Rise of the Lustful Evil Monarch (Re)-Chapter 441 441: The Temptress, The Idiot and The Dangerous One

Third Person's POV
None of the vampires standing behind Virelle and Lucien noticed the subtle exchange or caught Lucien's faint muttering, none except for the black-haired woman in the slit gown and Virelle.
Virelle didn't react to Lucien's cursing of Ethan on the outside, though the disgust and abhorrence she felt for him only increased in her mind.
Along with it, Virelle also formed a strict vigilance in her mind against Lucien for any kind of backstabbing or scheming he might do against Ethan in the future.
As for the black haired girl, from the moment their eyes had first met, she had been observing him with unwavering attention, and now she had heard Lucien and seen everything from start to finish.
Her dark, elegant eyes followed him with a sharp, almost predatory curiosity.
She had not only caught his brief, defiant flicker toward Lucien, but also sensed the quiet, unspoken familiarity between him and Virelle, an intimacy that hinted at something far deeper than a casual acquaintance.
It was something unspoken, and since she knew about Virelle's engagement with the dark demon prince, she grew excited at discovering something about a forbidden affair.
While she was lost in her excitement, the cut of her body hugging gown revealed fleeting glimpses of snow-white thighs each time the breeze stirred the fabric.
And for the briefest heartbeat, Ethan's gaze was automatically drawn to that pale, smooth skin peeking through the slit.
Seeing it, he couldn't help but salivate inwardly as it wasn't merely beauty, but it was the beauty and the refined temptation of aristocracy.
She was undeniably stunning, elegant and controlled.
Every movement of hers radiated a natural nobility that was neither forced nor pretentious.
Her presence alone demanded attention and drew Ethan's gaze, and, before he realised it, it stirred his heart as well.
When she blinked her thick eyelashes at him with a calm, composed smile, Ethan felt something primal ignite inside him.
He smiled back, though only briefly, before tearing his gaze away with a single, dangerous thought echoing through his mind,
'What a fiery girl… I must have her!!!'
A raw and potent desire to conquer this girl rose in his chest.
It wasn't the shallow lust he felt toward ordinary beauties, nor the disdainful amusement he felt toward arrogant fools like Lucien or that Sangrial girl he had slapped the previous day. No.
This girl carried a different kind of arrogance, one forged from lineage, actual strength, and an aura of latent danger and that was precisely what pulled him in.
Unbeknownst to Ethan, she was the eldest daughter of Duke Vael, third duke of the vampire race.
She was a woman whose pedigree, talent, and influence were such that even other nobles tread carefully around her.
She was the pride of her house, a stark contrast to her younger brother Lucien, whose presence barely registered when compared to hers.
If one had to name the top three prodigies among the younger generation of vampires, the list was well-known and undisputed.
They were Cadell Sangrial, Victor Eralith, and Fiona Vael, the very woman now watching Ethan with unreadable eyes.
The rest of their generation could barely compete with their fame, strength, and the feats they had already achieved.
Ethan could feel her continued stare burning into him, heavy with interest and something he couldn't yet define.
He didn't recognise her identity, though he could guess she was someone significant, someone far beyond the average noble girl.
Still, he refused to give her more attention than necessary for now.
Virelle was still looking at him, after all.
And even without her saying a word, he could already sense the displeasure simmering in her eyes, the displeasure she hid behind a calm face, but which had flared the moment his gaze had dropped to Fiona's exposed thigh and again when he had returned Fiona's smile.
With a quiet exhale, Ethan turned his eyes away, letting Fiona's beauty slip from his immediate focus for now.
Minutes trickled by, and soon every student had gathered in the central square of the garden.
The low hum of conversation slowly faded as the three deacons stepped forward, their mere presence tightening the atmosphere as though invisible chains were being pulled taut around everyone's throats.
From the trio, a tall and unsettlingly thin demon moved ahead.
His appearance was ghastly, sunken eye sockets, hollow cheeks, and sparse grey hair clinging to his scalp as if reluctant to abandon a body that looked like it should have rotted away long ago.
Yet when he spoke, his voice was soft, low, and eerily monotone, carrying across the courtyard with unnatural clarity, as if the air itself bent to deliver his words.
"Now begins the selection of societies," he announced.
"This rite holds immense importance for each one of you. For the years you remain within these academy grounds, your society will become your family.
You will live together, dine together, and face every trial, every hardship, and every examination together… so choose carefully, choose with commitment.
And remember, no conflict of any kind is permitted during this process.
Any student who disobeys will be punished severely."
Despite the flat calmness of his tone, the final sentence struck like an icy blade drawn across the spine.
Several students stiffened where they stood, while others exchanged tense looks, their unease palpable in the air.
But the silence fractured quickly as whispers rose again, scattered at first, and then swelled again as students began drifting toward the groups representing their individual races and clans.
Most flocked instinctively to their own people, and only a handful even considered approaching societies unrelated to their origin, and fewer still were bold enough to step into rival clans' spaces.
Ethan's sharp eyes drifted over the dispersing groups, reading their behaviours, their tensions, their hierarchies.
It was a habit now, one born from experience and necessity.
His gaze soon caught a dense cluster of dark-robed young men and women.
Their robes were etched with faint shadowy patterns, their faces pale and cold, their movements disciplined, almost ritualistic.