The palace gates parted like the heavens themselves had been cleaved by divine will.
A hush fell across the gathered crowd—thousands strong. High elders, beast generals, spirit kings, demon lords, and goddess-saints knelt in rows beneath burning crimson lanterns. Jade pillars lined the celestial throne hall, etched with the history of one man's conquests. At the end of the hall, where no mortal dared to tread, he entered.
The God-King. The Supreme Cultivator. The Dominator of All Realms.
Clad in flowing black robes lined with gold dragon thread, his bare chest shimmered with runic Qi. Each step cracked the marble floor with spiritual pressure. And as he approached the throne dais, the gathered women of his elite harem awaited, kneeling and nude in perfect submission.
They were not arranged randomly. No — they were the throne.
"Prepare," he commanded, voice like thunder rippling through silk.
Immediately, the throne formed:
A fox queen arched her back to become the throne's backrest, long tails wrapping protectively around its frame.
A succubus lay beneath where his legs would rest, her lips trembling as she braced herself for his weight.
Two elven twins knelt beside one another, backs forming the armrests, their heads bowed and pressed to the jade floor.
A dragonkin curled beneath the dais itself, her body bent to serve as the elevated base, glowing crests pulsing with obedient light.
Their bodies gleamed with oil, engraved with magical bindings and womb crests, glowing in crimson sync.
He climbed the steps, unhurried. Every eye in the court followed his ascent like worshippers gazing at a divine sunrise. He stepped upon the body of a yandere shrine maiden, pressing his sandal into her lower back as she moaned out loud, breath caught between pain and ecstasy.
Then he sat—and the living throne shuddered beneath him.
One of the women gasped, thighs clenched. Another licked the side of his foot with desperate need. The throne moaned as one, a harmony of surrendered flesh.
"This," he said, resting one hand casually on the breast of an elf-turned-armrest, "is power."
The gathered crowd lowered their heads further, foreheads to stone.
He raised a finger. A ripple of lustful Qi surged across the hall. Dozens of the kneeling harem members below the dais fell into orgasm, writhing in their silken robes. The scent of sweat, incense, and spiritual heat thickened the air.
He gazed down at them—not as women, not as lovers.
As possessions.
"From this day," he declared, "let it be known across the heavens: The throne of the world is no longer jade and gold. It is flesh. My flesh. Their worship. And the souls of women who belong to me—body, mind, and womb."
A roar of praise echoed through the court. Women wept in devotion. Enemies trembled. The throne beneath him breathed, kissed, and held him like the altar of a god.
And he smiled — the cruel, satisfied smile of a man who didn't sit on a throne.
He was the throne.