The Secret Late-Night Private Lessons of a High Imperial Noblewoman.avi

It had been a full ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠twenty years since I was reincarnated into the Prit Empire of a fantasy world, and this land was enjoying an unprecedented peace and a dazzlingly prosperous civilization.

The barbaric age, when magic and sword were everything, had already ended decades ago.

"Ah."

The Demon King had long since had his head taken by the Hero from another world, Kim Shin-yu, who then fused Earth's modern technology and concepts with the continent's magical engineering to forge an era of brilliant progress.

"And yet, why—"

Chief among the masterpieces that turned the continent's history upside down was, without question, the spread of the Mana Communicator and the ManaNet — the modern smartphone and the internet, rendered flawlessly inside a fantasy world.

"You're telling me there's no… shady underground community?!"

The knights of the empire issued their operation orders through ManaTalk instead of radios, and the noble elves of the forest uploaded their elegant daily lives to Elfgram, begging for hearts. Even the orcs were brawling in forum threads — a truly wondrous age of grand magical information had dawned.

But.

This damned son of a bitch — no, apologies, the Hero Kim Shin-yu — possessed one fatal flaw that plunged every man on the continent into despair.

"No, fuck. How is it that I can tear through the entire continent and not find a single porno worth busting a proper nut to?!"

Kim Shin-yu had been a Confucian Boy, prudish to the marrow. The censorship on the ManaNet was harsh enough to put most communist states to shame. The moment you typed an unwholesome word like "tits," "elf exposure," or "succubus breeding" into a Mana Communicator's search bar, the whole screen would bleed crimson and print out ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a blasphemy warning — and if you couldn't beat back your curiosity and let those warnings stack up three times, imperial Mana Investigators and Inquisitors would smash through your front door then and there to perform a physical purification ritual. A genuinely demented system.

Bloodshot-eyed, I thrust out a trembling hand and hurled the Mana Communicator savagely across the room.

With the memories of my past life fully intact, I had thrown myself into magical training day and night, driven by a single sublime conviction.

To save the world from the Demon King's remnants?

Nothing to do with me — I'd been reborn an aristocrat; couldn't have mattered less.

To see the pinnacle of magic?

I didn't even like magic. It was merely a stepping-stone toward my goal.

The one and only purpose of my life, the single reason I had ever learned magic, was this: to blast the Confucian Firewall to pieces and open a spank-bank gallery stocked for me alone to savor and enjoy.

"Kheheheheheh…"

Inside the pitch-black dormitory room, a slimy snicker leaked out between my lips before I knew it.

I was twenty years old now, and I had already attained the 5th Circle, the realm of a high mage. The professors and nobles around me, watching me pour blood, sweat, and nosebleeds into ancient grimoires at every spare moment, heaped praise on me — a "scholar-genius" who appears once in a decade, they said. To me, though, such titles were nothing but a byproduct that had happened to follow along. I was marching toward my goal, and nothing else.

Using long-lost ancient-tongue decryption magic to scramble IP-tracking spells, and building on an application of 5th-circle spatial distortion, I had constructed an independent subspace server completely severed from the continent's physical mana network. The foundation of a perfect Deep Web that no one alive could trace — complete.

"FUUUUCK!! Finally…! A lifetime of pent-up resentment, settled!"

It was an utterly empty board — not one post, not one juicy image — and yet to my eyes nothing in the world was more lovable. My lower half was already swelling just from looking at it.

With painstaking devotion, in the spirit of a saint praying to god, I engraved the name and the rules at the very top of the board.

But I hadn't the slightest thought of simply unsealing this gallery to the whole continent right away. My personal mana alone couldn't yet shoulder the traffic of an empire-wide mana network, and above all, if the tail got stepped on for too long, the Inquisitors of the Holy Kingdom — who would come sprinting with fire in their eyes — would brand me a heretic and see me roasted into heretic barbecue on a stake.

"For starters, exactly one hundred. Small-but-elite, members only."

From the backups I had quietly stashed away while hacking the firewall, I extracted the unique mana IPs of the hundred heaviest users across the continent — the men with the most ManaNet access time and a documented record of getting caught attempting sneaky detour searches in the late-night hours. The roster was a marvel to behold: an Imperial Guard commander who played at dignity on the surface, a decrepit elder preaching asceticism at the Magic Tower, a bottom-rung priest of the Holy Kingdom, and even an in-crowd male student strutting around the Academy.

"These bastards…"

As expected, humanity's repressed nature was perfectly egalitarian, regardless of rank.

To those hundred chosen souls — and no one else — I would send a one-time invitation link to the spank-bank gallery. Start it as a thoroughly sealed, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠deeply secretive membership operation, then fatten it up bit by bit. That was the plan.

"But… what do I post first?"

And I slammed face-first into the most essential, most fatal problem of all. For this gallery to succeed from day one, I needed spank material so undeniably obscene it would flip the invited hundred's eyeballs inside out and soak their trousers. Discount succubus erotica scraped out of back alleys wouldn't come close. It had to be shocking, it had to drip with the thrill of sacrilege, and it had to be the hidden flesh of a woman no one would ever dare meet the eyes of in daylight.

Then, like a flash of lightning, one candidate streaked through my mind.

That insufferable "Ice Witch," Professor Elena — the woman who had stood me up in front of the entire Academy magic-theory lecture hall just that afternoon, branded me "eyes that entertain unwholesome thoughts," and dropped a deduction bomb on my grade. A continental beauty without equal, with frost-dusted sky-blue hair and imperious golden eyes that seemed to see straight through a man. A 6th-circle archmage who reigned over the Academy's students as an object of pure terror, her fastidiousness so airtight you could stab her and not draw a single drop of blood. She wore only her uniform, buttoned to the very throat, and if a male student's gaze dipped even a finger's width toward her chest she would look at him the way one looks at an insect — a perfect, unbreachable fortress of a woman.

"That's right. You're batting leadoff. Let me show you what the fall of a professor really looks like."

Without a hair of hesitation, I drew up the vast mana sleeping inside me: 5th-circle stealth magic [Invisibility], erasing my form completely; 5th-circle magic [Silent Move], burying even my footsteps and my heartbeat; and 6th-circle signature magic [Mana Cloaking], scrambling any mana detection aimed my way. The sort of spells one would normally only unleash to assassinate a high noble. But they had to be cast without a single sliver of error — Elena was no ordinary human. She was a genius standing on the very threshold of archmage.

Smothering my every step, I set foot inside the Academy's faculty-only dormitory.

"…I've gone round the bend. I've actually lost my mind."

This was Professor Elena's private bathroom. With my presence compressed to nothing, forcing back the breath that kept trying to escape me, I pressed the Mana Communicator's high-definition record button — and watching Elena in the bathtub, I could not put a lid on my excitement.

That proud Ice Witch — who buttoned her uniform up to the gullet and never allowed a hem above the knee — was reclining in the scalding water, utterly naked, without a thread on her. Her sky-blue hair, always pinned up without a single strand astray, had come undone and clung, waterlogged, to her pale collarbones, and the arrogant golden eyes that once blazed with contempt for all mankind now floated pickled in lust, unfocused and slack.

Holy shit…

Inside the steam-hazed bathroom, her snow-white skin — flushed a tender pink by the heat — and her breasts, so impossibly full they swayed with every breath, were laid utterly bare.

What the fuck are those udders…

The razor-edged frost of her daytime gaze was nowhere to be found; her lips hung half open, spilling ragged breaths.

But the true shock was the thing held in Elena's hand. Gripped in Professor Elena's slender right hand was a violet vibrating magic tool, molded after the grotesque tentacle monsters they pull out of dungeons. So the woman who docked male students' points for "vulgarity" by day was, the instant night fell, a sow in heat stirring up her own cunt with her own hand.

"Aahnn… hah, aaahhh… ngh…"

Lecherous moans burst out of her — moans no one would ever believe belonged to that imperious lecture-hall voice. Thick, sticky, heavy with nasal sweetness, they flooded the bathroom to the brim. The woman they called the Ice Witch raked the tip of the tentacle roughly across her sopping cunt, her waist shivering.

Squelch. Squelch.

Every time the wet sound of her juices tangled with the toy's buzz, those opulent breasts heaved like something gone mad. And the instant my eyes took in her wet fingers groping blind at the air, steeped in pleasure, my lower half swelled to the point of splitting.

I wanted to rush her that very second. The impulse flared hot — to ram my cock into that body optimized for impregnation and rut her like a dog, right now, on the spot.

"…"

Hoo. I would hold it in. Just this once.

I slipped soundlessly out through the dormitory window. And the whole way back to my room, the Mana Communicator clenched in my fist weighed on me like dozens of tons of gold bullion — because inside that little machine lay Elena's secret footage, enough to shake every last one of the empire's tens of millions of men.

I threw the locks on my dormitory door double and triple, sat down at my desk, and connected to the gallery's administrator mode at once. And the moment my finger reached for the upload button — it froze.

"Hold on."

Now that I actually thought about it, there was a fatal flaw in the plan. Elena was insolent as hell, granted, but her figure was the finest on the continent and her face top-class even within the Academy. And I was going to let these rabid dogs in heat savor my female's luscious nipples and her soaked-through cunt, raw and unfiltered? I don't have any taste for NTR. Sharing a woman's bare body with other men is retard-tier behavior, and I'll pass, thanks. Let these revolting Jenamchung — this continent's scum-male swine — lay eyes on what is mine? Fuck, the mere thought makes my skin crawl.

"Ordinarily the whole thing bared is the only proper way to enjoy it — but the good part belongs to me alone."

I instantly breathed 3rd-circle light-element magic — [Light Refraction] — into the device. What you might call "Mosaic Magic." I edited the footage, laying a milky fog of light over Professor Elena's face, her nipples, and her cunt. The most crucial goods were veiled — but if anything, that pearly mist goaded the imagination into overdrive and maximized the depraved thrill of it all.

With something close to piety, I began typing out the title of the first post.

The comment section was raging, blazing utterly out of control.

Yeah. Fuck yes. This was why I had learned magic. This was why I had ground myself through twenty years of hell.

"KUAHAHAHAHAH!! This is it! Fuck — this is exactly it!!"

My read on a continent starved of porn had struck dead center. The reaction was explosive. It felt as if the lust that had lain crushed for a century beneath Confucian doctrine in this otherworld was finally erupting — a hundred years' worth, all at once.

"Haah… so this is what sex is."