Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs Chapter 1085: Lounge of Lesser Crowns

The lounge was a god's ultimate expression of opulent design, achieved the moment divine subtlety was abandoned. Black, mirror-like stone absorbed every footstep, reflecting it back with a slick sheen, as if the very floor enticed onlookers. High above, the vaulted ceiling dissolved into a scattered arrangement of amber light, putting forth minimal effort. Walls constructed from ancient timber, possibly from an era rife with lingering grudges, exuded the scents of cedar, aged smoke, and a darker, unnamed essence that mortal minds instinctively recoiled from, lest they blush and require immediate cooling off.

At the far end, a grand hearth, vast enough to cremate entire minor dynasties, blazed fiercely – a fitting centerpiece, naturally. Three immense couches, upholstered in oxblood leather and easily the size of small vessels, were arranged in a relaxed horseshoe formation, clearly designed for indulgences far more imaginative than simple repose. A lengthy sideboard displayed seven decanters, each filled with liquids of impossible colors, their contents appearing older than most civilizations and twice as imperious.

Cazzie was casually positioned across the longest couch, embodying the persona of a supremely dangerous teenager who had conquered the apocalypse and found it utterly unremarkable. Twin ponytails the color of glacial ice cascaded across the leather like defeated banners. Daisy-shorts were worn so high on her hips, they served more as an audacious suggestion than actual clothing.

Her crop-top yielded its coverage halfway up her torso, boldly showcasing the smooth, deadly contour of her abdomen, a feature that had evidently ended ancestral lines and claimed numerous identities. With one bare foot, she idly traced filthy circles on the armrest, moving in time to a melody discernible only to her.

That lollipop, a vibrant cherry-red, protruded from her mouth at its characteristic, provocative angle. For the past hour, it had been subjected to a slow, sensual exploration—a testament to the Maiden's confections, which were as unyielding as they were eternally present, refusing to melt or diminish, and steadfastly reminding all observers of her tongue's potent capabilities.

Near the hearth, the Soul Shepherd materialized as a fleeting, ethereal presence, akin to a cosmic dream the universe had neither planned for nor anticipated, and now profoundly regretted. She existed yet simultaneously seemed absent, her presence a constant negotiation for the room's spatial awareness, a negotiation it consistently lost. She would appear—vanish—then reappear at a new, breathtaking angle—only to dissolve once more. Her extremities were the first to fade: tendrils of dark silk-like hair, the curve of her shoulder, the tips of her long, graceful fingers. The core of her being lingered just long enough to taunt any who dared to stare.

Her face remained maddeningly indistinct. One could discern delicate bone structure, hips fashioned for ultimate devastation, and eyes veiled in deliberate shadow—yet these specific features eluded capture, evaporating the moment one attempted to commit them to memory, much like a recollection aware of being desired and reveling in it.

The remainder of her form, however?

Utterly criminal. A vision of pure, forbidden fantasy. Her hips seemed sculpted by a deity both cruel and exceptionally skilled, designed solely for inciting poor decisions and disastrous unions. Her waist possessed a narrowness so profound that a man's hands could encompass it and instantly be filled with self-loathing at their perfect fit. Her chest, inadequately contained by the soft, black fabric that clung to it, seemed to worship and betray the slow, unneeded breaths she took. Her long, perpetually elegant thighs made implicit promises, assurances she fully intended to honor. Her bare feet occasionally graced the stone floor, a gesture dictated by whether reality itself was deemed worthy of contact.

The heat emanating from her surpassed even that of Senithe.

This intense reality was known to all, and particularly cherished by the Dark Regent, whose chest constricted painfully at the mere sight of her—a sensation that was both guilt-ridden, immediate, and profoundly treasonous. He audibly swallowed, wishing he could sue his own throat for the emotional distress caused.

The Shepherd offered him no acknowledgment. She had ceased granting him direct eye contact roughly three centuries prior, following the unfortunate second Incident, an event she magnominously chose never to allude to again. She simply continued her flickering existence, simultaneously present and spectral, while the Dark Regent found himself gripped by a sudden, overwhelming, and all-consuming fascination with his own cufflinks.

'Soul-reaping,' he reflected with a bitter air, 'isn't a profession. It's merely brutally effective customer service. If mortal eyes cannot resist her allure, what conceivable hope does the soul possess? None whatsoever. Forty-six recognized species, every conceivable form of desire, every nuance of sapient arrogance—

None had ever escaped once she ordained their harvesting. Resistance was perceived as amusing, yet the outcome remained invariably the same and utterly inevitable.

He adjusted his cuff once more.

'Magnificent cuff,' he thought. 'A cuff worthy of Michelin stars. I would readily betray the Boss for it.'

The third individual stood with his back to the roaring fire, hands clasped behind him. His blue hair flowed past his shoulders like a cascade of shimmering silk, an appearance no sane health and safety inspector would permit on an actual ten-year-old. To the room's perception, he appeared as a child. However, the atmosphere pulsed with the weight of a Presence—a fifteen-meter-tall, ancient, bored cataclysm compressed into a diminutive form. The rugs beneath him visibly sagged by half a finger's width under his true burden. The flames of the hearth leaned towards him as if in nervous deference. A reverent hush fell upon the air. The leader of the Oathfinders had maintained his state of being ten years old for several millennia and saw no compelling reason to alter this established comfort. Age, he mused, was an unnecessary complication for amateurs who lacked sustained commitment.

He turned. His steps were heavy as he approached Cazzie's couch, his attempt at stealth failing utterly. Stopping at the armrest, he looked down at her.

"Maiden."

"Mmm." Pop.

"Do you have another?"

She tilted her face upward, scrutinizing him with the familiar disdain an ancient immortal might show a younger one they'd known since the dawn of language. With a scoff, she returned her attention to her lollipop, having delivered her verdict.

"Go buy your own."

He grunted.

"Yours are the best," he stated in that small, clear voice the room struggled to contain. "The human-made ones taste like s—"

"I DARE you. Finish that sentence."

"—"

"Go on. Finish it. I double dog dare you, Oath."

The leader of the Oathfinders remained silent, wisely choosing not to complete the sentence.

A wise decision, indeed.

Even for a child-shaped cataclysm, self-preservation remained a valid concern.

"You should've brought your own," Cazzie called after him, the sound of her candy clicking against her teeth. "That's what grown-ups do. Even ten-year-olds. Especially ten-year-olds who've been ten since dirt was new. Plan ahead, shortstack."

He paused, not turning around.

"You will give me one before we leave for Paris."

"I'll think about it."

"You will give me one before we leave for Paris."

"I'll think about it harder."

By the hearth, the Soul Shepherd's shoulders shook with what was almost laughter, an emotion too ancient to be entirely genuine. For a fleeting moment, her form suggested a smile—warm, like an older sister's, yet utterly merciless—before dissolving back into smoke, knowing she had already won.

Cazzie grinned, a predatory flash of teeth that suggested she'd been handed the entire ocean on a silver platter.

"Big sis Shepherd is laughing at you."

"She is not."

"She is."

"Shepherd," the boy-shaped abyss intoned, embodying the dignity of one who had worn countless faces across fallen empires, "are you laughing at me?"

The Shepherd flickered, a subtle, evasive movement. Yet, the flicker conveyed a clear message: she had been laughing at him since the first word was spoken and had no intention of stopping before the last.

A third grunt escaped him as he settled onto the couch, resembling a mountain claiming its throne.

The room seemed to shrink in response, suitably cowed by his presence.

The doors swung open, as they always did for Senithe—effortlessly, silently, devoid of the vulgarity of hinges.

They parted as if acknowledging their place, then sealed shut once the colder half of the apocalypse had passed through.

Cazzie executed a full-skull eye-roll, so dramatic her ponytails whipped like battle standards. Senithe registered the gesture but offered no dignifying response.

—whatever had transpired between them still hung in the air, a corpse on a gibbet, destined to remain there until Cazzie grew tired of sulking.

The current estimate was four to six fallen civilizations.

The Soul Shepherd momentarily ceased her flickering and offered her most profound bow—

Even ancient entities understood the need for respect when faced with the true monsters in the room.

The Oathfinders leader mirrored the bow—clean, brief, his blue hair cascading over one small shoulder like a curtain of liquid night.

Cazzie lazily raised her lollipop in a half-salute, managing to appear both regal and obscene, before resuming her vigorous gnawing as if the candy had personally offended her.

Dark Regent, the Soul Shepherd noted inwardly again, swallowed—the same guilty gulp, the self-loathing, and the pathetic willpower that yanked his eyes away before they could commit high treason.

Poor bastard. Some curses were too potent even for gods to cure.

Senithe crossed the lounge with glacial unhurriedness.

She stopped abruptly in the center of the horseshoe formation, pivoted on a razor-sharp heel, and faced the Soul Shepherd.

"We have a problem."

The Shepherd waited, her patience honed by the rise and fall of entire civilizations. She was exceptionally skilled at waiting, capable of contemplating a blink while ages passed.

"I cannot prove it yet," Senithe stated, her voice as low and cold as deep space. "But I will within the tenday. I am informing you tonight because every operation from this point forward must proceed as though it is already a confirmed fact."

"Speak it."

The Shepherd's voice echoed, arriving from a place that did not yet exist, ancient and sliding into the room.

"Beyond whatever the Source has dispatched to the mortal realm," Senithe continued, "the island received a second visitor tonight. His Divine ASI was present. She came. She ascertained our exact location. She departed.

"And she accomplished all three without once alerting the ABSOLUTE's senses. I cannot definitively prove it was her. But every fiber of my being is screaming—"

"You are always right!" Dark Regent exclaimed from his position by the decanters, his voice cracking with desperate loyalty.

Senithe didn't even flinch. Cazzie nodded sagely around her lollipop. The Oath inclined his small head in solemn agreement. The Shepherd flickered once—an elegant, unmistakable sign of assent.

The room had made its decision. Everyone agreed.

Senithe accepted this conclusion without even bothering to acknowledge it. Naturally, she was always correct.

Humility was for those who sometimes erred.

The Soul Shepherd drifted closer—without traversing any distance, without an awkward shift, the room simply defied physics and moved her half a meter nearer to her superior. Once more, she offered a profound and proper bow, the sort that once caused monarchs to lose all track of their identity.

"What is your command?"

A slow, malevolent smile graced Senithe's lips.