A/N:
Sorry about the monologue in advance but it’s very impoartnt to not mistake his actions when he acts!
****
Another notification bloomed in the swirling steam, bright and unapologetic.
[Congratulations, Host, on claiming your Sixth woman!]
Well.
Well, well, well.
Phei cleared his throat—the sound rough, gravelly in the enclosed glass box. The familiar warm, electric rush slammed into him square in the chest—that addictive, filthy satisfaction the system always delivered with every milestone, every conquest, every time it leaned in close and whispered:
You’re exactly where I want you. Keep going.
It sank deep, settling like a second heartbeat right behind his ribs, pulsing in time with the water.
And yeah.
It felt
fucking good
.
He wasn’t going to pretend otherwise—not even to himself.
Yesterday he’d claimed his sixth woman.
The sixth woman he’d ever fucked.
Melissa. Sierra. Maddie. Valentina. Ashford Madam. And now
Patricia Bloom
.
In that exact order.
Delilah would’ve been on the list too—if Sienna hadn’t
cockblocked
him at the worst possible moment, and if the emotional fallout from the awakening hadn’t turned the entire Maxton house into a pressure cooker where sex was the last thing anyone could think about.
Well. Almost the last thing.
The system had a way of keeping conquest pinned near the top of the priority list no matter what else was burning.
[SIXTH WOMAN GIFT:
[DxD ELEMENT: TIAMAT’S CLAIM]
[Type: Soul Brand — Active]
[Activation:
During intercourse with a designated enemy female...
The dragon’s oldest right.
Ownership.
When Host claims an enemy female during sex,
Tiamat’s Claim
brands her soul. A draconic rune of
absolute enslavement
—invisible, permanent, irreversible below God-tier intervention. She becomes Host’s. Mind. Body. Soul. She will even betray her bethrothed, husband, her family, her entire bloodline without hesitation, without regret, without a single flicker of resistance.
[Limit:
Host
must consciously
designate the target as an enemy before activation. Tiamat’s Claim cannot be placed
accidentally
or
on willing partners.
]
[Note: A dragon does not enslave those who are willingly yours (Your Harem. Only those who want to harm you and your family!]
Phei closed his eyes.
Let the scalding water pound against his face until it hurt. Steam filled his lungs, thick and heavy. The notification hovered behind his eyelids, words burning like molten gold against black.
Soul enslavement
.
He didn’t flinch.
Didn’t gasp. Didn’t clutch his chest and whisper
what have I become?
like some
hand-wringing
protagonist in a lesser story who agonizes for three Chapters before inevitably using the dark power anyway.
I am not righteous.
Far from righteous, actually, that righteous would need a fucking telescope, a map, and a prayer to even spot me on the horizon.
He’d fucked the woman he loved now the first time he got the system;
for power
.
Not for love or for connection.
For the system reward. He’d made that choice with eyes wide open, conscience deliberately quiet, and he’d make it again tomorrow—tonight—if went back in time.
Just with better care and awareness of that she’s always been protecting him.
So no
.
He wasn’t going to stand here in his teacher’s shower pretending
Tiamat’s Claim
was some terrible burden he wished he could return to sender like a cursed Amazon package.
Because here was the truth—the ugly, honest, 3 a.m. truth most people didn’t want to hear, didn’t want to look at too long:
He was going to face enemies.
A
lot
of them.
Powerful ones.
The kind that didn’t send warnings before they killed me.
The kind that smiled while they watched you bleed out, slow and pretty.
And some of those enemies were going to be women.
Beautiful.
Dangerous women.
Women who could level city blocks with a flick of their wrist, sever bloodlines with a whispered curse, cut the sky open for a shortcut between just a few estates.
Women like
Consort
. The most powerful being I’ve ever seen up close.
The woman who’d choked him with phantom hands until his eyes burst blood vessels and his cartilage splintered like dry twigs underfoot.
Who would kill him—
without hesitation, without remorse, without a single crack in that perfect porcelain composure
—the second her master gave the order.
But what if he had a chance to stop her
before
that order came?
To take the most dangerous weapon pointed at his family and turn it into
his
ally and weapon.
To neutralize the threat permanently while simultaneously gaining the most powerful ally in Paradise—
Fuck morals.
Fuck them sideways with a rusty pipe.
I’d do it without a second thought.
And she’d
enjoy
it too—while he
railed
her beautiful, murderous, world-ending body into absolute, screaming, soul-deep submission.
His family—Melissa, Sierra, Maddie, Dravenna, Bloom, Ashford Madam, Valentina, Maya, Emily, Amber, upcoming women like Elena, Adriana, and all those hot Paradise wives... every woman
he loved
and every woman
he would ever love
—
they’d be
safer
for it.
Every enemy woman branded was one less threat in the dark.
One less blade aimed at the people he’d burn the world to protect and pointed back at those who sent them.
A weapon doesn’t get to choose who holds it.
That was the thought that settled it. Clean. Simple. Final.
I didn’t make her a weapon. Her master did. I just changed who she fights for.
Now... about morality and ethics and how could he do something so terrible—
Real talk...
The system doesn’t give Phei tools he doesn’t need. It never has. Every ability has matched a real, immediate threat.
Dominance Aura arrived when the Seven were hunting him like prey.
Void-Ice erupted wrapped like it was a survival reward, while he was bleeding out in the back of an SUV, lungs filling with blood because he’d been too weak to defend himself.
The system is
reactive
. It arms him for what’s coming, not for what’s already passed.
So if it just handed him a soul-brand—an
enslavement-tier
DxD Element—right now?
That means
soul-level threats
are closing in.
Think about that.
Think about what kind of enemies are moving in the shadows that the system looked at and said:
He needs this. Now. Before it’s too late.
The people who would use those enemies against Phei—the masters, the patriarchs, the old-money puppet-masters who pull strings from behind closed doors—do you think they give a
single fuck
about morality?
Harold Maxton beat Phei’s real name out of his mouth for nine years. Nine. Fucking. Years. Of systematic, calculated, patient cruelty designed to sever a boy from his own identity, his own history, his own goddamn soul.
The Maxtons have done things to Phei’s bloodline that would make Tiamat’s Claim look like a handwritten
love
note slipped under a door.
The One Above—whatever he is—plans to break Phei and make him her slave dragon. Body. Soul. Bloodline. Everything. Doesn’t want to kill him. But wants to
own
him.
These people invented enslavement as statecraft. They’ve been doing it for millennia. With chains.
With rituals. With centuries of captivity, torture, and the slow, methodical destruction of everything a person was.
Phei’s version uses
sex.
If anyone is going to be outraged about enslavement, be outraged at the people who
built
the system in the first place.
Not the me who finally got handed a weapon that plays by their rules. Because I won’ care about horseshit judgement.
Phei is a seventeen-year-old boy with dragon blood, a growing harem, and a system that
rewards
him for conquest.
He’s not a saint.
He’s never claimed to be.
He’s not the protagonist who agonizes over every dark power and uses it reluctantly while whispering
forgive me
to the heavens.
He’s the protagonist who looks at the power, understands exactly what it is, and says
yes
.
Because here’s the final truth—the one that separated him from the hand-wringing righteous fucks who bore you to death with their moral paralysis:
Kill her or claim her.
Those are the only two options when an enemy that powerful stands against you.
He chose the kinder one.
If you still think that’s evil—you’re welcome to suggest a third option that doesn’t end with me or my women dead.
I’ll wait.
The shower kept running.
Steam curled thick around him, heavy with heat and unspoken promises.
And in Patricia Bloom’s dark, beautiful bathroom, a boy who had stopped pretending to be good a long time ago smiled at a notification that would have made lesser men tremble—and dismissed it with a casual flick of his fingers.
He had a woman sleeping in navy sheets who deserved breakfast.
First things first.
He’ll wait for the threat and like One Above had said... someone was being sent to him!