Champion Of Lust: Gods Conquer's Harem Paradise!

The Obsidian Grand Hall was a marvel—an impossible blend of the ancient and the modern, woven together with a level of grandeur that defied description.

Towering onyx pillars lined the vast chamber, each engraved with golden runes that pulsed faintly with arcane energy. The ceiling stretched impossibly high, adorned with an ever-shifting cosmic mural—not a mere painting, but an actual glimpse into the universe beyond, where galaxies swirled and stars flickered in real-time.

The walls carried tapestries of history, depicting wars, victories, and the rise of the Obsidian bloodline—woven not from fabric, but from living magic that allowed scenes to shift and breathe.

Yet, beneath the ancient prestige, there were touches of the modern.

Floating crystal screens displayed real-time information. Automated drones hovered silently, adjusting lighting and broadcasting the event to hundreds billions beyond these walls. The seats, luxurious and custom-fitted to each guest's stature and race, bore subtle tech-enhancements that adjusted for maximum comfort.

The hall was alive with power.

At the center, a raised onyx stage loomed—a platform reserved for only the most significant figures. And on that stage, the one commanding attention was none other than—

Anastasia Obsidian –

A single step.

That was all it took for Anastasia Obsidian to capture every gaze in the hall.

She moved with a sinful grace, her form wrapped in a gown of deep obsidian silk that shimmered with hints of midnight blue—as if she wore the night sky itself. The fabric clung to her curves in defiance of modesty, yet the elegance in her posture made it seem effortlessly regal rather than provocative.

Her green hair cascaded down her back in waves, the strands almost sentient in the way they followed her movements. And her eyes—glistening pools of violet mischief—held an intoxicating mix of intelligence, amusement, and danger.

She did not command silence. She did not demand attention.

She simply existed—and the hall yielded to her presence.

She stopped at the center of the stage, her lips curving into a slow, knowing smile before she spoke. Continue your adventure with My Virtual Library Empire

"Good evening, honored guests." Her voice was honey and venom, smooth yet laced with a subtle sharpness, ensuring that every syllable sank in.

"I welcome you all to this grand occasion, on behalf of my family. It is my honor to stand before you as the Master of Ceremonies for tonight's gathering."

A playful pause.

"—or should I say, the Mistress of this Night?"

A ripple of chuckles and amused murmurs swept through the crowd.

Anastasia's smile deepened, sensing her audience's ease. She did not bother acknowledging each powerful figure in attendance individually—not because she was unaware of their presence, but because she understood that true sovereigns did not require empty flattery.

Instead, she opted for efficiency, her tone both gracious and commanding.

"I know time is a valuable commodity, and for many of you, it is an insult to waste even a second of it. So I extend my family's gratitude to each and every one of you for taking a moment from your vast empires, kingdoms, and dominions to grace this event with your presence."

Her gaze swept across the hall, her lips quirking at the subtle shifts in expression—pride, amusement, curiosity.

"But let's be honest," she continued, eyes gleaming with mischief. "It is inevitable that one finds themselves bewitched by the grandeur of House Obsidian."

A knowing smirk. A few nobles exchanged looks, some chuckled.

"Especially," Anastasia added, "when my dear brother, Pyris Obsidian, is the one overseeing everything. I'm sure some of you are already wondering if you should pledge your alliances or your hearts."

This time, laughter erupted from the crowd—some genuine, some nervous, but all entertained.

Anastasia let them enjoy the moment before smoothly transitioning.

"Mostly young ladies. But enough distractions. It is time to honor the arrivals of those who rule over the mortal realms—the sovereigns whose very names shape the world we live in."

The laughter faded, replaced by an expectant hush.

Anastasia's tone shifted, adopting an air of graceful reverence.

"And who better to begin with than one of the oldest rulers in existence? A king of the night, an emperor of Blood—a legend among immortals."

The hall dimmed slightly, as if the very air recognized who was about to be introduced.

"Let us welcome," Anastasia announced, her voice like silk over steel,

"His Imperial Majesty—Dracula, the Vampire Emperor."

The sky outside and the halls inside darkened.

Not from clouds. Not from nightfall.

But from something deeper—a velvet abyss that swallowed the very concept of light.

The hall itself dimmed, as though the air recognized his presence before he even stepped inside. The scent of aged wine and ancient blood curled through the atmosphere, subtle yet undeniable.

Then—darkness moved.

A black carriage materialized at the entrance, its wheels silent despite the weight of its presence. It was drawn by four monstrous steeds, their ember-red eyes flickering like dying stars. Their breath curled into the night like mist, the very air suffocating under their existence.

Why a carriage?

Because it was not a vehicle.

It was a throne on wheels—a statement that Dracula did not need modern trivialities to assert his dominance. The carriage was ancient, yet pristine, untouched by time. It symbolized a ruler who had seen civilizations rise and fall, a king who had never once knelt to any force in existence.

Then—the door creaked open.

And he stepped out.

Dracula.

The Vampire Emperor.

He did not need announcements. He did not need titles spoken aloud.

His presence alone was enough to suffocate the hall into silence.

Dressed in black and deep crimson, his long coat swept the ground like flowing ink. His pale, aristocratic features were sharper than blades, his every step deliberate, unrushed.

And his eyes—twin wells of abyssal red—cut through the crowd like a scythe. Even the highest-ranked nobles instinctively looked away, as if meeting his gaze for too long would invite something far worse than death.

Behind him, his Royal Council of Vampires followed. They were silent, moving in perfect synchronization—a court of immortals who had ruled for millennia.

Among them, Blood Burn Fiend and Veyna walked with their own dark elegance.

But there was something... off about Dracula's demeanor.

His expression did not match the grandeur of the occasion.

It was not anger.

It was displeasure.

His gaze swept the hall, not in admiration, but in calculated scrutiny—as if he already found something not to his liking.

And yet, no one dared question it. Because Dracula's silence was more terrifying than most men's threats.