Champion Of Lust: Gods Conquer's Harem Paradise!-Chapter 399: Planting Seeds

Pyris Obsidian: The Ruin of Restraint

Pyris Obsidian stood beneath the relentless stage lights, a force of presence that demanded attention. He wasn't just another man in a suit—he was the man in the suit, and the entire room knew it.

His midnight-blue jacket fit like it had been sculpted onto him, moving with him like a second skin. Beneath it, a black shirt—unbuttoned just enough—hinted at something effortless, something reckless. A single silver chain caught the light against his collarbone, subtle but sharp. His left hand bore a sleek black ring, understated yet impossible to ignore, much like the man himself.

His hair? Tousled just enough to look careless yet intentional. His face? Sharply cut, a perfect blend of refinement and danger, with cheekbones that cast shadows and lips that carried the promise of something sinful.

But his eyes—that's where the real trouble started.

Dark, piercing, and hungry. They moved over the crowd like a slow drag of heat, passing over faces he didn't care for—until suddenly, he did.

And just like that, the air shifted.

Their gazes were already on him. There they were. A collection of power, beauty, and impossible allure. Their gazes locked onto him, each one different—some curious, some challenging, some unreadable. And Pyris? He felt it. The weight of their stares pressing against his skin, the slow burn of something ancient and undeniable sparking in his veins. Lust curled low in his gut, thick and insatiable. It owned him.

Something inside him stirred—no, awakened.

A force. A need. A presence that whispered, Take.

None of them flinched. Some were curious, some unreadable, some daring him to break first.

Pyris? He wasn't looking away. If anything, the heat inside him grew.

It wasn't just attraction—it was possession, ancient and undeniable. Something deep in his core curled around the weight of their stares, whispering, Take.

The Elf Empress. Elegant, lethal, watching him like she was measuring something unseen. He could feel the challenge in her stare, sharp as a blade.

Ambrosia. Regal, untouched, the kind of woman who had never been claimed. That made Pyris want to be the first.

Madam Serenova. Poised, unreadable—except for the flicker, the faintest hesitation in the way her lips parted when she caught his stare. A crack in the ice. A door he'd like to step through.

The Witch Queen. Ancient. Unknowable. A presence that curled around the edges of reality itself. Most men would hesitate. Pyris wasn't most men.

The Demon Empress. Power incarnate. The promise of something ruinous wrapped in a form too tempting to resist.

He felt it—a slow, insistent thrum at the base of his spine. A low heat curling in his gut, burning, demanding. His fingers twitched. He wanted. Their eyes were onto him like predators sizing up prey. Powerful women. Dangerous women. Untouchable women. And yet—he felt it, deep in his bones. That primal, burning want. Lust that curled through his veins, thick and undeniable. His fingers twitched at his side. The things he could do to them.

Women in the audience clutched their chests, some fanning themselves, others outright collapsing into their seats. A few whispered prayers—whether for salvation or the strength to survive this moment, no one knew.

— "Is this allowed? Is this even fucking legal?"

— "I need a minute. Or an hour. Or a therapist."

— "Mom, I want one."

— "What do you mean, 'one'? Girl, you can't handle that."

Even some of the men shifted uncomfortably, suddenly unsure where to look, afraid that direct eye contact might drag them into whatever spell had just been cast.

And those women—the ones who had held his gaze? They felt it too. That pull. That weight. That slow, intoxicating unraveling of restraint. Because Pyris Obsidian wasn't just standing there.

He was devouring them with his eyes. freewebnσvel.cѳm

And the worst part?

Some of them wanted to be consumed.

And then, before he even realized it—he moved.

A single step forward.

And the world stopped.

Breaths caught. Eyes widened. Conversations died mid-sentence.

Then, the inevitable crack of chaos.

The silence had stretched, thick and charged, as if the very air had turned to glass, waiting to shatter at the slightest touch before Pyris had made his move.

A slow, deliberate step, each motion precise—unhurried yet commanding, a force that pulled every gaze in his wake. He carried himself with the kind of confidence that wasn't learned but innate, woven into the very fabric of who he was. The weight of a thousand unspoken desires, lingering in the air like an unsaid confession, clung to him as he closed the distance to her.

The Elf Empress.

She sat poised, as regal as ever, draped in elegance and laced with the kind of danger that came only from a woman who knew her worth. But even she—composed, untouchable—wasn't immune to his presence.

Pyris could see it in the way her breath slowed as he approached.

In the way her fingers, resting lightly on the table, tensed ever so slightly.

In the way her sharp, assessing eyes flickered just once—not with hesitation, but with something else. Something unspoken.

Something primal.

He stopped before her, his shadow cutting across the candlelit table, and reached for her hand. Not forcefully. Not urgently. But inevitably.

"Your Grace," he murmured, his voice rich, low, like velvet dragged over dark steel. A sound meant for shadows, for whispered promises in the dead of night.

His fingers brushed against hers, warmth seeping into the coolness of her skin, his touch deliberate—too deliberate. He didn't just take her hand; he claimed the moment, letting the tip of his thumb ghost over her knuckles, slow, unhurried, as if savoring the sensation.

The corner of his mouth lifted, a smirk not of arrogance, but understanding.

"A vision, as always," he added, his tone dipping into something deeper, something that curled at the edges of control. The words were laced with admiration, but Pyris knew how to wield praise like a blade. This wasn't just an acknowledgment of beauty. It was an invitation.

The Empress stilled—just for a breath.

It was subtle, nearly imperceptible, but Pyris caught it.

That moment where something in her shifted, the compliment sinking in deeper than she'd meant it to. The way her lips parted just slightly before pressing together again, as if to stop a reply that almost slipped. The way her throat moved in the smallest swallow, as if she'd tasted something unfamiliar.

A woman like her had heard every line, every pretty word, every empty attempt at flattery.

And yet, for a heartbeat, Pyris had made her pause.

Her voice, when it came, was smooth, untouched by the moment's weight—but he knew better.

"Flattery doesn't work on me, Pyris Obsidian."

A challenge. A warning. A game she wasn't willing to play—or maybe was, just not in the way she wanted to admit.

Pyris' smirk deepened.

"I wasn't flattering you," he said, his thumb pressing just a fraction more against her knuckles, his voice dipping into something quieter—just for her, just between them.

"I was speaking the truth."

And this time—she didn't reply right away.

For just a second, the room didn't exist.

For just a second, there was only his hand on hers, his voice curling through the air like a slow-moving flame, and the lingering question in her eyes.

Then, as if remembering herself, she withdrew—graceful, composed, but not unaffected.

Not untouched.

And Pyris? He let her go.

For now.