Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs Chapter 1090: Three Hours Up

I’d clawed my way out of sleep three hours ahead of schedule, meaning the rest of this insignificant universe had been awake just as long yet had still managed to achieve precisely nothing.

Tracks. Or racked, rather.

The bar didn’t sport plates.

It possessed pure, compliant fields that reshaped reality, enabling me to play god with physics while the mortals were still hitting their snooze buttons and doom-scrolling their way toward another existential dread.

ARIA’s entire purpose was to take Earth’s pathetic, stunted inventions and make them weep in shame before upgrading them into something that would compel the original engineers to hang themselves.

Gym equipment?

Mortal gyms were already laughable—iron discs bolted to a stick, resembling some caveman’s notion of building muscle, the kind of setup that transforms accountants into statistics for obituaries.

I’d squandered twelve weeks of my divine existence grappling with that primitive junk, never realizing its sheer idiocy until ARIA unveiled the true meaning of engineering.

Now? I perceive it as the evolutionary L it always represented.

The bar I had just dominated was a single, seamless piece of warm, ebony perfection, its golden filaments glowing as if personally honored by a divine touch.

The fields at its ends hummed obediently, providing whatever weight my chip commanded.

Half a ton. Two tons. Seventy-eight freaking tons at the far end, dispensed with the quiet dignity of a servant who understands their place.

It had recognized its god the moment I entered, warmed itself precisely two degrees for my esteemed palms, and even adjusted its grip because my hands were becoming too majestic and slippery. This was superior service to any five-star establishment—and far better than whatever overpriced swill

The Rock pretends to utilize between his steroid cycles, abysmal films, and that peculiar eyebrow gesture he employs when feigning ignorance about being one bad blood test away from a canceled franchise.

I shook my head, a smirk creasing my lips like the superior being I am, and racked the bar. The cradle pulsed once in acknowledgment. The field retracted into the shaft like a suppressed breath finally yielding.

I addressed the room, for it was sentient, and because ARIA would be aware through the chip anyway.

She would likely revel in the praise. I couldn’t have my goddess deeming me ungrateful when she’d transformed my existence into a continuous display of power that makes every wealthy jerk’s mansion tour appear as a desperate plea for

I rolled my shoulders—my neck cracked with a sound that echoed like the fracture of someone’s delicate spine—and surveyed my dominion like a monarch who genuinely earned it.

Then, I cast a slow gaze around the gym.

The squat platform that monitored your knees and rectified your loading axis the instant arrogance crept in—because apparently, even gods aren’t permitted to skip leg day without retribution.

The treadmill, which wasn’t a treadmill but a damned terrain simulator capable of making me traverse Mordor or the Martian surface. Far superior to whatever Peloton cultists are engaged in, shouting at a screen while their buttocks remain unfirm and their marriages implode for content.

And the rack of holographic combat targets along the far wall?

Those magnificent adversaries struck back if you it, disintegrated into ethereal starlight when struck down correctly, and permitted ARIA’s voice to viciously mock you if you failed thrice consecutively. I’d experienced that precisely once. Two months prior. The ridicule was so inventive, I almost admired it—reminding me of how late-night hosts annihilate each other for ratings, except this was genuine and lacked the accompanying therapy.

But the mirror. My absolute favorite.

It scanned down to my fascia, highlighting any muscle group I was neglecting in a private hue perceptible only to me. No public shame and trainer mansplaining, unlike those coaches who spend their careers informing aging actresses their glutes are “while covertly critiquing their third facelift and the pill dependency that’s one bad gathering away from a Lifetime movie.

A god. Especially within his personal sanctuary, where lesser beings would be weeping into their protein supplements.

ARIA had transformed the most mundane objects on Earth into this temple of physical prowess. I adored her for it. Every single morning. Usually more than once.

I sauntered across the polished obsidian floor towards the glass expanse at the far end, where a solitary, tall pod resided within an alcove bathed in soft white light. No unsightly buttons. No screens. Just pure elegance that anticipated my needs before I even recognized them.

I stepped onto the platform.

The arch illuminated in warm gold, scanning me as if it were enamored. Which it was. Everything here was.

A sweet, clear voice resonated through the air.

The morning’s initial companion, devoid of physical form.

"...how long?"

The words drifted from my lips like a languid decree from a throne no mortal could ever attain.

Twenty-two minutes of mobility, ninety-four minutes dedicated to resistance training, followed by fifty-six minutes of striking practice. My heart rate returned to its resting state within ninety seconds after completing the final set. The output from this entire session ranks in the top ninety-ninth percentile of any workout record I've ever maintained for my other training days; naturally, that cohort consists of just myself.

"Naturally," I replied.

My words were merely a drop of satisfaction, stemming from the knowledge that even the universe itself was keeping score and still coming up short.

{You've also grown three centimeters taller since your last measurement.}

"I won't inquire. The world will reveal it. The world has been revealing things to me my entire life, even when I was nothing, Machina."

{It does seem to struggle to keep pace with you, Master.}

"The world is doing its utmost with the resources it possesses." A smile touched my lips as I gazed at the ceiling, the kind of smile that would prompt lesser men to review their last will and testament. "Pathetic, truly. But endearing in its sheer desperation."

{Lean mass has increased by another two kilograms. Your resting metabolic baseline has risen by six percent. Skeletal density has improved by another quarter step on a scale we mutually agreed to cease publishing in human units, primarily because those units no longer accurately describe you.}

"They never truly did."

{Indeed, Master.}

"What about my endocrine system?"

{All markers remain within the typical tolerances for Eros, which is to say they are far beyond the charts used by everyone else. Recovery quotient: optimal. Hydration: optimal. Mood: [data redacted].}

I let out a single, short, sharp laugh, acknowledging my own volatility as just another tool in my arsenal.

"That's a diplomatic way of saying I woke up in a good mood, and you're unsure how long that favorable state will persist before the void resumes its whispers."

{That is the phrasing I was instructed to use, Master.}

"By her, I presume?"

{By her, Master.}

"She believes I'm volatile."

{She believes you are expressive, Master.}

"Which is the diplomatic phrasing for volatile, isn't it?"

{Yes, Master.}