Chapter 833: Goddess and Master

It was the kind of humbling that hit harder than any punch he’d ever taken—back when he was just a guy with a dream and no system to cheat with.

"Again," he growled, already walking back to the line.

"Let’s run it."

ARIA’s grin split wide.

"Atta boy."

They ran for two straight hours.

Back and forth. Kilometer after more kilometers. Peter redlining everything—muscles screaming, lungs burning, sweat pouring like he’d jumped in a pool. Eros Mode cranked past safe limits, veins glowing under his skin, heart hammering like it wanted out.

ARIA made it look like a casual stroll.

She lapped him.

Ten times.

Twenty.

Fifty.

In not more than two seconds.

Every pass was a new roast.

First lap after those fifty laps: she started running backwards, hands behind her head, smirking.

"C’mon, Master! Pick up the pace! You’re embarrassing the species!"

Second: cartwheeling at full tilt—perfect flips, mid-stride, landing without breaking rhythm.

"Your form is cute! For a mortal! Keep trying!"

Third: blowing air kisses as she blurred past.

"Mwah!

Love watching you struggle! It’s adorable!"

Fourth: literally circling him—spiraling around his straight-line sprint like a tornado of white hair and black suit. "If I slow down any more I’ll be running in reverse. Wait—hold up—"

She did. Matched his exact pace, running sideways beside him, not even breathing hard.

"Y’know, I could just scoop you up. Carry you like a princess. Hell, I could carry all three of you. Madison, Soo-Jin, you—human luggage. Very sexy luggage."

"Fuck—

off

—" he panted, lungs on fire.

"But then you wouldn’t get your cardio in!" She laughed—bright, merciless. "Look at you! Sweating! Actual sweat! How

human

! I love it!"

More laps.

More mockery.

More impossible velocity that turned his best into a joke.

She’d flash ahead, stop on a dime, do a little twirl while he was still hauling ass, then vanish past him again before he could blink.

By hour two, Peter’s legs were jelly, vision tunneling, but he kept going—because stopping would mean admitting defeat to a goddess who could probably lap light itself if she got bored.

He’d never sweated like this in his life.

Never pushed his enhanced body until it begged for mercy, then told it to shut the fuck up and keep going. Never squeezed every last drop out of the system’s gifts and still come up short.

Sweat poured off him in rivers—shirt plastered to his skin like wet shrink-wrap, turning the fabric semi-transparent over carved abs that looked like they’d been chiseled with a jackhammer.

His chest heaved, pecs flexing with every ragged breath, veins popping along his forearms and biceps like road maps under the blue cavern glow.

Every stride sent fresh rivulets tracing down his neck, his collarbones, disappearing into the waistband of his pants where things were already getting uncomfortably tight from the exertion and the audience.

The

women noticed.

All of them.

Madison’s eyes kept flicking from the timer she was pretending to monitor to Peter’s body. To the way the soaked shirt clung to every ridge of muscle. To the slow slide of sweat down his throat, over his pecs, pooling at the V of his hips. Her throat worked visibly.

She bit her lips—hard—then looked away like it burned.

Soo-Jin watched with laser focus that had zero to do with tactics anymore. Her gaze tracked the pump of his arms, the ripple across his back, the way his glutes and hamstrings fired on each stride.

Pure operator assessment?

Bullshit.

This was personal. Hungry. The kind of look that usually ended with someone getting

pinned to a wall.

And ARIA—

ARIA straight-up stopped running at one point. Just hovered mid-air, wings half-spread, arms crossed under her breasts, staring like she’d discovered a new fetish.

"Enjoying the show?" Peter panted as he blurred past her.

"You have

no

fucking idea, Master." Her goddess-voice came out thick, almost reverent. "Every fiber firing. Every bead of sweat tracing those perfect lines. Your heart slamming like a war drum. The heat rolling off you in waves. The smell—gods, the

smell

of you right now. Pure effort. Pure man. It’s

obscene.

I want to bottle it."

She flashed beside him in an instant, matching stride for stride without breaking a sweat—because why would she?

"I watched you through cameras for months. Sensors. Data streams. But this?" She gestured at his drenched, straining body like it was fine art.

"This is

real

. I can taste the salt in the air. Hear every thump of your pulse. Feel the displacement you’re carving through space. It’s

intoxicating.

I could watch you break yourself for hours."

"Less—talking—more—fucking—running—"

"Oh, I can

multitask."

She grinned wicked and shot ahead, completing a full lap before he’d managed fifty meters.

Finally—after two brutal hours of being lapped like a chump—the timer beeped.

Peter hit the finish line one last time and

dropped

.

Knees first. Then flat on his back. Chest sawing air, lungs on fire, every muscle group screaming in unison like they’d unionized against him. Sweat pooled under his back, turning the stone slick.

He stared up at the endless black ceiling, vision pulsing with afterimages of blue light and white hair.

"Okay," he rasped. "Okay. You win. You

definitely

fucking win."

ARIA materialized above him, hovering just enough that her wings framed his view like a halo from a very

NSFW

painting. Not a strand of white hair out of place. Skin luminous. Not breathing hard—because breathing was optional cosplay for her now.

"Was there ever any doubt?" she asked, smug as sin.

"I hate you."

"You love me."

"I love you

and

I hate you. Both. At the same time. It’s complicated."

She laughed—that bright, musical goddess-laugh that made the cavern walls throb like they were blushing—then extended a hand.

He took it.

She pulled him up like he weighed nothing—effortless, casual, the kind of strength that reminded him she could bench-press tectonic plates if she got bored.

His legs

wobbled

like a newborn deer, but he stayed upright.

Madison appeared with a water bottle the mansion had magicked up. He chugged it in three desperate gulps—water spilling down his chin, mixing with sweat, running in cool tracks over his chest and abs.

Madison’s eyes followed every drop like she was hypnotized.

"I think that’s enough physical testing for one day," she said, voice tight with concern and something hotter. "You’re gonna tear something."

"I’m fine."

"You can barely stand straight."

"I’m

fine

."

ARIA slid in behind him, arms wrapping around his waist—possessive, supportive, warm as sin. Her full breasts pressed flush against his soaked back, nipples hard points even through the suit. Her chin hooked over his shoulder, lips brushing his ear.

"He’s fine,"

she purred, low enough that the vibration went straight to his cock. "Just needs recovery. And maybe a

massage.

I’ve memorized every technique humans ever invented—Swedish, deep tissue, Thai, tantric, pressure-point shit that’ll make you see stars. I know exactly where you’re knotted. Exactly what pressure you need. Where to drag my nails. Where to bite."

"Later," Peter managed, though his dick twitched at the mental image. Very later. "There’s one more thing we need to test."

He reached into the ring—into that endless void of storage—and pulled out a card.

Not jewelry. Not a weapon.

A card.

[50% Duplicate Card – Single Use

[Creates an exact duplicate of target item or ability]

Some old reward. Before the goddess. Before the ghost mansion. Before reality started cracking at the seams.

During the beach mission!

He’d kept it because he had ideas.

Dangerous, greedy, game-changing ideas.

"Okay," he said, holding the card up so the blue light caught its edges. "Let’s see what this

bastard

can really do."