The Cathedral
cathedral is a carcass of devotion—an enormous ribcage of charred stone and broken stained glass. Where sunlight once poured through colored panes, firelight now guts the vaults, throwing fractured patterns across puddles of dark, slow blood on flagstones. Soot drifts like black snow. The air is heavy with smoke, copper, and the raw animal stench of fear.
At the nave's ruined center sits the throne: a construction of fused bone and iron, veins of molten crimson pulsing through it like arteries. And upon it lounges Slade's body—remade, perfected, too smooth for humanity. The missing eye has been replaced with an orb of salmon light, vibrant and invasive. His smile is courteous, refined… and wrong, as though painted on too carefully.
His chest is bare, the flesh split open in a perfect vertical seam. Where a sternum should be, there is only a living wound: a mouth. Its lipless edges are rimmed with small, glistening fangs, and within it throbs the Crimson Heart—embedded, beating, dripping light and blood in equal measure. Each pulse shakes the cathedral's walls like a second heartbeat for the ruined place.
Below him, cultists work among bound civilians. Ritual knives flash. Chanting rises. Some kneel with reverence, others with despair. A woman screams, clutching her child:
"Please—please, not him, take me!"
A man in a torn jacket sobs against the tiles, whispering: "I did nothing—I did nothing—"
A boy tries to spit defiance before a cultist slashes his cheek, his words gurgling into silence. Limbs twitch. Skin ripples as though something beneath it claws to get out.
Asmodeus rests his hands on the throne's arms. His voice drips like velvet over razors.
"Lust," he breathes. Two cultists are seized by an unnatural frenzy, clutching and tearing at each other until their features blur, flesh collapsing under the weight of imposed desire. The crowd shudders at the spectacle. "Lust loosens the hinges of their higher angels. Want teaches obedience."
"Wrath." He gestures, and shackles fall from a prisoner. The man's rage ignites, warping his body into spasms, tearing at bonds until muscle bursts. "Rage is an engine. Fear its oil. Feed it—and it never stills."
At his feet, blood etches itself into constellations across the stone—geometry that shifts between star maps, equations, and incantations. He traces them with a fingertip blackened by char, and the patterns rearrange into maps of the city, the museum marked like a scar.
"Knowledge," Asmodeus sighs, savoring the word. "The language of stars, the arithmetic of power. Secrets offered in exchange for heat and worship."
A trembling cultist lifts a cloth bundle to the throne. The covering falls away: the Crimson Heart, incomplete, black veins running from the wound where a stolen fragment is missing. Yet it beats with stubborn hunger.
But here, the real horror: Asmodeus parts his chest wider. The fang-lined wound yawns, sucking air, and the Heart is pressed inside. It fuses with the living maw, nestling into place. The crowd gasps as it pulses through him, his body shaking in time with its rhythm. He strokes the edge of the wound tenderly, like a man caressing a lover's cheek.
"The Heart," he murmurs. "Imperfect… but still humming. I will finish the chord. The song will last."
Flames leap into shapes at his command. The Titans' faces shimmer in fire: Robin's scowl, Starfire's blazing eyes, Cyborg's half-machine glare, Beast Boy's grin turned sharp with pain. He watches them with polite detachment.
"Trinkets," he says smoothly. "Brave, loud, loyal. Their screams will flavor the air, but they are not my feast."
Then his tone changes, softening, dripping with relish. The flames twist into Raven's silhouette—hooded, indigo, eyes shadowed. Her pain plays across the walls: Azarath aflame, her mother's unreachable embrace, the word monster echoing through her life.
"The girl in indigo," Asmodeus whispers, savoring every syllable. "A soul cracked clean down the middle. She yearns for peace. For a world where no one calls her cursed. I could give her that." His smile deepens—gentle, terrifying. "All it costs is her anchor. Her fear. Her trust. And then, her soul will sing in the key my Heart requires."
The Crimson Heart in his chest beats harder, the fangs around it twitching as if hungry.
And then—another flame conjuration. A figure cloaked in fire: Wildcard. Tall, strange, marked by paradox.
"The Amazonian," Asmodeus says, tilting his head with curiosity. "Curious, that he is male."Curious, that he is male. A deviation in a line sculpted by divine wrath and mortal defiance. A son born among in the line of queens Rare, that he resists what all mortals crave. Strength tempered, appetite denied. Rude… but exquisite." He chuckles low, the sound caressing and cruel. "Only a handful each age resist their desires. They are iron, thunder, salt of the sea. Souls like that… taste rarer than any treasure."
The cult begins to chant his name—"Wild-card, Wild-card"—voices rising like hunger itself.
"I will savor him," Asmodeus declares, salmon eye blazing. "Slowly, meticulously. To take him as he resists, to taste the denial itself—that is a delicacy worth centuries."
A man in chains dares to cry out: "Mercy! Please—spare us—"
Asmodeus leans toward him, almost kind. "Sacrifice is mercy," he says softly. "Your stories, your secrets, your screams—all threads in my design. For one heartbeat, you will be exalted. Then you will be consumed."
The Heart in his chest gnashes its fangs.
He spreads his arms, salmon light bathing the cathedral. "Bring me the girl in indigo. Bring me the Amazonian. With their souls, the Crimson Heart will sing whole, and I will feast upon a city that worships hunger."
The cult howls. Civilians sob. Fire shrieks against broken glass.
Asmodeus rises from his throne, the fang-lined wound closing slowly over the Heart, sealing with a wet, final click—like a mouth that has just tasted blood.
And his last words ripple through the ruin like a caress and a threat:
"I will savor Wildcard's soul. A rare delicacy… and when it breaks upon my tongue, the song will never end."
A sound breaks the silence—soft at first, then swelling until it drowns even the chant of the cult. Laughter. Velvet laughter, cultured, charming… and wrong. Each peal scrapes at the marrow of those who hear it, too perfect in tone, too polished, too endless. The civilians weep harder as if the sound itself flays them raw.
Hellfire erupts around him, dark purple flames edged in blood-red, curling like serpents from his feet to the cathedral's broken rafters. The blaze paints him in dreadful colors—skin cast in deep scarlet glow, the faintest blush of pinkish light shimmering like diseased roses across his chest, and all around a wreath of violet fire that screams as though alive.
Both his eyes blaze now—twin orbs of dark, malevolent salmon, burning so bright they pierce the smoke and ash like beacons from some drowned abyss. His grin widens, splitting his face like a crack in a mask.
He extends one hand into the air, and a chained civilian is yanked up as though invisible hooks pierced his ribs. The man thrashes, choking on his own scream, until Asmodeus closes his fist. With a wet, splintering pop, the man's body folds inward—limbs twisting into angles that do not belong to flesh. His blood falls in ribbons across the crowd like baptism.
The cult erupts in euphoric cries. The civilians wail.
Asmodeus lowers his head, laughter still spilling softly from his lips. "This city will learn," he murmurs, stroking the air as if caressing an invisible throat. "Desire is not temptation. It is scripture. And I am the only priest left to read it."
The cathedral trembles. The Heart inside his chest pounds once, loud enough to shake dust from the ceiling. And then the maw snaps shut with another click, sealing the gem within as his laughter rises again—richer, crueler.
The flames spread outward, setting the pews and corpses alight. The stained glass melts into streaks of color, like eyes crying themselves away.
And above it all, Asmodeus whispers one last promise—so soft the words almost vanish into the roar of fire, yet so sharp they carve into every mind present:
"When I am finished, even your ashes will beg me for desire."
The wound in Asmodeus's chest sealed with a wet, final click, the Crimson Heart swallowed into flesh and fang. Then the ruinous cathedral pulsed like a living lung.
A psychic wave detonated outward.
***
Titans Tower
Raven was the first to fall. She convulsed, knees cracking against the floor as a hand shot to her skull. Shadows rippled from her skin like smoke writhing to escape.
"Girl in indigo…" The voice coiled through her skull, velvet and venom. "You were shaped for me. You were born for chains. Come home."
Her vision broke apart into jagged fragments: Trigon's hand clutching hers. Her friends' faces turning away, eyes twisted with hatred. Her own reflection splitting into a thousand cracked shards, each whispering curse, curse, curse.
"Stop—" Her voice tore, fragile, violet aura bleeding into the walls. "Stop!"
Starfire rushed forward, grabbing her hands. The alien's glow sputtered as if smothered in oil. "Raven! Sister—fight this!"
But Raven's aura lashed out, tendrils of black slamming into Starfire's chest, hurling her backward.
"Damn it!" Cyborg's arm shifted into a cannon, scanning furiously. "Her vitals are spiking—something's inside her head!"
Beast Boy staggered, clutching his skull as his own vision blurred—his teammates bleeding, dying, fading into dust around him. "N-no… I can't—make it stop—" He shifted half into wolf form, jaw snapping at air that wasn't there.
Robin's fists clenched until blood welled under his nails. His mind filled with visions of failure, of Gotham's broken streets, of Batman's cold eyes judging him. He slammed a fist into the floor to ground himself, teeth bared. "Don't listen! It's an attack—fight it!"
M'gann screamed aloud, hands clawing her temples, her telepathy backfiring under the wave. Every civilian mind in the city was pouring into her all at once: lust, rage, hunger, despair. It split through her like glass, and she crumpled to her knees, whispering: "There's… too many—"
The Tower filled with screams, the sound of bodies thrashing against nightmares they could not see.
And at the center, Raven trembled, a violet aura splitting the floorboards. Her voice cracked, one final plea to herself: "I am not his…" But the voice laughed in her mind, louder than her own.
***
Elsewhere – Wildcard
The wave struck him, too. It licked at his soul like a blade of fire. For a heartbeat, the temptation whispered—visions of power, of desire unchained, of blood spilled without restraint.
But Wildcard only grinned. His Sharingan flared, crimson rings spinning as the invisible threads of Asmodeus's will revealed themselves.
"You think you own me?" he hissed, low and feral.
Beside him, Jinx screamed, clutching her head, nails tearing her scalp. "I can't—he's inside me—"
"Not anymore."
His palm hit the ground. Light erupted—gold burning brighter than flame, seared with sigils of old. A circle snapped into being beneath his boots, widening until walls of brilliance rose around them.
The dome closed with a thunderclap. The wave struck, hissing, clawing—but split apart on the barrier like black water against a blade of sun.
Jinx collapsed inside the glow, her eyes fluttering wide, the whispering gone. She gasped at him like he'd dragged her from drowning. "You… blocked him?"
Wildcard's grin sharpened, eyes never leaving the barrier. "No." The Sharingan spun. "I canceled him."
The dome pulsed once, defiance pounding in rhythm with his heartbeat.
***
Across the City
Everywhere else, the wave took root.
Lovers in apartments tore at each other, kisses becoming bites, flesh opening under nails. Crowds in markets devolved into riots—hands clutching, tearing, dragging one another to the ground in frenzied lust and rage. Children screamed as parents turned cruel, striking with fists, shouting words that should never be spoken.
On the streets, men and women fell to their knees, moaning in twisted ecstasy, their eyes glowing faint salmon as they carved symbols into their skin with glass and stone.
The city screamed.
And far away, upon his throne of ruin, Asmodeus smiled.
"The girl in indigo weakens. The Amazonian resists. Perfect."
The Crimson Heart in his chest gnawed its fangs, and the cathedral echoed with his laughter—low, endless, the sound of velvet dragged across a blade.
End of chapter
Author's note: Don't forget to add this story to your library and drop a Power Stone to show your support