Shield of the Rose

“Did you really feel time slow down?”

The one asking was the librarian uncle.

Espol and Madame Shar weren’t at the hotel, leaving only the uncle present.

Richie naturally discussed the recent battle with him. He originally thought the uncle would be very interested in the Alliance’s new standard armor, but didn’t expect such a strong reaction when he mentioned the final desperate strike. In Richie’s memory, this uncle had always been unhurried, as if nothing could ever surprise him.

The librarian uncle realized his reaction as well, quickly resuming his usual composure.

He certainly knew what feeling time slow down meant.

It was an ability possessed only after entering the Heavenly stage. The Heavenly stage was a massive threshold: upon reaching it, Aura merged partially with mental strength, creating what was called “Origin Energy.” Origin Energy acted upon the brain, making its processing speed insanely fast.

Thus, a Heavenly Knight’s speed and reaction time far surpassed other Knights, rendering martial arts relying on technique variations useless against them.

Richie couldn’t possibly reach Heavenly stage so quickly. The only explanation was the “Sword Saint Inheritance” taking effect.

The “Sword Saint Inheritance” and the “Holy Emperor’s Blessing” operated on the same principle: providing an opportunity for Aura and mental strength to merge.

The “Holy Emperor” was a Psion—the strongest and wisest Psion in history. The “Holy Emperor’s Blessing” he created used mental force to open the barrier between Aura and mental strength, a far safer method.

The “Sword Saint Inheritance” was a method several generations of Sword Saints spent immense effort discovering: separating a portion of their own Origin Energy and forcibly implanting it into another person’s consciousness sea. This method was extremely dangerous, but brought immense benefits.

An ordinary Heavenly Knight’s Origin Energy couldn’t compare to a Sword Saint’s; the former resembled a liquid that gathered and dispersed instability, while the latter resembled a crystal—hard, stable, and naturally reproducing given proper conditions.

Thus, Knights receiving the “Holy Emperor’s Blessing” merely reached the Heavenly stage, whereas Knights receiving the “Sword Saint Inheritance” could very well become new Sword Saints upon success.

Yet even the uncle hadn’t heard of the “Sword Saint Inheritance” granting Heavenly stage abilities in advance.

“On this matter, I’m afraid I can’t help you much either. I’ve never heard of such a thing happening.”

The uncle suddenly felt his words might be misunderstood, slowly standing up to fetch a book from a nearby shelf.

It was a very old book, its oxhide cover battered and damaged, its pages turned yellowish-brown over time.

“It might be a bit early for you to read this book…” The uncle rarely hesitated like this, but ultimately placed the book in Richie’s hands.

The book was thick and heavy, lacking a title. Flipping it open revealed hand-copied script by a scribe.

After reading just two pages, Richie’s face turned slightly pale. He finally understood why the uncle said it was too early for him to read.

It recorded training methods for after reaching the Heavenly stage.

“This is a handwritten copy of the Book of Power. The genuine Book of Power rests in the hands of the Packington royal family, recording lifetime insights of nearly every Sword Saint and Heavenly Knight in history. It’s precisely because of the Book of Power that Knights’ strength grew increasingly formidable and various training theories grew refined. Aside from it, there’s a Book of Wisdom—a holy canon for Psions—though no one knows its whereabouts. Some say the Packington royal family owns it too, keeping it hidden, while others say it was destroyed in war long ago with even copies completely lost.”

Richie’s attention was already absorbed by the book.

The book was strange, rarely mentioning concrete training steps, mostly recording personal insights.

Moreover, many insights were profound and abstract, approaching the realm of theology.

Richie felt lost in clouds, yet the written concepts felt genuinely logical to him, though he couldn’t pinpoint why.

“No need to study hard here in my room,” the librarian uncle sighed. “I have things to ask you. Espol and the others went to examine those two suits of armor, and they asked me to inquire about your subjective feelings when fighting that Honor Knight. I don’t need descriptions—those will be clear once records are read. What I need are your subjective feelings.”

“Subjective feelings?” Richie closed his eyes slightly to recall: “That armor’s performance was very stable, far more reliable than the armor I designed, but its maneuverability wasn’t as good as mine. During the fight, I always felt the opponent’s movements were somewhat stiff—and he was an Honor Knight, so it couldn’t be an operational issue.”

The librarian uncle quickly recorded it, sitting on the opposite sofa with pen and notebook in hand.

“Also that mechanism—the device making the armor’s speed burst suddenly—had very obvious signs before activating, and paused briefly at the moment of launch.”

Richie continued recalling.

The uncle recorded it down, his brow furrowing slightly. Given Poronov’s skill, he shouldn’t leave such a glaring flaw.

Richie searched his memory frantically, but during the fight he was at a disadvantage ninety-nine percent of the time, dodging desperately without time to observe his opponent.

“During that final strike, when time felt slow to you, did the Honor Knight hitch his shoulder in advance to block your blow, or did he shift moves midway after you struck?” The uncle asked a crucial question.

If the former, it proved the Honor Knight possessed rich experience to anticipate moves; if the latter, trouble was massive…

“The Honor Knight had already prepared to block my blow with his shoulder from the start,” Richie stated with absolute certainty.

The uncle breathed a sigh of relief.

Any Knight above Ace rank could execute subtle move variations after striking, some even executing multiple variations in a single move, but wearing armor rarely allowed this due to operational delay, with only Aura shifting rapidly.

That was why Knights fought mostly with Aura variations rather than direct blade strikes.

Yet that limitation vanished upon reaching the Heavenly stage. Every Heavenly Knight possessed custom armor with incredible response speed—armor with zero delay that felt like wearing a thin shirt, posing no hindrance to movement.

Such armors weren’t invented by clever designers, but copied from ancient relic armor cores, though no one knew why copying them worked; generations of armor designers knew what worked without knowing why.

To distinguish them, Heavenly Knights’ armors were called “Spirit Armor” since ancient times. Producing a single “Spirit Armor” incurred staggering costs; Packington Holy Empire possessed double-digit counts, while other nations strained to own a few. Across history, a new “Spirit Armor” emerged only once every century and a half on average—far rarer than Sword Saints or Great Craftsmen.

Thus, armor designers throughout history aimed to create armors approaching “Spirit Armor,” considering achieving even one-tenth a monumental feat.

Compared to the Norman Alliance’s new standard armor, the Dante Alliance worried far more whether Poronov could design such armor.

That would be a true disaster.

Clamor echoed down the corridor.

Richie clearly heard Madame Shar’s sharp voice.

Not many returned—aside from the two Great Craftsmen, only four master armor smiths arrived, all elderly men.

“Why are you here? I heard you were severely injured,” Madame Shar exclaimed in surprise upon seeing Richie.

“I’m young and recover quickly,” Richie didn’t elaborate.

“We just reviewed your battle record with that Honor Knight…” Espol began.

“Let’s head to the restaurant. It’s almost mealtime,” the uncle stepped out, interrupting Espol. This wasn’t a place for conversation with so many ears around.

Richie never declined such a proposal, as the Ricard Hotel’s restaurant was one of his favorite places.

Just as they sat at the dining table, Espol offered an apologetic greeting: “I must apologize for something: Boslova came to see me a few days ago.”

Hearing this, Richie’s heart sank.

Lina’s father visiting Espol boded no good news; judging by Espol’s tone, Richie had already guessed what it concerned—his family’s business.

Manufacturing combat suits was Richie’s idea, the initial formula belonged to Aunt Ling, but Espol improved it later, handling post-processing developments.

Thus, when shares were allocated initially: Richie owned twenty percent, Aunt Ling twenty percent, Haigett twenty percent representing the Junior Army, Espol thirty percent for contributing the most, and the remaining ten percent went to figures like Trisli who offered business conveniences.

“They haven’t taken action yet, right?” Richie didn’t plan to complain to Espol.

“Not yet!” Espol confirmed.

“It seems I must head back immediately!” Richie couldn’t sit still any longer.

Seeing the youth about to leave his seat, the uncle beside him held him down. With the uncle’s strength, Richie couldn’t budge at all.

“What’s the rush? A meal won’t take long or change anything.” Richie had to listen to the uncle’s words, sitting back down firmly.

“You must feel quite disappointed,” the uncle asked softly. “You’re very talented, and many people pay attention to you.”

The uncle sighed: “Yet some people in this world don’t take you seriously at all. Not just you—even Espol and Shar are ignored by many. The reason is simple: aside from talent, you possess nothing noteworthy to them. Espol and Shar fare slightly better due to their immense prestige.”

“That depends on whether you know how to use your advantages,” Madame Shar chimed in, pointing at Espol: “This guy became famous earlier than me, but his words carry less weight than mine. Know why?”

The old lady was asking Richie, though she didn’t need his answer: “He’s too easy to talk to, whereas I’m not, so people harbor a few extra fears toward me.”

The uncle didn’t respond to Madame Shar’s words. The old lady’s choice prevented her from taking losses, but made people keep their distance.

“Boslova actually pays attention to you too, but his perspective has issues: he places too much weight on certain things, like national stability. He believes only national stability can resist foreign foes, and everything he does aims to preserve that stability. In my eyes, however, everything he does amounts to protecting Republic higher-ups, preserving their positions and interests.”

The uncle spoke of Lina’s father without holding back. They were old friends, but right was right and wrong was wrong.

“Boslova’s view isn’t entirely wrong either,” Espol actually spoke up for the old man. “Facing a major enemy, wasting energy on internal conflict is seeking death. Republic higher-ups genuinely want to resist foreign foes, for if this country falls, they will lose their past glory. Even if they surrender, very few can serve as puppets to keep their positions, while most will end up with nothing. And puppets can’t last forever; once the situation stabilizes, puppets get discarded.”

“Your view aligns with Boslova’s, but I beg to differ,” the uncle debated. “Your theories rest on Monstoke being able to hold out.”

The uncle smiled faintly: “You and I know clearly that this nation cannot hold out, and higher-ups know it best—they caused this mess. Thus, they face only two choices: stay behind as puppets, or flee abroad.”

Those words silenced Espol completely.

“Those intending to stay as puppets must contribute something to the Alliance side. Ruining this country is a contribution in itself, not to mention lining their own pockets. For those planning to flee abroad, money is most vital; only unrealistic people think exiled governments have room for them. Exiled governments accept only two types: those with good reputations and influence, and those commanding armies. Thus, those planning to flee will grab whatever they can.”

The uncle’s words acted like a scalpel, exposing bloody realities beneath.

“Boslova is a tragic figure who saw this too, yet refuses to accept it,” the uncle remarked quietly.

Coming to the Ricard Hotel was meant for new armor matters, yet bad news ruined Richie’s spirits completely.

Richie didn’t even know how he left the hotel.

Once outside, he headed home immediately.

Arriving at the alley entrance, he saw his family shop still bustling with business.

Richie walked in and called his cousin out.

“What’s wrong? I’m busy!” his cousin complained.

“Hurry and find your mom and my mom. Tell them major trouble has arrived.” Richie didn’t plan to explain to his cousin.

His low mood infected his cousin immediately.

His cousin nodded blankly, saying nothing, and hailed a horse-drawn cab on the street.

Their living quarters remained unchanged: narrow, dark stairs, simple rooms without extra decorations or added furniture. Clearly, his parents knew this was a temporary residence they would move out of eventually.

After waiting half an hour, key-locking sounds echoed outside as his mom and Aunt Ling returned.

“Son, why did you return so early? Didn’t you say it would take a month and a half at least?” His mom’s voice echoed before she even came upstairs.

Once she entered the room, Richie felt a bright flash before his eyes, barely recognizing his mother.

She wore a soft-brimmed sunhat decorated with ostrich feathers, peacock plumes, and pheasant feathers, dressed in a royal blue gown tightly cinched at the waist. Though unsure how she achieved it, her figure appeared far more graceful, with light makeup showing no trace of a thirty-something woman.

His mom had always liked dressing up, but given their past poverty, she at most bought fabric to cut and sew stylish clothes herself. Now her outfit was custom-made at famous stores, with the sunhat being a gift from the Packington princess that he had passed on to her.

True beauties needing no clothing embellishments was absolute nonsense; Richie felt his mom looked ten years younger, showing zero traits of a stingy housewife, exuding an aristocratic lady’s elegant aura.

Richie also spotted Aunt Ling behind his mom.

Aunt Ling’s attire also brightened his eyes. She clearly didn’t want to steal his mom’s spotlight, adopting an elegant, mysterious style: a white pillbox hat over an Cleopatra-style short bob, and a plain deep-purple silk gown accentuating her slim figure, with skin peaking through thin silk sparking endless imagination.

“What? Stunned?” His mom felt immensely proud of her son’s staring gaze; twenty years ago when she was young, many men stared at her like that, but such opportunities vanished after marriage and motherhood.

“Didn’t cousin tell you…” Richie asked curiously.

“What’s there to say about those petty troubles?” His mom waved her hand: “We aren’t blind; could we miss leaflets all over the street signed by the Junior Army?”

Richie breathed a sigh of relief. Since his mom said so, it meant they had discussed countermeasures.

Suddenly, he recalled his mom and Aunt Ling’s expensive outfits—they evidently didn’t want to leave money for others, spending freely recently.

“Cousin doesn’t seem to know about these things,” Richie asked.

“Of course we couldn’t tell her; her IQ has dropped sharply recently,” Aunt Ling complained from the side. “Some rascal used unknown tricks to charm that girl.”

Aunt Ling vented her built-up frustration: “How did I give birth to such a foolish daughter? Anyone can see that guy harbors bad intentions, visiting our factory constantly and trying to sneak into my workshop under various pretexts—isn’t it just to get my formula?”

Richie nearly jumped up: “Could he be a spy?”

“Do you think I’m stupid? Once I found out, I asked Haigett to investigate. The result was that he definitely isn’t a spy, but Haigett didn’t tell me more, seemingly quite wary of that guy’s background.”

Richie felt surprised; in his memory, Haigett was slick and shameless, acting recklessly while finding plausible pretexts, yet even he harbored reservations?

Aside from surprise, Richie experienced a sour feeling inside.

His relationship with his cousin was special—resembling playmates and lovers alike. No man remained indifferent upon hearing his woman found another man.

“Jealous?” His mom poked Richie’s ear playfully with a smile, while Aunt Ling giggled beside her.

Richie felt embarrassed—not because his mom saw through his mind, but because her gesture felt more like teasing.

“Seeing your calm expressions, you must have countermeasures prepared,” Richie shifted topics hastily.

“Of course!” His mom raised her chin proudly: “Your aunt came up with the idea: we just reached agreements with the Luosuoto Empire and Packington Holy Empire to establish large branch factories in both countries. In a few months, your aunt and I will go abroad.”

Aunt Ling added: “Those two branch factories were built on loans, but we don’t need to repay them. The Alliance just placed an order for sixty thousand combat suits, providing raw materials themselves while we handle processing. Once the order finishes, those branch factories become ours.”

Richie gasped secretly; when these two women joined forces, they calculated everything flawlessly.

Establishing branch factories served as a pretext to transfer assets abroad, preventing higher-ups from acting out of greed.

Using loans to build factories meant those branches belonged to the Luosuoto Empire and Packington Holy Empire until loans were repaid. Higher-ups wanting to pull tricks had to check if those two nations agreed first.

An order for sixty thousand combat suits would take forever to complete.

As for whether his mom and Aunt Ling would return after going abroad, God only knew. Knowing people harbored bad intentions against them, staying would be courting trouble.

“What about dad?” Richie regretted encouraging his dad to keep that job.

Yet regret bought no medicine. He had assumed his family was protected, so no one would target them, unaware of how ruthless people could be for profit.

“He’s doing well, following what you said back then, mingling with tough guys—colleagues and foreigners alike. I heard they’re forming a Transportation Association,” his mom spoke casually, but Richie caught pride in her tone.

“Transportation Association?” Richie’s eyes lit up suddenly.

He recalled the librarian uncle’s words: he was talented, but lacked influence or power, so no one valued him.

Meanwhile, Haigett’s comments about the sit-in protesters popped into his head.

Ninety percent were hot-blooded patriots, ten percent were ambitious figures, yet leadership fell to the ambitious ones.

Richie had listened casually then, but pondered it deeply now.

He understood the reason: patriots possessed hot blood, but didn’t know what to do. Most knew the nation had problems and where they lay, but lacked solutions.

Making a nation prosperous was a massive proposition for anyone.

Ambitious figures were different; they held clear goals to climb upward, which proved far more realistic than making a nation prosperous.

Clear goals meant clear plans, and with financial backing, climbing upward wasn’t hard—far easier than slowly accumulating seniority through officialdom.

That was why so many people were interested in politics.

Richie hadn’t thought of doing so before, considering himself and his family ordinary small-town citizens who rarely touched politics.

Yet small-town citizens weren’t entirely detached from politics. Years ago, when Glasslovar’s city council planned to rebuild the main road to Sava and levy taxes for it, the whole city protested, with his uninvolved dad taking to the streets too.

Small-town citizens engaged in politics when their direct interests were at stake.

In wartime, what interest surpassed surviving the conflict? Using that slogan with his dad leading could rally a massive crowd.

“How much do you make monthly now?” Richie asked.

“Subtracting labor and material costs, around fifty thousand. But the fat guy at the tax bureau hinted that a special war tax of seventy-five percent will be levied on us in two months,” Aunt Ling, managing finances, knew best.

Richie understood why the two women rushed to move factories abroad—higher-ups were squeezing them dry.

Richie gnashed his teeth in hatred, resolving to settle accounts when given the chance.

“The fat guy hinted several times that people are unhappy with us associating with Haigett. If we withdraw Haigett’s shares and transfer them…” Aunt Ling watched Richie’s expression, stopping as she saw his displeasure.

“Can such people be trusted?” his mom curled her lip. Unlike Aunt Ling’s business worldliness, she had argued with her sister several times: “Officials are dark-hearted; they’ll take a share first, meddle in business next, and eventually push us out to steal everything.”

“Are we that stupid? Besides, without Haigett, don’t we have Espol? Would they dare offend Espol?” Aunt Ling’s logic was sound.

“Someone already approached Espol, and he’s preparing to back off, likely transferring his shares to others,” Richie said coldly.

The words struck like thunder, silencing both women—an outcome they hadn’t anticipated.

His mom glared at Aunt Ling triumphantly, having insisted on refusing cooperation and moving factories abroad.

Aunt Ling lacked courage to look at her sister, realizing her narrow perspective had underestimated high-level tactics.

Richie didn’t notice their interaction, calculating his next move.

Before acting, he had to make his family recognize current realities.

This time was pure luck: his mom made a correct choice by refusing cooperation, avoiding double-dealing that would invite deeper hatred.

Richie repeated what he heard from the librarian uncle. Outsiders saw clearly; the uncle’s foreign perspective proved far more convincing.

The two women felt terrified listening, and once Richie finished, his mom clapped her hands: “I told you! Following officials brings no good—they don’t care about us, and they’re on a sinking ship themselves.”

“Even a sinking ship can crush us easily, not to mention your husband is still in their hands,” Aunt Ling refused to concede.

She knew with Richie present, they wouldn’t quarrel.

“Forget it. This was bound to happen—who told us to become rich without power?” Richie stepped in to stop potential arguments: “Here’s the plan: follow your original idea to move factories abroad and leave this place. We don’t need to worry about Emily, as for dad…”

Richie pondered for a while. He had many choices now: Haigett was one route, the librarian uncle another.

Ultimately, Richie decided to ask Trisli for help; dad’s transport coordination naturally required coordinating with foreign military supply departments, making a transfer easy.

Gathering connections previously aimed for escape, but those connections needn’t be abandoned.

The Republic regulated Knights strictly, but proved lenient with political party formation: requiring three members, a procedure, a headquarters room, and annual fees.

Richie had even devised the party slogan: “Equality, Mutual Aid, United Self-Preservation”—not flashy, but touching wartime hearts.

He didn’t expect a massive party; gathering a few thousand members would form a significant force.

Then he thought of himself.

The uncle’s words stimulated him: talent alone proved useless; real value lay in power and status.

Take Haigett: his talent was decent, but in Squad 105, Lina, Dana, and even Merlin far surpassed him.

He held his position not just through ability, but largely because of the Junior Army’s existence.

The Junior Army was an all-Knight organization valuing ability and talent. Haigett hinted several times that joining would grant him a captain rank immediately.

Internal captain ranks aligned with official military ranks.

Joining the Junior Army was the simplest route to boost his power.

The question was: how to join?

Richie certainly wouldn’t seek out Haigett directly; unsolicited offers held little value, whereas hard-won items were treasured.

What could attract Haigett and justify entering the Junior Army?

Richie pondered deeply, an idea striking him suddenly.

Haigett cared most about new standard armor. What if he offered another new armor design?

He lacked many things, but never lacked wild designs. His collection of booklets contained thirty to forty brilliant ideas.

Running to his room, Richie moved his mattress aside.

A loose wooden board beneath revealed a large oiled paper bundle.

Richie pulled it out carefully.

All booklets related to armor design were hidden here.

He didn’t want others knowing his “genius” designs were stolen from others’ work.

Just as he unwrapped the paper, footsteps echoed on the stairs. Opening the door, he saw Aunt Ling walking up quietly.

Slipping into his room, Aunt Ling closed the curtains quickly, walking over to Richie with swaying hips.

“Hearing me say your cousin found a boyfriend earlier must have felt terrible, right?” Aunt Ling sat close to Richie, her left index finger drawing circles on his chest, while her right index finger scraped gently over his crotch.

Before Richie could speak, Aunt Ling giggled softly: “What your cousin wants, you can’t give her; what you want, she can’t give you. Choosing her was wrong from the start—you should have come to me. I need no promises, and I can give you everything. My skills are far better than your cousin’s.”

Richie’s throat felt dry. He had done everything with Aunt Ling, but even during real encounters in the past, he wore blindfolds, feeling a distant gap.

“Tell me, how did your cousin serve you?” Aunt Ling’s tongue licked Richie’s ear gently.

Richie’s heart fluttered as he pulled Aunt Ling into his arms.

Unexpectedly, Aunt Ling swayed her waist and slipped away.

“Don’t be so impatient! Your assets are indeed impressive,” Aunt Ling poked Richie’s dick through his pants: “Pity you only know pounding away without understanding romance. Women need physical satisfaction, but emotional satisfaction matters more.”

“Play romantic games? I don’t have the time,” Richie shook his head. His time was packed: reading books to reach Ace rank, boosting his status—he barely had time to visit Emily lately.

“It’s for your own good,” Aunt Ling pressed her body close, her mature womanly scent making Richie’s blood boil.

Unable to resist any longer, he scooped Aunt Ling up by her waist.

“Think about the girls over there—they follow you now because they depend on you, not because you’ve charmed them completely. If you remain unromantic, they might grow tired of you just like your cousin.”

Aunt Ling’s words hit Richie’s sore spot, making him set her down sheepishly.

“No need to be discouraged. Your conditions are great: strength, bright future, good looks, and extraordinary assets below. You just need a little training.”

Aunt Ling sat on Richie’s thigh.

She raised Richie’s right hand, placing it on her waist.

“Try unbuttoning my dress using just one finger.”

As if demonstrating, Aunt Ling’s slender finger glided across Richie’s crotch, unbuttoning his pants one by one with incredible dexterity. Her pinky reached into his pants, flicking slightly to release his massive shaft.

Richie’s shaft sprang straight out like a spring, its glans glinting.

Aunt Ling scraped Richie’s penis with her pinky, from base to glans.

Her technique wasn’t overly sophisticated, but combined with her teasing expression, it made Richie’s blood boil.

He wanted to pull Aunt Ling onto the mattress and take her right there.

“Try it. If you do well, I’ll let you try a fresh way of playing,” Aunt Ling whispered in Richie’s ear.

Any youth was interested in fresh things, and Richie was no exception. Guided by Aunt Ling, he extended a finger to slide across her dress buttons.

A Knight’s motor nerves far surpassed ordinary people. With a little trial, he caught the trick: unbuttoning relied on fingertip sensation rather than force, allowing buttons to slip out naturally as fabric tension pulled them open.

Looking at the exposed white skin through narrow gaps, a spark of inspiration flashed in Richie’s mind!

He had been pondering how to refine his movement techniques.

Creating air gaps or vacuums was easy, but scale posed the issue: small scales were useless, while large scales consumed too much Aura.

Richie’s finger sliced through the air gently, sensing turbulence created by his fingertip.

Several turbulences blocked air flow as envisioned, expanding into larger turbulences, but subsided before growing massive. Some turbulences cancelled each other out, while others generated new turbulences that destroyed the originals.

Richie’s hand moved rapidly, his fingers gliding over Aunt Ling’s body while maintaining a hair-width distance from her skin.

Though not making direct contact, air waves generated by his fingertips reached Aunt Ling, feeling like sharp nails scraping gently.

Itching all over, Aunt Ling found the sensation unbearable.

Suddenly, with several tearing sounds, the deep-purple silk dress turned into strips of fabric, falling away gently.

The strips looked sliced by sharp razor blades, cuts perfectly neat without touching Aunt Ling’s skin!

“That dress was expensive!” Aunt Ling shrieked.

“I’ll buy you a better one,” Richie felt exceptionally cheerful, wrapping his left arm around Aunt Ling’s waist and his right around her legs, lifting her whole body up.

Placing Aunt Ling down slowly, his thick shaft inserted into her tight vagina in a single stroke.

Coated in slick fluid, it penetrated straight to the hilt.

“I promise to learn how to be romantic, but let me vent first—I can’t hold back anymore.”

Richie laid Aunt Ling across the desk, her voluptuous buttocks hanging off the edge—an ideal position for powerful thrusting.

His movements were deep and full: withdrawing completely before thrusting all the way in, pushing twice more at the end.

His left hand wasn’t idle, his thumb inserting into Aunt Ling’s anus, which felt clean as if washed before coming upstairs.

Under such powerful thrusting, Aunt Ling felt her body no longer belonged to her, dominated by overwhelming pleasure from top to bottom.

Her remaining sanity made her stuff fabric strips into her mouth, preventing loud noises from reaching her sister listening downstairs.

Her sister knew what she came upstairs for—a normal matter sisters understood implicitly. Her sister also wished to taste that bone-melting pleasure, but held back due to mother-son relations, so she wouldn’t mock her.

Yet if she made a mess and babbled nonsensical words, her sister would tease her relentlessly downstairs—an utterly embarrassing prospect.

Pounded fiercely for ten minutes, Aunt Ling felt sexual pleasure reach a climax, on the verge of orgasm anytime. Just then, she felt the massive rod inside thin down, followed by her cervix being pushed open.

She struggled fiercely—that trick was no joke, having nearly cost her life once before.

Unfortunately, fabric in her mouth reduced her cries to muffled whimpers, sounding like weeping or extreme stimulation.

Accumulated pleasure exploded like a warehouse of kerosene ignited by a match.

Aunt Ling felt her brain go blank, leaving only unbearable, intense ecstasy.

Thick juices trickled along her white, plump buttocks down to the floor, forming a glistening thread in midair.

Richie’s shaft inserted fully into Aunt Ling’s body, even his testicles submerged inside.

His hands pressed her perineum and coccyx, extending her orgasm duration as long as possible.

His penis vibrated slightly too. Every time he made love with Aunt Ling, he allowed himself to ejaculate, unsure why, but deep down sensing that making love with Aunt Ling represented real intercourse.

With Emily and other women, he gained conquest pleasure, enjoying seeing them collapse under his rod. In Squad 105, sex served cultivation, with pleasure being a byproduct of rapid strength breakthroughs.

With a low grunt, Richie felt his seed burst forth, while a concentrated stream of “gas” surged into his body.

Not the first time, Richie guided this “gas” into his body without hesitation.

This “gas” felt far heavier than previous streams.

Following past experience, Richie gathered a trace of Aura on his glans, which Aunt Ling’s internal suction absorbed completely.

Suddenly, another stream of “gas” surged in, and Richie absorbed it all.

He knew as long as Aunt Ling remained in orgasm, more streams of “gas” could be extracted.

This brought immense benefits: these “gases” resembled Aura carrying power seeds, but once converted into Aura, the power seeds belonged to him entirely.

He suspected this was the source of Aura. Ordinary people possessed such Aura sources, but couldn’t construct internal circuits, leaving the source stagnant like dead water.

Richie injected a bit more Aura into Aunt Ling, which benefited her as well, nourishing her body like rainwater on dry soil.

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