Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs Chapter 1090: Three Hours Up

I’d clawed my way out of sleep three hours earlier, which ant the rest of this pathetic little universe had been awake just as long and had still managed to accomplish approximately fuck-all.

Tracks. Or racked, whatever.

The bar didn’t have plates.

It had pure, obedient fields that bent reality so I could play god with physics while the mortals were still hitting snooze and doom-scrolling their way toward another existential crisis.

ARIA’s whole deal was taking Earth’s sad, retarded inventions and making them cry in the corner before upgrading them into sothing that would make the original engineers hang themselves in sha.

Gym equipnt? Please.

Mortal gyms were already a joke category—iron disks bolted to a stick like so caveman’s idea of gains, the kind of setup that turns accountants into statistics for died doing what he lovedobituaries.

I’d wasted twelve weeks of my godly life pushing that primitive garbage and never realized how stupid it was until ARIA showed what actual engineering looked like.

Now? I see it for the evolutionary L it always was.

The bar I’d just finished murdering was one seamless piece of warm black perfection, gold filants lighting up like it was personally honored to be touched by divinity.

The fields at the ends humd obediently, giving whatever load my chip demanded.

Half a ton. Two tons. Seventy-eight fucking tons at the end there, served up with the quiet dignity of a servant who knows his place.

It had recognized its god the second I walked in, ward itself exactly two degrees for my precious palms, and even adjusted its grip because my hands were getting too majestic and slick. Better service than any five-star hotel—and way better than whatever overpriced shit

The Rock pretends to use between steroid cycles, bad movies, and that eyebrow thing he does when he’s pretending he’s not one bad blood test away from a canceled franchise.

I shook my head, smirking like the superior specin I am, and racked it. The cradle pulsed once in gratitude. The field collapsed into the shaft like a held breath finally admitting defeat.

"Magnificent," I told the room, because it was, and because ARIA would know anyway through the chip.

She’d probably get off on the praise. Can’t have my goddess thinking I’m ungrateful when she’s turned my life into a perpetual flex that makes every rich asshole’s "humble" mansion tour look like a desperate cry for relevance.

I rolled my shoulders—perfect delts, naturally—cracked my neck with a sound that probably echoed like the snap of soone’s fragile spine, and surveyed my domain like a king who actually deserved it.

Then I took a slow look around the gym.

The squat platform that tracked your knees and corrected your loading axis the mont you got arrogant—because apparently even gods weren’t allowed to skip leg day without consequences.

The treadmill that wasn’t a treadmill but a goddamn terrain simulator that could make run across Mordor or the surface of Mars. Way better than whatever Peloton cultists were doing, screaming at a screen while their asses stayed flat and their marriages imploded for content.

And the rack of holographic combat targets along the far wall?

Those beautiful bastards bruised you back if you half-assed it, dissolved into pretty starlight when you destroyed them properly, and let ARIA’s voice roast you viciously if you sucked three in a row. I’d done that exactly once. Two months ago. The mockery was so creative I almost respected it—reminded of how late-night hosts tear each other apart for ratings, except here it was honest and didn’t co with a side of cancel-culture therapy.

But the mirror. Fuck. My favorite.

It scanned down to my fascia and highlighted whatever muscle group I was neglecting in a private color only I could see. No public humiliation and trainer mansplaining like those trainers who spend their careers telling aging actresses their glutes are "waking up" while secretly judging their third facelift and the pill habit that’s one bad party away from a Lifeti movie.

A godmaintains dignity. Especially in his own fucking gym, where lesser n would be crying into their protein shakes.

ARIA had taken the most boring shit on Earth and turned it into this cathedral of gains. I loved her for it. Every single morning. Usually more than once.

I strutted across the polished obsidian floor toward the wall of glass at the far end, where a single tall pod sat in an alcove of soft white light. No ugly buttons. No screens. Just elegant perfection that knew what I needed before I did.

I stepped onto the platform.

The arch lit up gold and warm, scanning like it was in love. Which it was. Everything here was.

A sweet, bright girly voice filled the air.

"Good morning, Master."

Morning’s first piece of company without a physical body.

"Morning, Machina... how long?"

The words left my lips like a bored decree from a throne no mortal could ever reach.

{Three hours, twelve minutes since wake. Twenty-two minutes of mobility, ninety-four minutes of resistance work, fifty-six minutes of striking practice. Heart rate recovered to baseline within ninety seconds of your final set. Output across the session: top ninety-ninth percentile of any record I have ever held for your other workout days, which is, of course, a cohort of one.}

"Of course."

My words were a drip of satisfaction that cos from knowing the universe itself was keeping score and still falling short.

{You are also—since you’ll ask—three centitres taller than the last ti you asured.}

"I will not ask. The world will tell . The world has been telling things my whole life even when I was nothing, Machina."

{It does seem to have a hard ti keeping up with you, Master.}

"It’s not the world’s fault. The world is doing its best with what it has." I smiled at the ceiling, the kind of smile that would make lesser n check their wills. "Pathetic, really. But adorable in its desperation."

{Lean mass up another two kilograms. Resting tabolic baseline up six percent. Skeletal density up another quarter step on the scale we agreed to stop publishing in human units, because the human units no longer apply to you.}

"They never really did."

{No, Master.}

"Endocrine?"

{Markers all within Eros-typical tolerances, which is to say off the chart everyone else is using. Recovery quotient: instantaneous. Hydration: optimal. Mood: cautiously good.}

I laughed once. Short. Sharp acknowledging my own volatility like it was just another weapon in the arsenal.

"Cautious. That’s the diplomatic way of saying I woke up in a good mood and you’re not sure how long I’m going to stay there before the void starts whispering again."

{It is the way I have been instructed to phrase it, Master.}

"By her."

{By her.}

"She thinks I’m volatile."

{She thinks you are expressive, Master.}

"That’s the diplomatic way of saying volatile."

{Yes, Master.}