THE GENERAL'S DISGRACED HEIR-Chapter 330: MORNING AFTER

Dawn filtered through the silk curtains of the master chamber in the De Gror townhouse, painting golden patterns across furnishings that balanced noble opulence with practical functionality. The room was a study in contradictions—a massive four-poster bed with imperial silk sheets dominated the center, yet its wooden frame contained hidden compartments for weapons. Crystal decanters caught the morning light, their contents not fine wines but alchemical mixtures designed for rapid healing. Ancient tapestries depicting the founding of the Solarian Empire concealed wardstones that maintained powerful protective enchantments.

It was a space designed for both luxury and survival—much like its current occupant.

David woke with the precision of a man accustomed to danger, his consciousness shifting from sleep to full awareness in a heartbeat. No gradual awakening, no luxurious stretching or momentary confusion—just the immediate assessment of his surroundings and the warm presence beside him.

Vivian lay sprawled across the sheets, her crimson hair spread like spilled wine across the pillows, one arm flung possessively across his chest even in sleep. Unlike David, her awakening would be gradual. The night's activities had ensured that.

He studied her for a moment, noting the changes since they'd last shared a bed. Her body had grown stronger, more defined—no longer the hesitant lady's maid who had once nervously approached him in the castle kitchens at Aethelwarin, blushing furiously at her own boldness. The cultivation techniques he'd shared had shaped her into something more lethal, more confident. Even in slumber, she radiated a predatory grace that had been absent before.

David carefully lifted her arm and slid from beneath it, placing her head gently on the pillow. She murmured something unintelligible, her hand searching for him briefly before settling back into deep sleep. He smiled faintly as he stood, retrieving his trousers from where they'd been discarded the night before and pulling them on with unhurried movements.

The floor was cool beneath his bare feet as he padded to the window. Drawing back the curtain slightly, he surveyed the Diamond Quarter below. Servants were already about their business, preparing the neighboring estates for their late-rising noble inhabitants. The contrast between the disciplined efficiency of the servants and the indolent luxury of their masters had always amused him—one more example of the inversions of power that defined this world.

A sudden tremor ran through his right arm, causing him to grip the window frame for support. He watched with clinical detachment as fractures appeared in the skin—not wounds in the conventional sense, but actual breaks in the fabric of reality. Through these cracks, glimpses of other dimensions flickered like half-remembered dreams: swirling voids, crystalline landscapes, geometries that shouldn't be possible. The pain was intense but familiar, a constant companion these days.

David closed his eyes, regulating his breathing in a pattern he'd developed through painful trial and error. Inhale for four heartbeats, hold for seven, exhale for eight. The discipline of controlled respiration drew his focus away from the fractures, allowing his innate healing to temporarily seal the dimensional wounds.

When he opened his eyes again, his arm appeared normal, though the phantom sensation of wrongness remained. These episodes were occurring with increasing frequency despite his efforts to suppress his abilities. The problem lay with the passive powers—those that activated without conscious direction, particularly in moments of intimacy or danger.

The "Sacred Essence Cultivation" technique was perhaps the most troublesome in this regard. Designed to transfer and amplify cultivated energy between compatible partners, it activated automatically during intimate contact. Last night with Vivian had been no exception. Even as he'd taken pleasure in her body, he'd felt his essence flowing into her, strengthening her core, expanding her cultivation channels. The technique benefited her tremendously, but each activation further destabilized his already precarious condition.

David turned from the window, his gaze falling on Vivian's sleeping form. Why was he doing this? Why risk himself to save a world he'd never asked to be part of? He'd been dragged here without consent, thrust into a body not his own, and burdened with knowledge of a coming cataclysm he had no obligation to prevent.

On Earth, he'd worn a different kind of shadow. Fragments of that former life occasionally surfaced in his dreams—the gleam of streetlights on rain-slicked pavement, the weight of a blade in his palm, the fleeting warmth of his mother's smile before they took her from him. Her murder had transformed him, hollowed him out and filled the void with something colder than hatred. He'd become a ghost in his own world, a nameless executioner who'd convinced himself that each life he extinguished was an offering to some higher purpose.

"They deserve to die," he'd whisper in those dark alleyways, watching the light fade from eyes that had witnessed too much. "And I deserve to decide." A god of small, squalid spaces—courthouse, jury, and executioner rolled into one blood-soaked package.

For years, he'd lived in that twilight existence—precious to no one, connected to nothing, executing his personal justice with mechanical precision. The authorities had never even come close. They'd given his work a label, assigned it a file number, but the man behind it had remained a phantom.

Here, he'd been thrust into prominence, handed power and position without the anonymity that had defined his previous existence. Expected to save a world he hadn't asked to join, wearing responsibilities that chafed like ill-fitting clothes.

"David...mmh", Vivian murmured in her sleep, her hand reaching across the empty space where he'd lain.

Something tightened in his chest at the sound of his name on her lips—a sensation he was still learning to identify. These women—Vivian, Shay, Seraphina, and the others—they looked at him and saw someone worth following, worth fighting for. Despite not knowing the darker aspects of his nature, they'd bound themselves to him with bonds deeper than mere loyalty.

For the first time in either of his lives, David had people who genuinely cared whether he lived or died. Not for his utility, not for what he could provide, but for himself. It was a foreign sensation, uncomfortable yet strangely compelling.

Perhaps that was reason enough to fight the coming darkness. Not for some abstract concept of saving the world, but for preserving the small corner of it that had somehow become his.

David moved toward the door, sensing the presence on the other side before he reached it. With a swift motion, he pulled it open, revealing Shay and Katrina pressed against where the door had been. Their attempted eavesdropping interrupted, both women tumbled forward with startled expressions.

"I—we were just—" Shay began, her auburn ponytail disheveled from what had clearly been an uncomfortable position.

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"Checking if you needed anything!" Katrina finished, her blonde hair falling across her flushed face.

David raised an eyebrow, helping them both to their feet with easy strength. "Is that so?" he asked, amusement coloring his tone. "And this required pressing your ears to my door rather than knocking?"