Becoming the King of A New Filthy World



Power stone guys☺️☺️☺️

———

"Excuse me, Master Lucas," a melodious voice breaks through the air as the door gently swings open, revealing a woman poised with an air of sophistication.

The room in which this scene unfolds is none other than the opulent study nestled atop the castle within my domain.

A space that exudes grandeur and elegance, this study pays homage to the esteemed lineage of the Villebéon family, a name synonymous with nobility and tradition.

Its vast expanse is enveloped in the plush embrace of a crimson carpet, while towering bookshelves adorn all four walls, their shelves adorned with a treasure trove of knowledge.

Amidst the symphony of silence, I perch upon a ladder propped against a bookshelf, intently seeking out a hidden gem within the literary labyrinth.

My focus remains steadfast on my task, my fingers dancing over the leather-bound spines of tomes as I extract a book swathed in the richness of sheepskin.

With a decisive step, I traverse the room and grace the mahogany expanse of my desk, the weight of parchment and scrolls bearing silent testament to the matters that command my attention.

As if choreographed, Aryanna, my ever-dutiful aide, ushers herself through the doorway. Her entrance is marked by a subtle bow of deference, a gesture that carries the grace of familiarity.

Clad in a harmonious ensemble, Aryanna's attire is a masterpiece of understated elegance. A deep blue suit forms the foundation, its hues echoing the regal ambiance of the room.

A pristine white blouse peers out beneath, lending an air of freshness to the ensemble. However, it is the snug skirt that weaves its magic, a garment that curves and contours, embracing her waist with a tailored precision that hints at her slender form.

As the designated heir of the esteemed Villebéon lineage and in my capacity as the Count's confidante, Aryanna epitomizes a grace and refinement that is unparalleled. Her figure, one of delicate elegance, graces every space she enters.

A slender silhouette, her presence is an embodiment of poise and allure that captures attention effortlessly. Yet, what sets her apart is the unassuming allure lent by the rimless glasses perched upon the bridge of her nose.

In a sedate, almost unhurried manner, Aryanna approaches the expanse of my desk, where I, Lucas, preside as both the head of the distinguished Villebéon family and the Ruler of this House.

Her measured steps resonate with an air of purpose, echoing the many tasks she so seamlessly undertakes within these hallowed walls.

"Master Lucas," her voice, a gentle cadence, slices through the silence, pulling my thoughts from the pages of the book and into the present moment.

My response emerges as a mere echo, a murmur that barely breaches the boundaries of consciousness, "huh...?" The words are accompanied by a slight tilt of my head, a movement that breaks the gaze I had fixed upon the open tome.

Meeting her gaze, even for a fleeting instant, I am confronted with the earnestness that radiates from her intelligent eyes. Without lingering, my gaze drops once more, fixating on the expanse of a thick book that occupies the center of my desk.

From Aryanna's perspective, it would undoubtedly appear as though I were engrossed in transcribing or deciphering the text from the open book onto the pages of a notebook.

The elegant fountain pen clasped in my right hand danced across the paper, ostensibly capturing profound insights. Yet, the lines that materialized on the pages held no semblance of coherent content—just a chaotic arrangement of ink marks.

This calculated façade of engrossment served a dual purpose: both to preserve an air of detachment and to dismiss the captivating presence of the alluring female secretary who graced the room.

"Master Lucas..." The mellifluous sound of my name wafts from Aryanna's lips once more, a tone threaded with a mixture of concern and pity.

Unperturbed by her gentle entreaty, I choose to maintain my detachment, my icy demeanor manifesting itself in the cool air that envelops my responses.

This deliberate coldness forms a fragile veil meant to shield the depth of emotions stirring within. With her standing so near, her beauty, intellect, and proximity tug at the threads of my self-control.

Aryanna's poignant murmur is tinged with a hint of sorrow—a reflection of her empathy for the enigmatic aristocrat that is me.

The suave attire of an aristocrat adorns me immaculately, my suit a perfect ensemble of refinement and precision. But in the midst of this immaculacy, I remain impervious to the charms of the captivating female secretary who shares my study.

It is a conscious act, the act of overlooking her presence in a manner that hints at both a stern formality and an internal struggle.

As I pretend to immerse myself in the volumes before me, my gaze flickers and abstracts more than mere words from the scene—the curve of her lips, the softness of her countenance, the grace with which she holds herself.

As the atmosphere hums with the tension between feigned indifference and undeniable attraction, Aryanna's voice takes on a weight beyond words,

"Master Lucas..." The phrase hangs in the air, a gentle reminder of her presence, a subtle plea for making her presence known.

After an extended stretch of silence, it's Aryanna who finally breaks the stillness with her soft words. "Master Lucas, shall we commence the morning service?"

With practiced ease born of repetition, Aryanna gracefully maneuvers herself under the desk, her movements fluid and efficient. She kneels, unhesitatingly assuming her designated place at my feet.

This daily ritual is as familiar as the sun's rise, and there's no room for uncertainty or extraneous motions.

And yet, even as Aryanna—the embodiment of intellectual prowess and physical allure—adheres to the established routine by nestling herself beneath the desk and assuming her submissive stance, my attention remains steadfastly fixed on the expanse of the desk before me.

Wordlessly, a silent agreement passes between us, a dynamic that needs no verbal articulation. Aryanna's hands deftly grasp the edge of my plush chair and gently roll it forward, adjusting it to the precise distance she requires.

It's an act of unspoken cooperation that plays out seamlessly, as if the choreography of this daily performance has been etched into our souls.

As the chair glides forward, I can sense her presence inching closer, her intention unspoken but unmistakably clear.

Without the need for verbal cues, I feel the gradual pressure against my lower body, the subtle nudge that guides my crotch toward the proximity of her waiting face.

A rush of warmth and anticipation courses through the air, thick with an electrifying tension that crackles between us. My gaze remains locked on the desk's surface, my resolve unyielding even as my senses register every nuanced movement she makes.

The line between formal decorum and the unspoken desire pulsating in the air hangs taut, teetering on the precipice of a shift.

And then, her voice—a sultry timbre that strikes a chord within my being—breaks through the hush. "Ah... Sir Lucas..." The words tumble from her lips, a mixture of reverence and fervent yearning that bridges the gap between duty and the raw undercurrent of longing.

———

(A/N: Hello guys done reading. If yes, send a power stone, 1 power stone is also enough we just have to increase fan value, so 1 power stone is enough, but if you like the novel I won't mind if you send more stones, and plz don't forget the gifts.)

Thank you very much for all your support.

I will upload 5 extra chapters for every 1 magic castle🏰 . If someone is interested and want extra chapters. You know what to do. 🏰