It takes a special kind of arrogance to stand center stage, thirty feet above a crowd of a thousand roaring capitalists, and announce that you've just privatized a country's worth of forbidden land.
And it takes a special kind of story to explain how billionaire playboy and ruthless business mogul Lucien Vale came to rule a kingdom as someone he was not born as, in a world he was not even born in.
Because Lucien Vale is not simply an ambitious man. He is the very concept of ruthless, unrelenting ambition given human form.
He stands on the main stage at the biggest business conference on the planet, covered in a gleaming obsidian suit that costs more than most people's homes, wielding the charm of a man who is unequivocally certain of three life-defining facts.
Fact #1: He is obscenely rich, powerful, and influential.
Fact #2: He is dangerously attractive.
Fact #3: Morals, ethics, and most laws simply don't apply to him. (For more information, see facts one and two.)
He pulls straight his perfectly tailored cuffs, hand-stitched by blind Mongolian monks.
Or maybe it's Tibetan.
He wasn't really listening when his tailor explained. He never does.
"Friends, family, investors," he says, addressing the roaring crowd, voice dripping with confidence and the smell of profit. "The forbidden land. Untouched by man for millennia. Sacred, some say magical, off-limits until today. And now… it's mine."
Cameras flash. Reporters gasp. A man faints as he watches the stock market react to the announcement in real time, shares in Lucien's corporations skyrocketing in an instant.
Lucien barely acknowledges any of it, far too enamored with himself, grinning faintly at his own reflection in the crystal-clear teleprompter screen.
"While the rest of you tiptoed around legends and law, I saw opportunity. Where others feared ancient prophecies and environmental fallback, I saw potential for profit."
He pauses, ever so slightly for dramatic effect, something he is, by this point, obscenely good at. Then he leans in with his world-famous, signature smirk, eyes gleaming, teeth beaming. Millions of breaths around the world held in unison for what comes out of his mouth next.
"Expect a trillion in profits," he says, watching the world hang on his every word. "In the first quarter. I wouldn't get out of bed for less."
The crowd explodes.
Investors leap to their feet, clapping, howling, cheering. Business cards fly through the air like some kind of twisted Mardi Gras as Lucien once again completely upturns the world's economy.
Backstage, his team of lawyers and legal advisors are already drafting PR statements to fend off human rights groups, environmentalists, and probably a few ancient cults who no doubt already have their sights set on him.
He struts off like a king returning from conquest, and immediately microphones swarm him, reporters clawing over each other in a flood of questions.
"Mr. Vale, is it true Vordinia—"
WHAM~
One of Lucien's private bodyguards clears out a row of journalists like a linebacker lying in wait.
"Lucien! Lucien! What about the natives? Will they be compensated—"
BAM~
Another guard clears the way for his employer.
Lucien ignores the press entirely. Instead he wraps his arms around two swaying hips wrapped in skintight dresses. One French, one Brazilian. He doesn't remember their names.
He never does.
What he does remember is that one has a tongue ring that made his toes curl, and the other purrs when she climaxes.
"Ladies." He croons as he leads the women to a waiting limousine outside. "I'm on a tight schedule. Got an hour before my next meeting. Think you can satisfy me in less?"
"Oh." The Brazilian bites her lip, seductive. "Is that a challenge, Mr. Vale?"
"It's an invitation." He grins, slapping her firmly on the behind as she bends low to climb into the vehicle.
"I'll have you screaming my name in two minutes," the French woman says, her tongue ring edging along her lips.
"Now that's a challenge."
He leads the women into the limo, hands finding their every curve as he helps them settle in, both giggling with anticipation.
"Now then," he says, slumping back, legs spread, digging himself into the plush leather seats. "Indulge me."
The air inside the limo grows thick with perfume, champagne, and the kind of noises that would have even the world's best PR teams sweating bullets. As the car rolls toward his next meeting, Lucien lounges across the seat, one hand tangled in blonde hair, her head bobbing between his thighs with the kind of professional confidence that suggests she's done this before and intends to be memorable about it, his other hand stroking a perfect pair of tanned tits attached to a mouth fully locked onto his own, and somewhere beneath the tangle of limbs a champagne flute tips over entirely on its own, foam soaking into three thousand dollars of upholstery nobody bothers to notice.
It's a mess of giggles, twisting tongues, mouth maneuvers, and barely-possible contortions.
And by the time Lucien is thoroughly indulged, he's had both women scream-moaning for their respective gods within minutes, the Brazilian still shuddering through the aftershocks when the French woman shoves her aside to do cleanup duty.
Until the limo suddenly lurches to a stop.
Hard.
Lucien jerks back. The woman jerks forward. He bruises the back of her throat. She grazes her teeth in places they have no business grazing.
"Owwwww! Fucking hell?!" he snaps. "Driver! You trying to get my dick decommissioned?"
The girls collapse into sputtering laughter, helping each other up, straightening dresses, wiping down chins.
Lucien tosses a glass, smashing it against the raised partition in anger. "Why the fuck are we stopping? I don't have time for this! Meetings, remember?!"
"Um, sorry, sir. The car's dead." The driver's voice croaks through the lowered partition. "It just lost power. Cut out. I don't… I'm not sure, sir. I'll call—"
"Dammit!" Lucien snaps, checking his watch. "I have a meeting with a president and three drug lords in forty-seven minutes. Do you have any idea how hard it was to get all four of them in the same room? One of them owes me a fucking country."
He throws the door open and steps into the street, buttoning his shirt like a pissed-off runway model as he catches his breath and finds his calm.
"Wait for me at the hotel, ladies." He shoots them his signature smirk and they instantly swoon. "And invite some friends."
"We having a party?" one asks, delighted.
"More like an orgy," the other replies with a knowing smirk.
"You know me too well." Lucien chuckles.
He flicks out his hand, waving a crisp hundred-dollar bill into the street ahead, and a yellow taxi screeches to a halt across the road a moment later.
"Perfect," he mutters, an ego-fueled grin plastered to his face as he slips on his shades, smooths his hair back, and struts across the street like he owns it. Which, he most likely does, through one of his numerous shell corporations.
But then comes a sound out of nowhere.
A string of beeps.
Tires screeching.
CRAAAASH~
Then the blinding flash of LED lights and a chrome-plated truck grille shattering into his skull in a single instant.
He wakes up a moment later standing on a cloud.
A literal cloud.
The air tastes like aerosolized happiness and smells even better.
He blinks and looks down, eyes widening with disbelief and confusion as he watches a shimmering mist curl at his feet. He stands bare-chested, barefoot, bare everything, his manhood flopping freely in the heavenly breeze. He's happy to find he's still biologically blessed and perfectly groomed.
He always is.
He takes a moment to appreciate the more intimate parts of himself, nodding at his crotch proudly before looking up and scanning the area.
Before him stands a colossal golden podium, and behind it sit three giant, glowing figures of such immense beauty even Lucien feels a flash of envy fondle his soul.
And to make matters worse, two are women.
One is a goddess with golden hair, eyes like exploding stars, and a blinding halo spiraling over her head, her body wrapped in a gown that seems woven of sunbeams and seduction.
Beside her stands another woman staring at him with glittering silver eyes that glow like a full moon. Shimmering platinum hair flows like mercury down her shoulders, and her dress looks like it was woven from starlight and wet dreams.
Lucien is already visualizing what they'd be like in bed. Together.
Beside them lounges a bearded titan in a celestial gown that looks suspiciously like a dinosaur-shaped onesie. Raw, divine energy radiates off him in waves, like a morning mist. He glares at Lucien through half-lidded eyes while sipping from a mug labeled Universe's #1 Creator.
Lucien groans, adjusting his crotch as he steps forward to face his fate.
"Huh. Guess I really died." He shrugs. "Thought I had at least one more sex scandal in me."