The bedchamber looked like a warzone of sin.
Black silk sheets (once pristine) were now twisted, soaked, streaked with frost-melt and foxfire ash. Pillows lay scattered across blood-marble floor like the corpses of overstuffed angels. The vaulted ceiling's crystal chandelier still swung lazily from the force of earlier screams. Every mirror in the room was completely fogged, some cracked from the sheer pressure of lust that had detonated inside these walls for the last six hours.
Seraphine Frostborn lay flat on her back in the center of the ruined bed, moon-pale skin glowing with a thin sheen of sweat and melted ice. Her frost-pink nipples stood hard as diamonds, chest heaving, thighs trembling uncontrollably. Between her legs, her smooth, swollen pussy glistened obscenely (red, used, dripping a slow river of mixed arousal onto the sheets).
Straddling her face was Tamamo Lyris Veyl, nine silver-white tails fanned wide like a living throne of fur and flame. Her heavy breasts bounced gently with every roll of her hips, golden nipple rings chiming softly. She rode Seraphine's mouth slow and deliberate (golden eyes half-lidded, lips parted, soft moans spilling out like honeyed poison). Seraphine's tongue worked eagerly between Tamamo's folds, lapping deep, nose buried in silver curls, hands gripping those plush thighs hard enough to leave bruises.
Love and lust hung so thick in the air it distorted the air like heat haze.
Then the private communication orb on the obsidian nightstand pulsed (once, twice, three times) in urgent crimson.
Tamamo didn't stop grinding. She simply reached sideways with one clawed hand, thumbed accept, and kept rolling her hips in that same lazy, possessive rhythm.
Valthorne Greysoul's voice crackled through, tight with barely restrained panic.
"Young Miss. Catastrophic news. Lady Lilith and the entire two-thousand-strong retinue were ambushed on the canyon road. Neutral-path cultivators. Every servant dead. Lady Lilith lost both legs, left arm, and half her torso. Emergency artifact triggered. She is currently submerged in the primary blood vat, regenerating. Estimated full recovery: three days."
Tamamo's golden eyes didn't even flicker. Her voice came out perfectly flat, almost sleepy, while Seraphine's tongue still swirled obediently inside her.
"What now."
One word from Valthorne (heavy, ancient, laced with dread):
"Your grandfather."
Click.
The orb went dark.
Tamamo dialed again without ever breaking rhythm. The new call connected before the first ring finished.
A voice rolled through like velvet soaked in whiskey and brimstone (old, amused, infinitely dangerous).
"WhatsApp, baby girl. You never call unless you want something… or someone."
Tamamo's tone stayed ice-calm, even as she reached down and lazily circled her own clit while Seraphine kept licking.
"Grandpa. I need two thousand fresh bodies. One thousand hell-forged demons, one thousand succubi. Combat-ready. Loyal. Immediate delivery."
A low, filthy chuckle rumbled through the orb, deep enough to rattle the cracked mirrors.
"Abyss Auction House opens its gates in four hours. Rarest stock in a century coming up for bidding. Come with me, princess. We'll shop, we drink angel tears from crystal skulls, we fuck in the VIP skybox, we fuck again in the slave pens. Bring the little ice princess too; been decades since I had a proper threesome."
Tamamo glanced down. Seraphine's pale blue eyes stared up, pupils blown wide with lust, mouth still working diligently, cheeks flushed crimson. Tamamo smiled (small, fond, predatory).
"Deal. Seraphine's coming. Prepare the imperial bed. And the chains. She likes those."
Seraphine let out a muffled, needy whimper against Tamamo's pussy at the word chains.
Grandfather's laugh was pure sin.
"Already wet and waiting. Hurry, baby girl. Grandpa's impatient."
Both orbs went dark.
Tamamo finally lifted herself off Seraphine's face with deliberate slowness. Thick, glistening strings of arousal stretched between swollen pink folds and Seraphine's lips before snapping. Tamamo leaned down, cupped Seraphine's chin, and kissed her slow and deep (tongues sliding, sharing the taste of Tamamo's own cum, soft moans swallowed between them).
When she pulled back, Seraphine's lips were swollen, chin dripping, eyes glazed.
Tamamo stood, tails swishing once. A new battle dress materialized in a swirl of crimson foxfire (black silk, gold embroidery, slits high enough to flash everything when she walked).
"Get up, love. Grandpa's taking us shopping."
Seraphine blinked, hoarse, still dazed.
"What… happened?"
Tamamo was already sliding thigh-high obsidian boots, sliding a dagger into each.
"Someone killed my toys. Grandpa's replacing them. Also, threesome. Move."
Seraphine just nodded, legs still shaking, and began pulling on her own ice-blue combat lingerie (frost crystals forming across the fabric as she touched it).
Neither woman mentioned Ace, Kai, or Riven.
They didn't need to.
Azrath Kain Veyl was already tearing across the infernal continent at continent-cracking speed, and when big brother arrived, the concept of mercy tended to file for divorce.
The girls had an auction to attend
The ridge had become a frozen tableau of death.
Wind died mid-gust.
Ash hung in the air like grey snow.
Every blade of crimson grass bent ninety degrees toward the east, crushed by the sheer weight of what was coming.
Then the horizon split open.
A vertical column of molten gold and obsidian flame punched through the sky, roaring loud enough to rupture eardrums. The ground for a hundred li spider-webbed with glowing cracks. Temperature leapt from blood-warm to furnace-hot in the space of a heartbeat. Rivers of lava erupted from nowhere and began crawling toward the ridge like hungry snakes.
From the heart of the inferno stepped Azrath Kain Veyl.
Three meters of living apocalypse.
Skin etched with glowing magma veins that pulsed like heartbeats.
Nine black horns spiralled backward in perfect symmetry, edges sharp enough to cut the concept of mercy.
Bare torso scarred by centuries of volcano training, every muscle carved from obsidian and wrath.
Golden Core aura rolled off him in visible shockwaves (black fire laced with gold lightning that scorched the air itself).
Nineteen Foundation-realm cultivators turned instantly to statues.
Jaws locked open.
Eyes bulged until veins burst.
One man's sword slipped from paralyzed fingers and stabbed three feet straight into solid basalt, quivering like it had been thrown by a god.
Another's knees buckled but never finished falling; he hung suspended mid-collapse, piss streaming down his leg in a perfect frozen arc.
Only one man remained untouched.
Lian Wuxin stood at the front, white robes immaculate, long black hair still bound by that single thread of molten gold. His face was a perfect mask (no anger, no fear, no life).
Ten full seconds of silence.
Two Golden Core monsters measuring each other like swords measuring throats.
Then recognition sparked behind Azrath's molten eyes.
He reached into the fold of his half-burned battle kilt, pulled out a fist-sized crimson orb, and thumbed the call without ever breaking eye contact.
Speaker on.
The orb connected instantly.
The entire ridge was blasted with crystal-clear audio of raw, depraved incest:
Wet flesh slapping flesh in perfect rhythm.
A mature woman's voice screaming in ecstasy:
"Yes, baby boy, fuck Mommy's pussy harder, stretch me, breed me, just like that—"
A masculine growl, breathless and laughing:
"Take it all, you greedy slut, every inch—"
Asmodeus Kain Veyl answered mid-thrust, cock buried to the hilt in his own mother, balls slapping wetly against her ass.
"Yo! Son! You melt the little shits yet or what?"
Azrath's voice stayed perfectly flat.
"Dad. The leader's name is Lian Wuxin. Ring any bells?"
A loud, wet squelch, a feminine shriek of orgasm, then Asmodeus's delighted cackle:
"Ohhh, Lian! That sad little cuck! Yeah, I remember. Cute kid. Thought he was gonna marry his mommy and live happily ever after, raw-dogging her every night. Turns out she saw my cock and forgot his name in ten seconds flat. I turned her succubus on the spot, made her my personal bedroom maid. Poor bastard walked in while I had her bent over the altar, balls deep, tails wrapped around my waist. Been salty for twenty years. Absolute gold."
The entire ridge heard every syllable.
Nineteen hardened killers turned purple trying not to breathe.
Azrath stared at Lian Wuxin.
Lian stared back.
One heartbeat.
Two.
Then Azrath Kain Veyl, the man who collapses mountains for cardio, lost it.
A real, uncontrollable, belly-deep laugh exploded out of him.
"Pfft, HAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Holy fucking shit, Dad, you absolute degenerate!"
He doubled over, clutching his stomach, tears of lava steaming down his cheeks. The ground cracked beneath him from the force of his laughter.
The killing pressure vanished like a popped balloon.
Nineteen cultivators collapsed in a heap, gasping, coughing, some literally weeping with relief.
One guy hit the dirt and started rolling, pounding the stone with both fists, howling with laughter he could no longer contain.
Another tried to stay dignified, failed, and snorted so hard he choked.
A third just whispered "no way… no fucking way…" over and over, face in his hands.
Lian Wuxin stood perfectly still.
Face still flat.
Eyes still dead.
But the golden thread binding his hair snapped with an audible twang.
A single blue vein began throbbing at his left temple, pulsing in perfect time with his heartbeat.
Azrath finally straightened, wiping lava-tears from his eyes, still chuckling.
"Well then," he said, voice warm with amusement, cracking his knuckles until lava dripped from his fists and hissed into black glass on the stone.
"Guess this just became a family matter."
He smiled (all teeth, no mercy).
"Shall we dance, little cuck?"
The inside of the obsidian carriage had become a moving temple of sin.
Crimson lanterns swung wildly from golden chains, painting everything in blood-light. The velvet benches were soaked (sweat, cum, melted frost, foxfire ash). The air reeked of musk, brimstone, and the metallic tang of demonic arousal.
Ace had the first succubus bent over the central bench, her wrists bound behind her back with his belt. Her massive breasts bounced with every brutal thrust, nipples scraping the ruined velvet. Each time he slammed home, her wings spasmed open and her tail lashed the air like a whip. Wet slaps echoed like gunshots.
Kai had the second pinned against the curved wall, one hand around her throat, the other gripping her thigh so hard his fingers left bruises. Her legs were locked around his waist, heels digging into his back, urging him deeper. Every slow, grinding stroke dragged a broken moan from her throat, her eyes rolled back white.
Riven sat in the shadowed corner throne, the third succubus riding him reverse-cowgirl. Her hands braced on his knees, ass bouncing so hard the entire bench creaked. Frost exploded across her skin every time she bottomed out, mixing with the sweat and cum dripping down his shaft. A storm of ice and water swirled around them, fogging the windows solid.
Then:
BOOM.
The world detonated.
A shockwave slammed into the carriage like the fist of an angry god. Obsidian windows spider-webbed. The lanterns exploded in showers of crimson glass. The horses outside screamed in pure terror. The entire vehicle lifted six inches off the ground before crashing back down, wheels shrieking across suddenly glassed stone.
Bodies flew.
Ace and his succubus tumbled sideways, still connected. Kai's succubus slammed into the ceiling, wings flaring. Riven and his rider were thrown forward, her face smashing into the opposite wall with a wet crunch before she laughed and licked the blood off her lips.
Silence for one heartbeat.
Then, through the cracked windows, they saw hell itself being born.
A mile away (close enough to feel the heat, far enough that the combatants looked like titans carved from nightmare), two monsters clashed.
Azrath Kain Veyl stood shirtless in a crater the size of a city, skin glowing with living rivers of lava that traced every vein and muscle. Nine black horns curved backward like a crown forged from the heart of a dying star. Molten gold dripped from his fists, sizzling into glass where it landed.
Across from him, Lian Wuxin hovered three inches above the ground, white robes shredded into ribbons that fluttered like battle standards. The golden thread that once bound his hair had become a living whip of solar fire, coiling around his wrist. His sword sang in his hand (an extension of his arm, leaving trails of absolute nothingness in the air).
They didn't speak.
They flexed.
Azrath roared, spun once, and unleashed a spinning heel kick that birthed a black-flame tornado three hundred meters tall. The tornado screamed as it tore across the wasteland, uprooting mountains.
Lian flicked one finger.
His sword flashed.
A single crescent of pure, colorless sword intent sliced the tornado perfectly in half. The two halves spiralled away, carving twin canyons that bled magma. The shockwave alone flattened every tree for fifty li.
Azrath laughed (wild, delighted) and punched the ground with both fists.
The earth answered.
A geyser of liquid gold erupted upward, a reverse waterfall of molten metal a thousand meters high. The heat flash-boiled the clouds overhead.
Lian didn't flinch.
He stepped onto the rising pillar of lava as casually as a staircase, robes untouched by the heat. His sword moved (too fast to see, only the afterimages remained), a thousand silver arcs that diced the entire lava column into glowing rain that fell like burning tears.
Azrath charged through the molten rain, fists igniting into twin miniature suns. Each punch left a sonic boom shaped like a screaming demon.
Lian met him head-on.
He discarded his sword (threw it point-down into the earth where it stood humming).
Bare-handed.
He caught Azrath's first sun-fist with his open palm.
The impact detonated a perfect sphere of destruction. The shockwave vaporized a nearby mountain range. The ridge where Lian's nineteen cultivators watched cracked in half; half the men were flung into the air like dolls.
One cultivator, blood streaming from his ears, whispered in religious awe:
"Captain… is trading blows bare-handed with a Kain Veyl prince…"
Another just pissed himself and didn't care.
Back at the carriage:
Azrath's burning gaze snapped toward Thorne Varg for a single heartbeat across the mile-wide battlefield.
A nod (short, sharp, absolute).
Thorne Varg, eight hundred years old and still built like a war-forged tank, returned it without hesitation.
"Leave the young masters to me."
He cracked the reins.
Hell-horses screamed. The carriage lurched forward, wheels sparking across newly formed glass. The acceleration slammed everyone inside against the back wall. Succubi squealed in delight. Ace, Kai, and Riven exchanged one look (shrugged) and went right back to fucking like the world wasn't ending behind them.
Wet slaps resumed, louder now, defiant.
Far behind, the sky shattered again.
Azrath hurled a mountain he'd ripped from the earth, the entire thing wrapped in black flame.
Lian cut it in half with a single horizontal slash that parted the clouds from horizon to horizon.
Azrath blitzed forward through the raining debris, fists blazing like comets.
Lian smiled (the first real smile anyone had ever seen on that dead face, small, sharp, and terrifying) and met him blow for blow.
Every impact birthed a new crater.
Every clash rewrote geography.
Two gods, perfectly matched, neither yielding an inch, flexing harder with every heartbeat.
The battlefield was a graveyard of geography.
Where mountains once stood, only jagged stumps remained, their peaks sheared clean off and scattered across the horizon like broken teeth.
The sky itself bore a fresh wound: a perfect, glowing scar that ran from east to west, edges still flickering with leftover sword intent and black flame.
The ground had been glassed in concentric rings; lava cooled into black mirrors that reflected the fractured moon.
At the exact center of the crater (three thousand meters wide, five hundred deep, with its own swirling storm of ash and embers) stood two men.
One was on his knees.
Lian Wuxin.
His legendary sword, Moon-Cutting Regret, lay snapped in half beside him, the break so clean it looked surgical.
The golden thread that had bound his hair for twenty-eight years was gone; reduced to drifting motes of molten light.
His once-immaculate white robes hung in blood-soaked ribbons, clinging to a body covered in burns, bruises, and cuts that would have killed lesser men a hundred times over.
Blood poured in steady streams from his nose, his ears, the corners of his eyes, mixing with the sweat and ash on his face.
He didn't wipe it away.
His shoulders hitched once.
Twice.
Then the first sound tore out of him: a cracked, wet sob that echoed off the crater walls like a dying animal.
Another followed. Louder. Rawer.
Then the dam shattered completely.
Lian Wuxin (peak Golden Core, the man who had never blinked at genocide, who had narrated his own mother's betrayal like a weather report) folded forward, forehead slamming into the glassed earth, and cried.
Ugly, snot-bubble, choking, full-body-heaving crying.
The kind of crying that came from a place deeper than qi, deeper than cultivation, deeper than pride.
"Mommy…" His voice cracked like a child's. "Mommy, why… why wasn't I enough… I just wanted you to love me… I just wanted you to choose me…"
His fingers clawed at the glassed ground until they bled.
Across from him, Azrath Kain Veyl stood motionless, lava veins slowly dimming from blinding gold to a dull, exhausted red.
His chest rose and fell in massive breaths.
One horn was cracked. Blood (his own and Lian's) steamed off his knuckles.
He watched the broken man sob for a long, long moment.
Then he sighed, the sound of a volcano finally going dormant.
He crouched, big hand wrapping around the back of Lian's blood-crusted neck like he was picking up a lost cub.
"Oi. Cuck."
Lian kept crying, face hidden in his arms, body shaking hard enough to rattle bones.
Azrath shook him once, gentle but firm.
"Look at me."
Red-rimmed, swollen eyes lifted. Met molten gold.
Azrath's voice was low, almost kind.
"You fought me even for three straight hours. You carved my chest open twice. You made me bleed from places I forgot I had.
You're the first person in fifty years who forced me to go all-out just to keep breathing.
And now you're on your knees crying because your mom liked my dad's dick better?"
Lian hiccupped, tried to speak, failed, fresh tears spilling.
Azrath snorted, but there was no cruelty in it.
"Welcome to the family, asshole. My dad literally fucked my grandmother while I was on the phone with him last week.
We're all broken. Get in line."
He reached into the torn remnants of his battle kilt and pulled out a jug the size of a man's torso (black ceramic, sealed with a demon skull cork, radiating pure alcoholic sin).
Popped the cork with his thumb.
The smell hit like a warhammer: brimstone, fermented angel tears, and something that made the air itself feel drunk.
"Drink."
Lian stared at the jug like it was the only real thing left in the universe.
He grabbed it with both trembling hands, brought it to his lips, and chugged.
Half the jug vanished in ten seconds.
He came up coughing, choking, eyes bloodshot, tears still streaming, but something in his shoulders loosened.
Azrath took a long pull himself, wiped his mouth with the back of a lava-scarred hand.
"Come on. Thorne's hunting hell-boar. Fire's already lit. You're eating with us."
Lian sniffled, voice hoarse and small.
"…You're not going to kill me?"
Azrath barked a laugh that shook loose stones from the crater rim.
"Kill you? After that fight? I'm adopting you, you sad bastard. My little brothers need someone sane to look up to."
He hauled Lian to his feet like he weighed nothing, slung one massive arm around the smaller man's shoulders, and started walking toward the distant glow of a newborn bonfire.
Two hours later.
The crater floor had become a feast ground.
A bonfire roared fifty meters high, blue-white flames fed by hell-boar fat that exploded into fragrant fireballs every time it dripped.
Entire carcasses the size of elephants turned slowly on spits carved from dragon bone.
Thorne Varg moved between the fires like a war-forged camp dad, barking orders, passing out skewers the size of spears dripping with molten meat.
Nineteen neutral-path cultivators sat on one side of the fire, still shell-shocked, stealing glances at their captain.
Their captain was currently cross-legged on a rock, red-eyed and puffy-faced, wrapped in Azrath's spare cloak (black with crimson runes), drinking straight from the demon-skull jug while Azrath slapped his back hard enough to crack normal spines.
"—and then," Azrath roared, laughing so hard lava tears steamed off his cheeks, "Dad picks up mid-thrust and goes 'yeah the cuck's name is Lian Wuxin, hilarious right?' I almost dropped the fucking orb!"
The entire camp lost it.
One of Lian's lieutenants fell off his log, rolling in the ash, howling.
Huo Ba, the one-eyed veteran, wiped tears of mirth and raised his cup.
"To Captain's mom: best wingwoman in the nine hells!"
Lian raised the jug with both shaking hands, voice raw but steady for the first time all night.
"To the biggest dick in the universe. May it choke on its own ego one day."
Azrath howled approval and clinked the jug so hard the ceramic cracked, spilling liquor that hissed into the fire and turned the flames purple.
Ace, Kai, and Riven watched from the carriage steps twenty meters away, succubi curled in their laps like satisfied cats, passing a smaller flask of their own.
Ace grinned, lazy and smug.
"Five minutes ago they were trying to erase continents. Now they're drunk besties roasting each other's family trauma."
Kai smirked, fingers tracing lazy circles on his succubus's tail.
"Cultivation in a nutshell."
Riven just took a slow drink, frost swirling around the mouth of his bottle, voice quiet.