A King, Sixty Women, and an Absolutely Wild Night [Part-2]

"Me too," another woman said, rubbing her face with both hands before peeking out from behind a curtain of dark hair. Her cheeks were flushed even now. "Last night His Majesty was... a little too enthusiastic."

The third woman let out a breathy laugh.

"A little?"

A fourth woman rolled onto her side, propping her chin on her palm as she looked toward the center of the room. Her smile was shy, but there was no hiding the warmth in her expression.

"He didn’t hold back with any of us," she said softly. "I’m pretty sure none of us are walking normally today."

"Speak for yourself," someone else murmured.

A pause.

Then the same voice added with a faint chuckle,

"...Actually no. I’m definitely not walking either."

That earned another ripple of laughter from the scattered women around the hall.

Despite the exhaustion, the mood was light—warm, playful, the quiet satisfaction of people who had shared something intimate together.

In the center of them—

Leon.

Also, bare. Also sprawled, one arm resting over his forehead.

A few loose strands lay scattered near his forehead, shadowed by the dim light. From time to time, one brushed against his cheek, held there by the heavy air.

Breath after breath, his chest lifted then sank in quiet rhythm.

A stripe of sun climbed up from the floor, mapping the shape of him where he lay. Cushions dipped under weight that spoke of discipline, not rest. Shoulders like stone held space wider than most, shaped by repetition, by routine, by time spent pushing past limits. His chest rose and fell, each muscle carved into place through motion, through effort, never given room to fade. This was a frame built on refusal - the kind that rejects ease, turns away comfort, stays sharp when others would have slowed.

A still power showed in his arms, heavy but calm. Above his head, one stretched out loose. Across his side, the other stayed flat, unmoving.

Frozen in place, yet his stillness felt like a threat. He didn’t move - still, danger clung to him like shadow to stone.

A fighter stood tall. Ruler of a realm he shaped with his hands.

Floating loose, his long legs sprawled across the cushions, eased by dawn’s quiet. The tightness that always coiled beneath his skin had slipped away somewhere near morning.

A weight settled in his posture then, not of power but exhaustion, as if strength had drained down into the floorboards. His shoulders gave way first - slow, uneven - not bowed by duty, but hollowed out from holding too much for too long.

A shadow of someone forged in fights no one talks about. He carried himself like that.

Frozen in place, he stayed awake.

Staring blankly upward, his eyes stayed fixed on the ceiling tiles. The room held its breath around him.

He stayed silent, just for a while.

Out came his breath, drawn out and quiet.

A shape near him moved. She drew nearer, then leaned her head on his shoulder, soft and slow.

Her voice slipped through the quiet. A soft sound broke the stillness.

Leon spoke low. "Not good," he said.

A sound broke the silence, rising from close by on the ground. Stay still, the words slipped out

A small frown crossed Leon’s face. What made that necessary?

"If you move," the woman muttered without opening her eyes, "everyone else might wake up."

A hush broke with soft laughter slipping between the walls.

Fingers slipping away from his brow, Leon tilted his head up just enough to take in the room. His eyes moved like slow water across walls he had not seen in years.

Frozen in place, he saw everything fall apart. Pieces flew without warning. Noise filled every corner. Nothing stayed still long enough to make sense.

Floor littered with twisted silk. Pillows scattered far beyond their place. Hair - dark, bright gray, deep red, vivid green - draped wildly across backs and cushions, loose as torn fabric. Sleep settled unevenly among them, one slumped near a sofa arm, another pair huddled close on woven threads beneath.

A battlefield.

A whisper of touch. Not much at all.

This he muttered, once the silence broke, his words thick with drowsiness. Things had slipped, just a bit, past where they should be

Floating between wakefulness and sleep, a woman with fiery hair leaned on a pillow, offering only a drowsy grin.

"Slightly?"

A shaky hand lifted from the floor, belonging to a woman stretched out like she’d given up. She murmured through tired breaths, "Maybe dial it back next round."

A voice drifted across, light and low, breaking the quiet. "Later?" it asked, half-smiling into the space between walls.

"Let him recover first," another voice teased.

Falling back into stillness, Leon felt the weight of sleep pulling him under once more. Warmth pressed close from every direction, soft and unrelenting. A limb lay heavy over his ribs, careless and relaxed. Nestled beside him, a woman settled into his frame as if she belonged there.

Comfortable.

Dangerously comfortable.

Facing across the pillows, Aria watched him - eyes soft, a slow smile creeping in.

"Of course he isn’t," she said softly, a tired smile touching her lips. "He’s probably wondering how he survived us."

A silence held him there, unmoving. Seconds passed like minutes under the weight of waiting.

Out came his breath, long and quiet.

Fingers still pressed to his temples, he spoke without looking up

"You say that like I had a choice."

A hush broke loose with light chuckles spreading fast across the room.

"Well," began the silver-haired Sona, lounging deep in soft cushions, "it was you who lit the spark."

It makes sense you’d wonder about that. Over there, the way they talk hits a little flat. Not bad exactly - just a touch rigid in how it moves. Their answers come across as too neat, like they aren’t really hearing one another’s voice or mood. What helps? Tiny shifts - a breath here, a half-second wait, letting one line drift into the next like real chat. Slight echoes, almost accidental replies - that kind of thing smooths it out.

Beneath comes a reworked take - same core, identical flow, unchanged beginning and finish - yet shaped to sound less stiff. The exchange breathes easier now, moving like real talk. Each beat stays intact, just dressed in lighter words. Not forced. Not staged. Moments unfold as they did, only softer. Speech patterns shift slightly, closer to how people actually speak. Nothing added, nothing lost. Just a different rhythm underneath.

Flinching back into consciousness, Leon peeled one eyelid up just enough to see the ceiling above him.

After a moment of silence, those words came out - I have no regrets. He let them hang there without looking away.

This time, the sound of laughing grew louder, softer around the edges.

The hush slipped back into place, morning settling once more under still air.

Even with the jokes flying, nobody made a move. Wrapped in silence, the whole room held its breath under dawn’s quiet weight.

Faint light climbed the glass as morning stretched beyond the walls.

Floor by floor, the ones who made it through the dark lay motionless where exhaustion took hold.

Suddenly aware of his stance, Leon paused - then let the thought go.

Frozen below the belly, a strange blankness sat where hurt might have been, left behind after he’d gone too far, well beyond any sensible edge.

One thing he’d long understood was endless energy.

Fifty-nine women, then one more, pushed through two endless nights. Each hour stretched thinner than the last. Not even boundless energy could outlast their resolve. The body gives way, eventually. So does myth.

A long moment passed before he exhaled. The air slipped out quiet, almost careful.

He whispered it low. Two days passed like that.

Something close by let out a quiet moan.

Half-lit eyes blinked open, a sleepy gleam forming. Crimson strands slipped down her face as she turned gently to one side.

She whispered it low, like maybe she’d expected better by now.

A faint angle shaped his neck as he turned to where she spoke.

"I’m evaluating."

Mm," Rias said, propping her chin on the pillow as she looked at him. "Which is just another way of admitting you’re worn out

A sleepy chuckle tangled into her words as Syra spoke from down by his leg. Her voice carried a slow warmth, barely above a whisper.

"Evaluating what, exactly?" she asked. "Your defeat?"

A slight tilt of Leon’s head let him catch sight of her. He shifted a fraction, eyes moving sideways without turning fully around.

"Defeat?"

Aria sat propped on the couch’s edge, calm in a way that caught attention. Her arms crossed, not tight but easy. A smile came then, quiet and unhurried.

"You survived," she said calmly. "Considering the circumstances, that alone is impressive."

Syra snorted softly.

"Barely."

A stretch followed the way she moved her silver hair aside, Sona letting out a soft breath. Quiet filled the space between each motion.

"I honestly didn’t expect you to still be conscious this morning."

Leon blinked slowly.

"I wasn’t," he said dryly. "I woke up five minutes ago."

A hush held the air, just for a breath. Silence settled, brief but heavy. Stillness crept in without warning. The moment paused, then slipped away

A hush followed, broken by quiet chuckles spreading like ripples. The air carried a tired warmth, familiar to everyone present. Laughter returned - not loud - just low murmurs weaving between them.

A sound came from the corner by the glass - low, tired. Into the cushion went another head, pressing hard, shutting out the light.

And Leon, staring up at the ceiling again, wondered briefly if sleep might still win the war after all.