Chapter 347: The Great Culling Declaration

Alaric slammed back into Elaine’s tight, broken pussy one last, conquering time. It was a brutal, punishing thrust, a final stamp of ownership that tore a choked, hopeless cry from her throat, muffled against the desk’s hard wood.

Eleanor froze in the doorway, her hand still on the tent flap, her eyes wide with a sick, twisted kind of jealous terror. She watched her lover empty himself into her mother.

He pulled out. The sound was wet and final. His cock, slick and glistening, was still hard.

Elaine just collapsed over the desk, a broken, sobbing mess. She didn’t have the strength to stand, her legs shaking violently.

Alaric calmly, almost lazily, fastened his trousers. He didn’t even look at the sobbing, broken mother-daughter pair. He was done here. The game was over. He was bored.

“My work here is done,” he announced to the room, his voice cold as a winter wind. He was no longer “Brad.” He was no longer the seducer. He was the Master.

He turned to the paralyzed girl in the doorway. “Eleanor,” he snapped.

She jumped, her eyes darting to his, her body trembling. “Y-yes, my lord?”

“She’s a mess,” he said, gesturing contemptuously at her mother’s sobbing, naked form. “Get your mother cleaned up. Put her to bed.”

He sounded like a man telling a servant to clean up a spilled drink.

“And remember your new job,” he added, his voice like ice. “You keep her in line. You remind her of her place. Understand?”

“I… I understand,” Eleanor whispered, her gaze flickering between him and her mother, her mind reeling with a dark, awful mix of jealousy, power, and fear.

Alaric then turned his gaze to the wreck on the floor. “And you, Elaine,” he purred, his voice dropping to that dangerous, silken tone he’d used before.

Elaine flinches, her sobs catching in her throat.

“Remember your job,” he whispered. “Keep her safe… by being my good little whore. By serving me… in every way I demand. Because if you bore me… she pays the price.”

“I… I will…” Elaine’s voice was a dead, hollow whisper. “I’ll… I’ll be good…”

“I’ll be back to collect on my investment,” he promised, his voice void of all emotion.

He didn’t wait for a reply. He didn’t give either of them a backward glance. He just slipped out of the tent, leaving the two women shattered in the wreckage of their family, their shared humiliation a toxic, suffocating cloud in the small, dark space.

Alaric walked through the pre-dawn chill of the Conclave, his mind cold and clear. He felt good. Refreshed. He’d conquered a new territory. He’d broken two more proud women, and chained them to him with their own love and fear.

’Pathetic,’ he thought, a smirk on his face. ’But mine. All of them. All six of them.’

’Now,’ his mind shifted, all business, ’time to make sure the fool knows his place… without knowing he knows it.’

He found a quiet, shadowed spot between two supply tents. He closed his eyes. His mind expanded, reaching out with invisible, arcane tendrils.

He whispered a soft, intricate spell, one of his own design. “My Mark. My Property.”

His mind flew across the camp. He found Queen Kate, sprawled in her own bed now, fast asleep. He pressed his magic onto her, right on her mons pubis, just above her swollen, well-fucked pussy. A faint, intricate tattoo, like a wisp of black lace or a shadowy, arcane sigil, burned itself into her skin for a split second, a flash of dark light, then faded, becoming invisible to the naked eye.

But he could see it. It throbbed in his mind’s eye. A beacon of his ownership.

“One,” he murmured, his voice a whisper on the wind.

He found Elaine, who was still sobbing as Eleanor clumsily tried to clean her up. Press. The same mark. “Two.”

He reached to the concubine tents. He found the twins, Lila and Nyla, huddled together in one small cot, like two sleeping kittens, their bodies sore and aching. Press. Press. “Three and four.”

He found Anya, the dancer, sprawled in her sleep, her limbs at an elegant, unnatural angle. Press. “Five.”

He found Juliana, the quiet one, curled up in a tight, defensive ball, her massive breasts crushed against her knees. Press. “Six.”

“And that makes six,” he grinned, pulling his magic back. “All my new pets. All properly collared.”

He loved this spell. It was so elegant. ’Now,’ he thought, his grin widening with cruel amusement, ’if that useless, sniveling, snoringsack-of-shit husband of theirs tries to touch any of them… ZAP.’

The seal was keyed specifically to Reginald’s weak, reedy aura. It wouldn’t hurt anyone else. But if he… his skin, his intent… got within an inch of them…

’The seal will hit him with a jolt of pure, non-lethal, excruciating arcane power,’ he mused. ’It’ll feel like being kicked in the balls by a draft horse. Over and over. He’ll think he’s impotent. He’ll think he’s the problem. He’ll think the gods have cursed him. He’ll remember his one night of “vigor” and wonder why he lost his magic touch.’

Alaric chuckled to himself as he walked. ’Oh, this is so much funnier than just killing him. This is a living death.’

He returned to his own pavilion. The guards snapped to attention. He nodded dismissively. His real women—Ondine, Priscilla, Zylle, and the broken, silent Lin Ruoli—were waiting. His own orgy was long since finished, but the air in his private chambers was still thick with their scent.

The next few days of the Conclave were a blur of mind-numbing, political bullshit.

Alaric had to put on the mask again. He was Duke Alaric Steele. Respectable. Powerful. Reasonable.

He attended interminable meetings on grain tariffs. On border patrols. On trade routes for dwarven steel. He smiled. He nodded. He was charming. He was diplomatic.

“Minister,” he’d say, his voice smooth as silk, “your point on the Rimefrost trade route is insightful. But have you considered the long-term implications of their arcane taxation policies?”

And all the while, he’d be thinking: ’This old fossil is still breathing? His robes stink of mothballs. I wonder if Kate is aching for my dick yet. I should have Zylle find out what that Rimefrost Empress really likes… she’s way too uptight. She’s got to be a screaming freak in bed…’

No one would ever guess that this charming, reasonable young Duke had, just nights before, been blackmailing, raping, and breaking an entire royal family, mother, daughter, and all, just for fun.

But the game was ending. The political bullshit was wrapping up. The buzz on the Conclave grounds changed. It was no longer about parties and alliances. A new, dark energy was building.

The final conference was announced. This was the big one. This was what they were all here for.

The final conference was held in a massive, open-air amphitheater. It wasn’t built. It was carved from the mountainside itself by magic, eons ago. Thousands of delegates, nobles, knights, and guards streamed into the stone tiers. The air was thick with tension, heavy as a shroud.

Alaric sat in a place of honor, down near the front. He was a major player now. The Jorailian-Strathmore Alliance, pushed through by a miraculously persuasive Queen Kate, had been big news.

He sat there, smug as hell, with his new “allies” clustered around him like nervous, fawning hens.

King Reginald was right beside him. He was still puffed up like a proud, idiotic rooster. He was beaming at everyone. He felt so important, sitting this close to the big dogs. He’d done it. He’d saved his kingdom. He was a true, decisive King.

’What a successful summit for Strathmore!’ he thought, preening in his (slightly-too-tight) royal robes. ’And my vigor! It’s still there! Kate was so happy again this morning!’ (He’d tried to touch her, gotten zapped by the seal, and mistook the agonizing jolt for a spark of renewed passion. Kate had played along beautifully, pretending to be overwhelmed by his “touch.”)

Queen Kate sat on Reginald’s other side, looking regal, composed, and bored as hell. She was stunning in a deep purple gown, and she knew it. She fanned herself slowly, her eyes constantly darting over her husband’s stupid, beaming head to Alaric.

Her gaze was hot. And hungry. She was aching for another real taste of his dick. Her body hummed just being near him. She could still feel the shadows of his bruises on her ass, and the secret, faint itch of his slave seal right above her pussy was a constant, wet reminder. ’He’d better call for me tonight,’ she thought, her pussy clenching. ’Or I’ll make him.’

Eleanor and the five concubines were seated in the row behind them. Silent and pale. Eleanor was vibrating with a confused, desperate mix of lust and seething jealousy. She still thought her mother had seduced him. And she hated her for it. But she ached for Alaric.

Elaine was a ghost. She just stared at the stage, her eyes empty. The twins were terrified, clutching each other’s hands. Anya and Juliana were nervously excited, their eyes darting between Alaric’s broad back and the big stage.

The big dogs finally took the stage.

First, the Rimefrost Empress, Elara Vance. She was a cold, hard bitch, her white-blonde hair in a severe bun, her blue gown like a sheet of ice. Her voice matched her look. It was like cracking ice. She talked about duty, sacrifice, and the eternal northern threat.

Alaric just stared at her tight, prim, uptight ass. ’Gods, she’s a walking icicle,’ he thought, his mind already working. ’She’s definitely a screaming, biting freak in bed. Begging to be degraded. Oh, she is so on the new mission list. Level 80, here I come.’

Next, the Kensei Shogun, an old fossil in too many black-and-gold robes. He creaked to the podium. He talked about honor, discipline, spiritual harmony, and the ’balance of the soul’.

Alaric literally yawned. He didn’t even try to hide it. Kate giggled behind her fan. ’Get this windbag off the stage,’ he thought. ’Gods, this is boring. Where’s the main event?’

Finally, the main event arrived.

Emperor Huang Long walked to the podium.

There was no fanfare. No heralds. He just… walked.

And the entire amphitheater went dead silent.

The air pressure changed. The buzzing of thousands of people stopped. The wind itself seemed to die.

His power… it wasn’t loud like a thunderstorm. It was like a heavy, suffocating blanket. It was the crushing weight of the deep ocean.

Alaric’s boredom vanished. Instantly.

He sat up straight. His eyes narrowed.

This was a real player. This was the owner of his next ten women. His new rival.

He felt the ancient, terrifying power rolling off the man in waves. The Emperor just stood there, silent, looking at them. And every single person in the amphitheater felt small.

’Well… hello there,’ Alaric thought, a cold, predatory smile touching his own lips. ’This is going to be fun.’

The Emperor’s speech was short. And brutal. And to the point.

He didn’t shout. He didn’t need to. His voice was calm, deep, and carried to every corner of the massive amphitheater without magic. It was a display of pure, raw, terrifying power.

“The seals are failing,” he said. Just… said it. Like he was announcing the weather.

The silence that followed was total.

“The blood that powered them,” he continued, his voice flat, “the blood of the ancients who died to forge them, is thinning. The magic is fading.”

“The Demon Kings and their Elder Demon masters… are waking up.”

The crowd was frozen. This wasn’t a rumor from some scout. This wasn’t a minister’s worried report. This was Emperor Huang Long stating a fact.

“This is not a drill,” he said, his cold, ancient eyes sweeping across the sea of pale, terrified faces. “This is not a possibility. This is Armageddon.”

He let that word hang in the air. Armageddon.

“For a thousand years, we have squabbled,” he said, his voice dripping with a fathomless contempt. “We have played our pathetic little games of territory and trade. That time is over.”

He didn’t ask for alliances. He commanded preparation.

“Every kingdom,” he said, and his voice was no longer calm, it was like grinding stone, “will build demon-slaying formations. Your cities will become fortresses.”

“Every forge will produce demon-slaying artifacts. Your toys and trinkets are worthless.”

“Every soldier… every man, woman, and child capable of holding a spear… will be trained for this.”

He looked at the crowd, his gaze like a mountain, crushing them with its sheer, physical weight.

“Those who fail to prepare,” he stated, his voice cold as the void, “will be sacrificed to delay the ones who do.”

A wave of pure terror rolled through the amphitheater.

“There is no room for weakness. There is no room for cowards.”

“The Great Culling has begun.”

It was a naked threat. Prepare for the demons… or be culled by him before the demons even get here.

The entire Conclave was shaken to its core. The buzz of parties and politics was dead. It was gone. Replaced by a cold, hard, unifying fear.

The Emperor turned and walked off the stage.

The summit was officially declared over.

Alaric just sat there, his wine forgotten in his hand.

’Well, shit.’

The game was over. The real war had just begun.