The throne of holes trembled as Kaito rose.
He left his generals writhing in half-defeat, their milk dried, their womb-flames guttering, their voids stitched shut by the shard's cruel purity. Their eyes turned to him—not with despair, but with hunger, desperate for his cock, his presence, his warmth to restore them.
But Kaito did not linger.
The Dry Shard had dared to deny him.
And denial was a hole begging to be torn open.
The March Into Silence
When Kaito stepped from the throne, his seed dripped into the void like pearls of white suns. Each droplet normally birthed rivers, galaxies, empires. But here?
The moment his cum hit the shard's surface—it evaporated.
No puddle. No moan. No echo.
The shard was endless desert. Dunes stretched to every horizon, smooth as untouched skin. The air itself was dry, sharp, like a cunt clamped shut with no wetness to be found.
Kaito grinned.
"So… this shard thinks it can clench against me?"
The desert wind gave no answer.
The First Step
