The First Patriarch: Streaming My Cosmic Harem

Chapter 64: Chapter 64: Two Weeks Later

Azriel didn’t hesitate.

He rolled his broad shoulders, stepping directly into the ring, and raised his fists into a tight, modern guard, chin tucked, elbows shielding his ribs, knuckles resting near his jaw.

Azriel exploded forward.

Utilizing the explosive leg strength from his morning drills, he drove a stiff left jab straight toward Nyra’s face, following it instantly with a heavy right cross aimed for her temple.

Pah! Pah!

Nyra didn’t even flinch.

She slipped the jab by a fraction of an inch and caught his heavy cross right on the palm of her guard, absorbing the massive kinetic force without yielding a single step.

Before Azriel could retract his right arm, Nyra’s counter came like a lightning bolt.

Her lower body pivoted, and a sharp, devastating left hook whipped around his guard, catching him cleanly on the side of his ribs.

THUD!

The impact sounded like a hammer hitting solid oak.

Air exploded from Azriel’s lungs, the sheer shockwave of her strike forcing him to take two rapid steps back to recover his footing.

Nyra held her position, her expression completely calm and unbothered.

She was intentionally capping her output, exerting just a fraction of power above his baseline so he wouldn’t be instantly crushed, but ensuring every single mistake came with a painful penalty.

"Your guard dropped on the right extension," Nyra evaluated coldly, her voice sharp.

"You sacrificed your internal defense for raw reach. Do it again in a real skirmish, and a soldier will break your ribs."

Azriel rubbed his side, feeling the hot, throbbing ache under his skin.

His Warrior’s Insight was working overtime, processing the trajectory of her strike and rewinding the exact moment his form had fractured.

"Got it," Azriel grunted, a dark, competitive grin spreading across his face.

He stepped back into range.

This time, as he closed the distance, he threw the same jab, but instead of committing his upper body to a heavy right cross, he faked the extension.

The moment Nyra shifted her weight to counter-hook his exposed ribs, Azriel kept his right elbow glued to his side, catching her strike firmly on his forearm while driving a brutal left uppercut straight up through her central guard.

BAM!

Nyra’s head snapped back slightly as his fist brushed her chin.

Surprise flickered in her sharp eyes for a split second.

She hadn’t expected him to correct his flaw mid-combative exchange.

"Not bad," she acknowledged, her voice dropping an octave as she immediately stepped into his space to pressure him.

What followed was a relentless, high-speed exchange of physical feedback.

Nyra increased her tempo, driving a flurry of rapid straight punches and sweeping low kicks. Azriel struggled beneath the sheer weight of her experience, he got caught by a sharp jab to his cheek, a sweeping kick that almost threw off his center of gravity, and a heavy palm strike to his shoulder.

Yet, with every hit he took, he adapted instantly.

If a low kick off-balanced him once, he checked the next one with his shin, if her straight punches bypassed his high guard, he integrated subtle head movement, slipping her strikes and returning fire with sharp body shots.

He was a sponge, absorbing her masterclass in martial flow and refining his raw, explosive power into a disciplined weapon.

By the time two hours had passed, the dusty gravel ring was heavily disturbed.

Azriel was drenched in sweat, lying on the dusty ground, his chest heaving violently, his body mapped with dull red bruises.

Yet, his violet eyes burned brighter than ever, his stance sharper, tighter, and infinitely more dangerous than when he had first stepped onto the field.

Nyra lowered her hands, exhaling a clean, controlled breath.

Her uniform remained pristine, not a single hair out of place, but as she looked at the young man standing before her, the respect in her eyes had deepened tenfold.

"Session complete," Nyra announced, giving him a crisp, formal nod as she lowered her guard.

"Your adaptation rate is terrifying, Sir Azriel. If you keep this up, it won’t be long before you completely surpass me."

"Thanks," Azriel replied smoothly, a lazy, confident smile tugging at his lips as he rolled his shoulders and turned to head back to his quarters.

Over the next two weeks, the estate settled into an intense, highly disciplined rhythm.

Every single morning began at dawn on the dusty training grounds.

Under Captain Nyra’s unyielding oversight, Azriel pushed his physical limits to absolute absurdity.

The massive white marble pillars he lifted grew steadily larger, his strikes became faster, sharper, and far more lethal, and his newly tempered foundation hardened into an impenetrable wall.

His Warrior’s Insight allowed him to absorb decades of military combat experience in a matter of days.

By the end of the second week, even Nyra was forced to increase her level by 10% just to keep him from breaking through her guard.

Meanwhile, his System metrics skyrocketed.

His nightly broadcasts became the premier attraction for the higher-realm viewers.

The premium live chat was a constant storm of donation alerts, high-tier gifts, and chaotic commentary, pouring tens of thousands of Karma Points into his account.

Rather than spending them recklessly on minor upgrades, Azriel remained disciplined, using only what was strictly necessary to pay the loan hanging over his head, while hoarding every remaining point until his balance reached a monumental sum capable of unlocking the truly game-changing artifacts in the Karma Shop.

Rosalind, however, was practically buried under an avalanche of imperial duty.

As the Head of the Clan, the sector’s administrative restructuring demanded every second of her daylight hours.

They only managed to see each other during swift, quiet breakfasts, occasional late dinners, and the late hours of the night.

But when night fell, all administrative stress vanished behind the locked doors of the master bedroom.

Their late-night sessions remained a passionate, intense marathon of dominance and surrender.

Azriel pushed her boundaries night after night, breaking down her aristocratic composure.

When he wasn’t training or breaking the Duchess, Azriel dedicated his spare time to understanding the complex machinery of this world.

Though he now possessed a high-end smartphone, he quickly realized it had become far more of a distraction than a tool for learning.

The device came loaded with hyper-addictive video platforms, and he frequently found himself falling into the trap of endless doom-scrolling.

Recognizing the drain on his focus, Azriel deliberately set the device aside.

To acquire true, unadulterated knowledge regarding faction histories, regional power dynamics, and cultivation lore, he redirected his attention to the mansion’s massive private library.

He spent hours devouring ancient ledgers, territorial maps, and historical manuscripts, piecing together the broader geopolitical landscape of the empire.

Finally, after fourteen days of relentless labor, Rosalind managed to clear her calendar for a single, precious day off.