The Almighty Dominance (by Sunshine) novel Chapter 646

Zhao Liang’s mouth went dry. A cold fist closed around his stomach.

If he rode back to Liu Dai without those five thousand soldiers, the governor would have his head on a pike before noon. No excuses. No mercy. Liu Dai didn’t forgive failure.

One choice remained.

Qingshui was only an hour or two to the south. Perhaps his men had pressed on without him. Perhaps they were already fighting in the streets, buying him precious time. He could still salvage something—anything.

Better than walking back to die.

So General Zhao Liang, commander of five thousand, did the unthinkable.

He walked.

Alone.

On foot.

Full battle armor clanking with every miserable step, sword slapping his thigh, helmet tucked under one arm like some disgraced foot soldier.

Sweat carved tracks down his dust-caked face. Shame burned hotter than the rising sun. A general without an army. A general without a horse.

He kept his jaw locked and his eyes fixed on the southern hills, telling himself the same lie with every stride:

‘They’re there. They have to be there.’

An hour later the road crested and Qingshui spilled into view below him.

Zhao Liang stopped dead.

The gates stood wide open. No soldiers on the walls. No spears. No barricades. Instead, the wide avenue beyond glittered under the morning light—gold coins scattered across the flagstones, silk bolts draped over stalls, jade and silver left out like trash.

Tables groaned under roasted meats and wine pitchers. The whole city looked like it had been dressed for a festival and then abandoned.

It didn’t look like a city preparing for war.

It looked like heaven.

He was still staring, trying to make sense of it, when soft laughter floated up the road. A dozen women flowed out of the nearest pleasure house—silk robes clinging to every curve, hair loose and shining, perfume drifting ahead of them like a promise. Their eyes lit up the moment they saw him.

“Handsome general,” the tallest one called, voice warm and honeyed. She moved straight to him, hips swaying. “You look like you’ve marched a long way. Come inside. Everything’s free today.”

Another pressed close, sliding her arm through his. The scent of jasmine and warm skin hit him like a drug. “We’ll take care of you,” she murmured against his ear. “No charge. No questions. You’ve earned it.”

Zhao Liang opened his mouth to snarl something about duty and battle, but the words never came. The perfume wrapped around him, sweet and dizzying.

These women were stunning—skin like porcelain, eyes dark and inviting. After weeks of hard marching, after losing an entire army without firing a single arrow, the offer felt like mercy itself.

‘One hour,’ he told himself. ‘Just enough to clear my head. Then I’ll find my men and take this cursed city apart.’

They laughed and tugged him forward. He let them.

Citizens poured out of doorways as he passed, smiling like they’d been waiting for him all morning. A merchant pressed a cup of cool wine into his hand. “Drink, hero. There’s plenty more.”

An old woman pushed forward a plate of spiced meat. Children ran alongside, laughing. Everyone treated him like a returning king.

By the time they reached the pleasure house, Zhao Liang’s armor felt heavier than iron and lighter than air at the same time. Inside, lanterns glowed soft gold.

Cushions and silk draped every surface. Two women—twin beauties with identical wicked smiles—led him to a private room and poured more wine.

He drank deep. The stress of the vanished army, the terror of facing Liu Dai, the long humiliating walk—all of it burned away with every swallow. Heat spread through his chest, down his arms, straight into his blood.

The women moved in. Gentle fingers worked the buckles of his armor. Cool metal clattered to the floor. Soft hands traced the hard lines of his chest, his shoulders, lower.

Zhao Liang groaned as they pressed him back onto the wide bed, skin against skin, mouths hungry and skilled. For the first time in years he stopped thinking about war, about failure, about death. There was only heat and silk and the slick slide of bodies.

They gave him everything.

When the storm finally passed and he lay spent and panting, the two women rose on either side of him, still smiling. One leaned down and kissed him slow and deep while the other slipped something cold and heavy around his wrist.

Metal clicked.

Zhao Liang’s eyes snapped open.

Iron manacles. Thick chains bolted to the bedposts. Both wrists. Both ankles. He jerked once, hard. The chains held.

The women sat back on their heels, naked and beautiful and utterly calm. One picked up the wine cup again and pressed it to his lips, tipping it until he had no choice but to swallow.

“Good boy,” the taller one whispered, brushing damp hair from his forehead. Her smile never wavered. “We’re going to rape you now, General. Slowly. Thoroughly.”

Zhao Liang’s heart slammed against his ribs. The room tilted. The wine—drugged, he realized too late—turned his limbs to warm lead. He tried to roar, to fight, but only a hoarse sound escaped.

The two young women slid off the bed, their skin still flushed, their smiles sharp and knowing. They gathered their silk robes without a word, glanced once at the chained general, and slipped out the door.

Zhao Liang lay there, chest heaving, every nerve on fire. The wine they had poured down his throat burned through his blood like liquid flame. His manhood betrayed him completely—hard, aching, ready—while his mind screamed in silent horror.

The door opened again.

Ten old women shuffled into the room. Skinny, wrinkled, gray-haired, their pleasure-house work robes threadbare and stained. They smelled of cheap powder and decades of hard living. Their eyes lit up the moment they saw him spread naked and chained to the iron bed.

One of them, the eldest, with stringy hair and missing teeth, clapped her bony hands together. “Thanks to City Lord Bai,” she croaked, voice thick with glee, “we old workers finally get to taste a real general’s manhood. Never thought the day would come.”

Another cackled, already loosening her robe. “He said we’re to rape him until he cries and begs. No mercy. No stopping. Let’s do it, ladies.”

They descended on him like a flock of hungry crows.

Zhao Liang roared and thrashed against the chains until his wrists bled. It did nothing. The first crone climbed on top of him, her dry, sagging skin scraping against his. The aphrodisiac kept his body raging even as disgust clawed up his throat.

He gagged. He cursed. He pleaded.

They only laughed and kept going.

For three days and three nights the nightmare never ended.

They took turns. They fed him more of the drugged wine whenever his body flagged. They rode him without pause—old, bony hips grinding, wrinkled hands clawing at his chest, toothless mouths whispering filthy encouragement.

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