as a form of enlightened masculinity.
"Fengue is a remarkable woman," I continued, my voice filled with genuine admiration. "She is intelligent, resilient, and she is going to become incredibly powerful under my tutelage. The man who stands by her side will not be her master, but her most devoted champion. Think about it. The choice is yours. You can continue to see me as your enemy and fester in this pathetic self-pity, or you can start learning how to be the man she might one day respect."
I left him there, my words hanging in the air like a potent, slow-acting poison. I hadn't taken his woman. I had just given him a roadmap to hand her over to me willingly, and to feel noble while doing it. The long game had begun.
Finally, I returned to Fengue. Her "atonement" week was nearing its end, and the dynamic between us had shifted completely. She was no longer my slave, nor simply my student. A fragile, complex bond was forming between us.
"Your mother has her textiles, my new partner has her forges," I said as we sat in the garden. "It is time you had a kingdom of your own to build."
"Me?" she asked, her eyes widening.
"You," I confirmed. "I am going to build a new industry from scratch. An entertainment industry. We will write plays, not the boring, historical epics the nobles watch, but stories of romance, of adventure, of villains who are more interesting than the heroes. We will train musicians and form them into bands, creating new styles of music that will capture the hearts of the young. We will build grand theaters. We will create a culture."
I looked at her, my expression serious. "And you will be at its head. You will be the First Producer of the Zhao Celestial Entertainment Guild. Your first task is market research. I need you to find out what people dream of. What stories make them cry, what songs make them dance. You will go out into the city, talk to people from all walks of life. You will be my eyes and ears. You will be the architect of this new world's soul."
I had given her a purpose, a grand project that had nothing to do with her grief, her dead lover, or her trauma. I had given her a future. She stared at me, her eyes shining with a light I had never seen before—not anger, not sadness, not even gratitude. It was inspiration.
As I sat there, outlining the preliminary concepts of narrative structure and musical theory to a rapt Fengue, I saw a figure watching us from a high balcony. It was Zhao Lihua. She stood motionless, a solitary queen looking down upon her kingdom. She saw me with Fengue, not in a sexual embrace, but in an intimate meeting of minds, a shared passion for creation. She saw the genuine excitement on my face, the gentle patience in my demeanor. She saw the warmth.
I glanced up and our eyes met across the distance. I gave her a small, polite nod, then turned my full attention back to the brilliant young woman beside me.
The message was clear. I had knelt for her in the forge. I had serviced her body. But my mind, my warmth, my soul… those were not things she could command. They had to be earned. And the competition had just begun.