Catching my breath, I wait as Kejun brings me the white handkerchief. Evangeline has left the bench and now sits beside Lyra on the bed. Their hushed conversation intrigues me—they appear surprisingly calm and at ease.

  Five vivid red stains bloom across the handkerchief. I smile, satisfied. Lyra didn't lie: the youngest princess of the Hightower Empire was a virgin.

  And now I’ve claimed that virginity—not through whispered promises or tender seduction, but through raw, unmasked power. The thrill is narcotic—exquisit in its purity.

  In truth, I can barely recall the sensation—my focus remained fixed on the prize. I collect trophies, not experiences. In sex as in politics, the victory matters more than the campaign. And my ultimate prize—the one that consumes my waking thoughts—the position of General Secretary.

  It should have been mine in 2012. Jingtao Hu, General Secretary of the time, backed me. But his predecessor, Zengming Jiang, preferred someone pliable. He rallied the old guard against me. They chose Diping Xi, relegating me to Prime Minister—a mere steward of the economy.

  We all misjudged Xi. His docile mask concealed a serpent. He was supposed to be a caretaker, focused on foreign policy and stability. Instead, he seized my portfolio, erected labyrinthine economic committees, and reduced me to a ghost haunting my own office.

  The weakest Prime Minister in Party history. A punchline.

  Since then, humiliating woman has become my drug. Bondage, domination, degradation, filth—every cruel technique a desperate performance of control. Yet beneath it all festers the truth I can never escape: my own impotence. My own failure.

  Only one thing can redeem me—seizing the General Secretaryship in 2017.

  Fortune favors me in one crucial detail: I am one year younger than Xi. The year that happens to matter. I will have the last laugh, and I will exact my revenge.

  I raise the handkerchief to my nose and inhale. The scent of fresh blood—Hightower blood—is intoxicating. Politics can wait. Tonight, I revel in this singular ecstasy: taming the Hightower heir.

  I hand the handkerchief to Kejun, my nurse since my days in Liaoning Province. She knows the ritual. She retrieves a gold pen and steps toward Evangeline. The pen was a gift from Merkel, the female Chancellor of Germany. Perfect for such occasions.

  "May I have your signature, please," Kejun says with practiced civility—just enough steel beneath the politeness.

  Ms. Hightower freezes momentarily, then signs the corner with elegant resolve.

  Another addition to my trophy room—my 235th collection. But this one is unique. This one commands pride.

  Lyra whispers into Evangeline's ear. The Hightower princess turns to study me with unnervingly steady eyes. Most women would be sobbing hysterically by now, broken and begging. Not her.

  I’d planned to break her—torture, humiliation, the whole nine yards. With only those methods she signed up for, of course. I honor protocol, always. Without it, I wouldn't be the genteel Prime Minister the media portrays me as.

  But now I have doubts. She surprised me. Not just with her blockchain acumen, but with her insight into our Republic.

  She’s dangerously composed—twenty-five, yet seasoned beyond her years. Under duress, she stays unshaken. That unsettles me. That impresses me.

  We need minds like hers. The Republic needs people like her.

  The same Republic, Xi sees decay. I see opportunities. Yet, only optimists bring wealth and prosperity to the people.

  Sure, we have problems—housing bubbles, wealth gap, crushing debts, and systemic corruption. But growth is the balm that soothes all wounds. Wealth distracts. Wealth pacifies. Let the pie grow, and people will forget the rot.

  If the elite get the lion’s share? So be it. Everyone in this country holds some privilege—tools to leverage.

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  Teachers favor those who bring gifts. Doctors prioritize patients bearing red envelopes. The system is transactional at every tier—bus drivers, firefighters, bank clerks, police, community gatekeepers, even grandmas with red armbands.

  Normalize self-serving behavior at every rung of society, and you condition the masses to accept corruption among officials not as scandal—but as inevitability.

  Power becomes currency. Currency purchases care.

  The powerless? They deserve their fate—trampled beneath society's march toward greatness.

  To dream of purging corruption from an authoritarian system with unchecked power is breathtaking na?veté. To root out these incentives is to strip our cadres of motivation to fuel growth.

  Growth is our religion. Growth is our salvation. We've worshipped at this altar for three decades—and it continues to answer our prayers.

  And blockchain can amplify this miracle.

  The Party fractures into two ideological camps on economic growth: production fundamentalists versus wealth generators.

  I stand unwaveringly with the latter.

  Wealth fuels investment; investment drives production. The reverse isn’t guaranteed.

  In our Ruby Republic, wealth accumulates through three primary ways. First and foremost: real estate. Nearly half of all wealth created since the 1998 privatization bloomed from property appreciation.

  Second: entrepreneurship. From humble street vendors to manufacturing giants, the private sector has generated unprecedented opportunity. But the true fortune-makers were tech and property development—minting thousands of billionaires.

  Third: the stock market. The Shanghai Composite Index just crossed the 4600 mark—Xi’s favorite benchmark. He loathes how unaffordable housing has become for young buyers, preferring an equity bubble to a property one. He even touts wealth generation through equity investments as a cornerstone of his "Ruby Dream.”

  Blind fool.

  He misreads the terrain. In a country where laws contort, capital concentrates, and the levers of the market bend to the state’s will—especially those wielding taxpayer funds—the dangers lurk fathoms deep. The system is rigged. And the fall? It’s coming—hard, and square against Xi’s face.

  I prefer the housing bubble. It doesn’t just generate wealth—it powers 30% of business activity and delivers land sales, the biggest discretionary revenue for local governments.

  Yet, I recognize its limits. House prices don’t rise forever. Stocks float in speculation—land anchors in reality. And the ceiling? We’re brushing it now.

  We need a new wealth engine. Something decentralized yet controllable. Something like Bitcoin—but with home-court advantage. Let the Republic seize the first-mover opportunity.

  I turn my gaze toward Evangeline, filled with curiosity and anticipation. For a moment, I'm uncertain how to proceed with the remainder of the night.

  Lyra catches my hesitation. She winks and beckons with one curled finger. They call her the Night Witch, and night is her domain. She has answers for every situation.

  Even I fear her at times—a woman extracts my desires before I can name them myself.

  Lyra reclines as I approach. Evangeline rises, embracing me with unexpected boldness. "We have a surprise for you," she whispers, her breath warm against my ear.

  Her voice transforms, becoming sultry and seductive, as if Lyra has awakened something primal within her. My pulse quickens as her ice-cold fingers close around my penis.

  Her gentle caress is electrifying. When she leads me near Lyra's pussy, I am hard again.

  Lyra sucks me in. Deep and long. I've asked many women, but none could explain how she does it. It’s almost as if her vagina has grown tendrils. I feel young again, with all my blood rushing to my shaft, now hard as steel.

  Evangeline has already laid down next to Lyra, legs spread, inviting.

  I claim her forcefully, relentlessly, thrusting with abandon. This time I hear Evangeline's moaning, soft and breathy, carrying notes of innocent discovery.

  When I inevitably run out of breath again, Kejun takes over. She now wears a silicone strap-on that makes erotic wet sounds as it slides in and out of Evangeline.

  Lyra pulls my hand and draws me closer. Her pussy becomes a sanctuary for my erection. She moves against me. Tight and enveloping, squeezing all the right nerves along my length, she not only maintains my arousal but enlarges it.

  As my heart rate slows, I hear Evangeline murmur my name between soft whimpers, as though I've become the hero of her ecstatic dreams.

  Kejun steps aside, and I thrust into Evangeline with renewed vigor.

  I alternate between Lyra and the Hightower princess. Never, even in my virile youth, have I sustained such prolonged sex. Their synchronized moans fill the room as I move between them. The thought that I'm pleasuring two women simultaneously thrills me beyond measure.

  Suddenly, Evangeline's voice rises with urgent need: "Keyang, quick! I'm coming!" I shove Kejun aside with brutal immediacy.

  Evangeline locks her legs around me, anchoring me in place. I strain to maintain my rhythm despite laboring lungs and racing heart. A profound tension builds within me, impossibly powerful.

  Then I feel it—her body's genuine response, inner muscles pulsing around me in powerful waves. How long since I've felt a woman's authentic spasms of pleasure? For years, I've chased the high of their pain rather than their ecstasy.

  The sensation is amazing and deeply satisfying, carrying me beyond physical limitations to a place of pure euphoria. I join her in a shared crescendo of pleasure, experiencing the most intense and fulfilling climax of my life—a moment of perfect connection and blissful release.

  I collapse onto Evangeline's body, spent, feeling her heart pounding against mine. She presses her lips to my ear, her voice a reverent whisper: "Keyang... my master, you've claimed my first climax." Something primal ignites within me at her words. A new trophy—somehow more precious than even her virginity.