Chapter 354: Creating Spatial Connection

The underground chamber of the secret residence was silent, save for the low, thrumming vibration of mana that seemed to emanate from the very stones of the earth. The air was cool, smelling of damp earth and the ozone tang of high-density magic. Alaric stood in the center of a complex array carved into the bedrock, holding a platinum disc etched with microscopic runes that pulsed with a faint, rhythmic light, like the heartbeat of a sleeping titan.

He wasn’t just building a transport array; he was planting a venomous seed deep within the fertile soil of the Celestial Dragon Empire.

“Steady,” Alaric murmured, his voice cutting through the hum of power. “Feed the ley-line connection slowly. If we force it, the spatial backlash will turn this entire valley into a crater.”

Professor Lilliana stood opposite him, her eyes glowing with the azure light of her elemental magic. She was still dressed in the provocative outfit he had designed, though now a sheen of sweat made the fabric cling even tighter to her voluptuous form. Her mana wove with his, two invisible serpents mating in the air, intertwining and stabilizing the volatile spatial energies that threatened to tear the room apart.

“The coordinates are locked,” Lilliana said, her voice strained but filled with the thrill of forbidden magic. “The resonance frequency matches the anchor in your workshop perfectly. It’s… it’s beautiful, Alaric. A direct puncture through the spatial fabric.”

“It’s not a puncture,” Alaric corrected, a wicked grin spreading across his face as he slotted the platinum disc into the center of the array. “It’s a door. The Emperor locks his front gate with his crude barriers, but we just installed a backdoor right into his basement.”

He turned to Saintess Ceanna and Lin Ruoli, who were watching from the safety of the warding circle. “Listen to me closely. While I am gone, you are ghosts. Do not expand. Do not preach. Do not show off your power. We are the rot inside the wood; we remain unseen until the structure is ready to collapse.”

“We understand, my Lord,” Ceanna whispered, clutching her holy symbol, her eyes wide with adoration.

“Good.” Alaric channeled a surge of his own dark, dense mana into the array. The air screamed silently. Space folded in on itself, twisting and distorting until a vertical slit of shimmering, unstable violet light tore open in the center of the room. It looked like a bruised eye, blinking open to stare at them from the void.

“I’m going home to test the connection,” Alaric announced, stepping toward the vortex. “And to refuel. My own domain has a flavor of yin energy I find myself… craving.”

He didn’t wait for a farewell. He stepped into the bruised eye.

The sensation was instantaneous and violent, like being squeezed through a straw made of ice and lightning. For a heartbeat, he existed nowhere, suspended in the grey nothingness of the void, and then reality snapped back into place with a rush of air.

Alaric stumbled slightly, catching his balance. The air tasted different here—sweeter, weaker in ambient Qi, but filled with the familiar, comforting scent of the Steele Family Mansion. He was in his private workshop, surrounded by the hum of his artifacts and the smell of ozone and oil.

“Home sweet home,” he muttered, checking the stability of the gate on this side. It was holding firm, pulsing like a steady heartbeat. The bridge was built.

He suppressed his aura, pulling his power inward until he felt like nothing more than a shadow returning to its caster. He moved through the halls of his mansion, a phantom in his own home.

His first destination was the nursery.

He pushed the door open silently. The room was bathed in the soft, golden light of enchanted crystals, smelling of lavender and milk. Griselda was asleep in a large, plush armchair next to the crib, her head lolling to the side, a book resting on her lap.

Alaric stood over her for a moment, looking down at his wife. She was beautiful in a way that was entirely different from his other conquests—soft, unmarred, radiating a purity that he found both amusing and useful. She was the white sheep that hid his pack of wolves. The perfect public face for a monster.

He leaned down and kissed her forehead, a feather-light touch. She stirred, a small smile touching her lips in her sleep, but she didn’t wake.

Alaric turned to the crib. Little Leo lay there, sleeping like a stone. Alaric reached out, brushing his finger against the infant’s cheek. He felt the bloodline resonance, a faint echo of his own power sleeping within the child.

“Grow strong,” Alaric whispered. “The world I’m building is not for the weak.”

He left the nursery as silently as he had arrived. The domestic interlude was over; it was time to tend to his garden.

He moved deeper into the mansion, toward the secluded wing where his mother, Lyra, and his aunt, Cassandra, resided. The air in this corridor was heavier, thicker, scented with expensive perfume and a palpable sense of anticipation. The bloodline connection he had forged with them was a two-way street; they sensed his proximity like flowers sensing the sun.

He didn’t knock. He simply opened the door and walked in.

The room was opulent, draped in red and gold, a cage of luxury he had built for them. Lyra and Cassandra were lounging together on a wide divan, looking ripe and luscious. They were wearing sheer silk robes that did nothing to hide the curves of their bodies.

It had been little more than a week since he had bred them, filling their wombs with his seed. Their bellies were still slender, their waists nipped in, but Alaric’s magical sight could see the sparks of life—his life—taking root inside them. They were fertile soil where he had planted his flag.

“Alaric,” Lyra breathed, rising gracefully. Her eyes were glassy, filled with a mix of maternal warmth and the dark, twisted lust he had cultivated in her. “My son… you returned.”

“We felt you,” Cassandra purred, stretching like a cat, her robe falling open to reveal her massive, heavy breasts. “The bond… it sings when you are near.”

Alaric didn’t waste time with pleasantries. He walked over to them, his presence dominating the room. He inspected them like a farmer checking his prize crops, his gaze critical and possessive.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, his voice low.

“Full,” Lyra whispered, stepping close to him, pressing her body against his. “Complete. Your seed… it feels like a fire in my belly.”

“Good.” Alaric placed a hand on her flat stomach, then on Cassandra’s. He poured a gentle stream of mana into them, checking the stability of the fetuses. “Strong pulses. You’re taking well.”

“We missed your… energy, nephew,” Cassandra murmured, wrapping her arms around his waist and burying her face in his neck. “The nights are cold without you.”

“Is that so?” Alaric grinned, a cruel glint in his eyes. “Well, I’m here to warm you up. But not in bed. Not yet.”

He stepped back, looking at the two beautiful, mature women. They were his mother and his aunt, yet they looked at him with the submission of seasoned sluts. It was a masterpiece of corruption.

“Dance for me,” Alaric commanded, settling himself onto the divan they had just vacated.

Lyra blinked, surprised. “Dance, my son?”

“You heard me,” Alaric said, his voice hardening. “I want to see my property move. I want to see you celebrate the gifts I’ve put inside you. Strip off those robes. I want to see everything.”

They didn’t hesitate. The conditioning went too deep. They let the silk robes slide from their shoulders, pooling on the floor. They stood before him naked, their bodies magnificent—full, heavy breasts with dark pink nipples, wide hips, the pale skin glowing in the magelight.

“Put on the music,” Alaric ordered, gesturing to a magical music box on the table.

Cassandra wound the box, and a slow, rhythmic melody filled the room.

“Dance,” Alaric said. “Seduce me. Show me why you deserve to carry my blood.”

They began to move. At first, it was awkward, a mother and aunt dancing for their son and nephew. But as Alaric watched, his gaze heavy and hot on their skin, they fell into it. They swayed their hips, their movements languid and erotic.

Alaric watched with a critical, predatory eye. He wasn’t being nice. He wasn’t treating them like family. He was treating them like livestock he happened to find sexually appealing.

“Closer,” he barked. “Lyra, lift your arms. Let me see them bounce.”

His mother obeyed, raising her arms, her massive breasts lifting and swaying with the movement. She bit her lip, her eyes locked on his, desperate for his approval. She gyrated her hips, dipping low, displaying the flexibility that belied her age.

“Cassandra, turn around,” Alaric commanded. “Shake that ass.”

His aunt turned, looking over her shoulder with a sultry, hooded gaze. She shook her buttocks, the soft flesh rippling.

“Good,” Alaric growled. “You look like cheap whores dancing for a copper. It suits you.”

The insult should have stung, but in their twisted state, it only seemed to heighten their arousal. They moved faster, more desperately, their bodies slick with a sheen of sweat. They touched themselves as they danced, fingers trailing over their nipples, down their stomachs, highlighting the wombs that held his children.

“We belong to you,” Lyra moaned, grinding her hips against the air. “We are yours, Alaric.”

“Damn right you are,” Alaric muttered. He watched them for a while longer, enjoying the spectacle of these two dignified women reduced to writhing sluts for his amusement. Their slender waists and flat stomachs made the knowledge of their pregnancy even more erotic to him—a secret hidden within their sexy frames.

“Enough,” Alaric said finally. He stood up, walking over to them. They were panting, their skin flushed.

He grabbed Lyra by the hair and kissed her roughly, tasting her submission. Then he did the same to Cassandra.

“You’ve done well,” he said, wiping his mouth. “Keep the babies safe. I’ll be back to check on my investment soon.”

He left them there, naked and trembling with unfulfilled lust, yearning for his touch. It was part of the training. Always leave them wanting more.

He moved on. The true hunger was clawing at his gut now. He needed something more… substantial. More primal.

He headed for Fiora’s chambers.

Fiora. His cousin. A Grandmaster Martialist. The mother of his firstborn son.

She had given birth only days ago, but he knew her constitution. The regenerative capabilities of a Grandmaster were terrifying. High-grade elixirs and her own potent Battle Aura would have knit her flesh back together faster than any normal woman.

He pushed open the door to her chambers. The room was dark, lit only by the embers in the hearth.

Fiora was awake. She was pacing the room like a caged tigress, wearing a loose training robe. When the door opened and she saw Alaric, she stopped dead.

Her eyes… they weren’t the eyes of a new mother. They were the eyes of a starving predator seeing a wounded deer.

“Alaric,” she breathed. The sound was a growl.

“How are you feeling, cousin?” Alaric asked, leaning against the doorframe, a smirk playing on his lips.

“Hungry,” she hissed.

She launched herself at him. She didn’t walk; she blurred across the room, slamming into him with enough force to crack ribs if he hadn’t reinforced his body with mana. She buried her face in his neck, inhaling his scent deeply, her teeth grazing his skin.

“I haven’t had you in months,” she snarled against his throat. “Being pregnant… feeling my body change… not being able to take you… it was torture.”

She grabbed his hand and shoved it forcefully down the front of her robe. “Feel that? I’m healed. The elixirs worked. I’m ready. I’m empty. Fill me.”

Alaric felt the heat radiating from her skin. She was right. Her body was taut, strong, and incredibly hot. The sheer vitality of a Grandmaster was intoxicating.

“Easy, tiger,” Alaric laughed, though his own blood was boiling. “You just popped out a kid.”

“And now I need to be reminded of how he got there,” Fiora said, looking up at him with wild, dilated eyes. “I need you to reclaim me. I need you to fuck the mother out of me and put the slut back in.”

Alaric didn’t need to be told twice. He kicked the door shut and threw her onto the massive bed.

The next few hours were a blur of violence and pleasure. This wasn’t the slow, degrading seduction he used on his mother and aunt. This was a battle.

Fiora fought him for every inch, her muscles coiling and snapping, her nails raking his back. She was a warrior, and she fucked like one.

Alaric met her ferocity with his own. He tore the robe off her, revealing her body. It was magnificent. The pregnancy had left her breasts larger, heavier, swollen with milk—a sign of her motherhood that turned Alaric on immensely.

“Look at these,” he growled, grabbing her heavy breasts. “Full of food for my son.”

“They’re yours!” Fiora screamed, arching her back. “Everything is yours! Use them!”

He lowered his head and sucked hard on her nipple. Fiora cried out, a sound of pleasure mixed with the sharp sting of sensitivity. He didn’t hold back. He bit and suckled, treating her rough, reclaiming her body from the infant.

“You like that?” he demanded, lifting his head. “Using my son’s food for your pleasure?”

“Yes! God, yes!” Fiora wailed, wrapping her powerful legs around his waist like a vice. “Fuck me, Alaric! Break me!”

He entered her. She was tight, incredibly hot, her inner muscles clamping down on him with crushing force. The Grandmaster physique was a marvel; she felt brand new, yet she knew exactly how to milk him.

They went round after round. Ten. Fifteen. Twenty.

Fiora’s stamina was bottomless. Every time Alaric climaxed, she would just pant for a moment, her eyes blazing, and demand more.

“Again,” she would hiss, nipping at his lips. “I’m not full yet.”

He fucked her in every position imaginable. He bent her over the bed, holding her hips as she pushed back against him with the strength of a martial artist. He pinned her against the wall, her legs wrapped around his neck. He sat on the edge of the bed while she rode him, bouncing with a frantic, desperate energy, her heavy breasts slapping against his chest.

“You’re a beast, Fiora,” Alaric panted, sweat dripping from his nose.

“I’m your bitch,” she corrected him, grinding her hips. “Your breeding bitch. That’s all I am.”

By the thirtieth round, the room was a wreck. The sheets were torn, the furniture was askew, and the air was heavy with the smell of their coupling.

Alaric was operating on pure magical enhancement now, his body pushed to the limit, but Fiora seemed to feed on it.

“One more,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. “One more. Make it count.”

Alaric grabbed her by the throat, pinning her to the mattress. He drove into her with everything he had left, a final, punishing rhythm. Fiora screamed, scratching deep furrows into his shoulders, her body convulsing in a climax so violent it shook the bedframe.

Alaric roared, emptying himself into her one last time, filling her womb with a fresh deposit of his essence.

He collapsed on top of her, breathing heavy. Fiora held him tight, her body slick with sweat, a satisfied, feral smile on her face.

“Welcome home, cousin,” she whispered, kissing his damp hair.

Alaric lay there for a moment, gathering his strength. His home base was secure. His women were… maintained. His lineage was growing.

But the hunger in his gut wasn’t satisfied. It was merely whetted.

He pulled himself up, untangling himself from Fiora’s limbs.

“Going so soon?” she asked, though she looked ready to sleep for a week.

“Work to do,” Alaric said, dressing quickly. “The Empire awaits.”

He kissed her hard on the mouth, tasting himself on her lips. “Rest. Raise my son. I’ll be back.”

He left Fiora’s chambers and returned to his workshop. He stepped through the portal, the sensation of folding space washing over him once more.