07:00 – The Tree of First Kisses, One Week After the End of the World
Morning tasted like honey and gunpowder.
Arya woke beneath the obsidian tree, crown warm against her temple, twelve bodies tangled in a single heartbeat.
Jonathan's head rested on her stomach, lips brushing the soft skin just above her navel every time he breathed.
Velira's leg was thrown over Alexander's hips; Liora's ice-cold toes pressed between Cassia's thighs; Sable's shadows had woven a living hammock that rocked them an inch above the grass.
Seven dragons snored in the branches, tails dangling like velvet curtains.
A single petal of starlight drifted down and unfolded into a letter—
parchment of liquid mercury, sealed with the sigil of the Continental Aether Cup.
The seal broke with a sigh.
To Arya Allison, Obsidian Alpha-Regent, Level 300, Death's Widow, Miracle Alpha.
You are cordially commanded to the Grand Aether Cup—
sixteen nations,
sixty-four teams,
one prize:
Rewrite the System for the entire continent.
Uniform: Liquid-Mercury Bikini, Mark VII.
Arrival: Dawn, Sky-Port Aurora.
First duel: Noon, Arena of Moaning Glass.
Bring your harem.
Bring your dragons.
Bring the kiss that broke death.
—High Arbiter Seraphine, Level 499, Voice of the Gods
Arya's laugh rolled across the meadow like thunder.
The cohort stirred, eyes blinking open in a dozen shades of sunrise.
Velira stretched, scars glowing. "Road trip?"
Alexander kissed the hollow of Arya's throat. "With dragons and orgy uniforms? Obviously."
Jonathan sat up, shy for the first time in his life. "I… get to come?"
Arya ruffled his hair. "You're the plus-one who used to be the final boss. Try to keep up."
08:00 – The Fitting Room
The tree opened like a flower, revealing a wardrobe of living mercury.
Twelve bikinis hung from branches—
each one a single sheet of liquid metal,
weightless,
self-repairing,
and warm as skin.
Arya stepped into hers first.
The mercury slid up her legs, kissed her hips, cupped her breasts, then hardened into a second skin that shimmered with every breath.
A single obsidian tooth—her crown's fang—nestled between her breasts like a pendant.
The bikini left her back bare for dragon wings, her thighs free for riding, and her brand blazing for the world to see.
Velira's version was midnight blue, shadow runes crawling across the fabric like living tattoos.
Alexander's was storm-grey, lightning threading the straps.
Jonathan's—his first ever—was soft silver, trembling whenever Arya looked at him.
They dressed the dragons too—
Phantasm in mercury barding that turned invisible mid-flight,
Ruby in crimson scales that dripped molten gold,
Echo in ghost-glass that showed every death it had ever eaten.
09:00 – Sky-Port Aurora
The port floated above the clouds—
a city of crystal spires and rainbow bridges,
dragons the size of cathedrals tethered to docks of living cloud.
Sixteen national banners snapped in the wind:
Obsidian Wing (Elyssara) – black dragon on starlight.
Solaris Empire – golden phoenix.
Abyss Academy – kraken in chains.
Celestine Convent – winged nuns with halos of frost.
Drakefire Clans – red wyverns breathing rubies.
Arya's cohort landed on the central dais.
Every head turned.
Every tongue went silent.
Then the cheering started—
not for the dragons,
not for the levels,
but for the twelve figures in liquid mercury,
walking like gods who'd learned to fuck.
High Arbiter Seraphine descended on wings of pure sound.
Six wings, six breasts, six eyes—each a different color.
Level 499 shimmered off her like heat haze.
She knelt.
Actually knelt.
"Alpha-Regent," she said, voice a choir, "your arena awaits."
11:00 – The Arena of Moaning Glass
The arena was a sphere of transparent crystal suspended inside a hurricane.
Every moan, every gasp, every wet slap echoed and amplified until the air itself vibrated like a clit.
Sixty-three teams filled the stands—
five hundred warriors in outfits that ranged from chainmail thongs to living tattoos to nothing at all.
Arya's team took the central platform:
twelve mercury bikinis,
seven dragons circling overhead,
one former final boss trying not to blush.
Their first opponents:
Team Celestine—
six winged nuns,
halos of frost,
wings of stained glass,
vows of chastity written in runes across their bare skin.
The rules were simple:
First team to make the other climax loses.
No weapons.
Only bodies, mana, and the hurricane's breath.
The bell was a moan.
11:05 – The Duel
The nuns attacked with angelic song—
sound that stroked every nerve like a tongue.
Arya answered with telekinesis—
lifting all six nuns into a floating ring,
legs spread,
wings pinned.
Velira teleported between them, shadow daggers kissing throats.
Alexander's storm runes turned the hurricane into warm rain that tasted of ozone and pussy.
Liora froze the rain into ice feathers that melted on contact.
Cassia's flames turned the feathers into steam that smelled like sex.
Sable's shadows became velvet ropes, binding wrists and ankles to the air.
The twins fused into an eight-breasted seraph, tails sliding under halos to tease clits.
Milo and Lena levitated the entire platform, spinning it so every nun faced a different lover.
Gilgamesh ran circles, tongue flicking nipples at Mach 2.
Jonathan—shy, eager—knelt and kissed the lead nun's foot, tasting frost and surrender.
The nuns lasted forty seconds.
Their halos shattered into snow.
Their wings melted into warm water.
Six simultaneous orgasms echoed through the arena like cathedral bells.
The hurricane moaned.
11:06 – The Level Rain
Golden mana rained again—
thicker,
sweeter,
sticky as cum.
Arya's bikini dissolved into liquid starlight,
re-forming an inch higher,
tighter,
leaving her brand bare for the world to see.
Level 320.
The cohort climbed with her—
Velira Level 150,
Alexander Level 120,
Jonathan Level 80 and blushing crimson.
The stands went feral.
Teams stripped mid-cheer.
Orbs exploded from overload.
The hurricane turned into a warm, wet tongue that licked every spectator.
High Arbiter Seraphine's six eyes rolled back.
She came standing up, wings fluttering, voice cracking into a soprano scream.
12:00 – The Champion's Box
They were carried to the champion's box on a tide of cheering bodies.
A bed of cloud and silk waited,
big enough for twenty,
already soaked.
Arya straddled the edge, legs spread, mercury bikini peeled to her waist.
Velira knelt between her thighs, tongue tracing the brand until Arya's hips bucked.
Alexander took Velira from behind, storm runes painting lightning across her spine.
Jonathan—still shy—knelt beside Arya, kissing every finger that had ever pulled a trigger on him.
Liora and Cassia turned the cloud bed into a frozen lake that melted under their tongues.
Sable's shadows became a dozen lovers, filling every mouth.
The twins rode Gilgamesh like a carousel, tails whipping.
Milo and Lena floated above, raining telekinetic kisses.
Orgasms rolled like continental thunder.
Each climax carved a new rune into the arena walls—
LOVE CODE in twelve languages.
13:00 – The Prize
High Arbiter Seraphine descended, naked, six wings dripping.
She knelt again, offering a sphere of pure light.
"Your wish, Alpha-Regent.
Rewrite one law for the continent."
Arya took the sphere.
She crushed it in her fist.
"No more death without consent.
Every soul gets a second kiss."
The arena exploded into white fire.
Every spectator felt their levels surge.
Every dragon roared.
Every nun blushed and came again.
Seraphine smiled—six mouths, one truth.
"The tournament has only begun.
Sixteen rounds.
Sixty-three teams.
One throne."
Arya stood, mercury bikini reforming, crown blazing.
She looked at her twelve lovers, her seven dragons, her redeemed villain.
"Then let's fuck our way to the top."
The hurricane answered with a moan that shook the clouds.
The Grand Aether Cup had its first champions—
and its first religion.