CHAPTER 191: CHAPTER 192: SHILA’S WORSHIP

The candles had burned low in the Church of Leonidus, their wax pooling like small moons on marble. The corridors carried the smell of oil, sweat, and cum—an odor that clung to the walls as if faith itself had a new scent.

Aiden stepped out of the dormitory chamber, his robes clinging to his body. The air was heavy, damp with heat and incense.

The week had been long—seven days since he had taken his new name before the altar, seven days since he had bent knee before the god he did not believe in.

Seven days since he became Lucifer.

He exhaled, feeling the ache of exhaustion deep in his bones. The Church had demanded everything—sermons, blessings, rituals, endless prayers—and yet he gave it willingly. Or perhaps not willingly. Strategically.

His mission was complete. Not the one the system whispered to him—the one only he could hear—but the mission he had crafted for himself.

All the virgins within the walls of the church, were virgins no longer. All their womb filled with his cum

He had become indispensable. Necessary. Worshiped even.

The nuns, the brothers, the faithful—they no longer murmured their oaths to the nameless god of scripture. No. Their prayers now carried his name instead. Their prophet.

Aiden walked down the corridor. His boots echoed, a slow rhythm that matched the beating in his chest. Each step was heavy, as though the stones themselves remembered the weight of what he had done.

At the far end of the hallway, he could hear faint hymns—off-key, trembling, desperate. Faithful voices chasing salvation in the darkness.

He almost pitied them. Almost.

When he reached the confessional room, the lamps were already lit. The light was low, smoky.

He expected the usual—the trembling faithful waiting for his counsel, their eyes full of guilt and awe. And in between, he fulfilled the prayers of some lonely wives. Fulfilling their needs to brim.

The murmured confessions of sin, the whispered pleas for redemption.

But there was no one there.

Only one figure stood inside.

Abbess Shila.

Her presence filled the room like cold fire. The lamplight caught the curve of her hood, the gleam of her rosary. She was still—too still—and the air seemed to tense around her.

"Where are the people?" Aiden asked quietly.

Shila didn’t look at him immediately. Her gaze lingered on the altar, on the single candle flickering between them. When she finally turned, her eyes were strange—sharp, knowing, almost red in the light.

"Today," she said softly, "the confessions are postponed."

"Postponed?" He raised an eyebrow. "And who decided that?"

"I did," she answered.

Aiden took a step forward. "And why would you do that?"

Shila smiled faintly. It wasn’t a kind smile—it was the sort that hid daggers behind devotion. "Because today, I have a confession to make."

He stopped. Her voice was steady, but there was something under it—something trembling, alive.

"And what sin burdens the holy Abbess?" he asked, half amused.

Her lips curved. "...Knowing too much."

She reached into her robes and drew out a folded parchment, sealed with a crimson ribbon. When she held it out, the seal caught the light—a lion crest, unmistakable.

The crest of Leonidus.

Aiden’s expression didn’t change, but inside him something stilled.

He took the parchment slowly, unfolding it. The ink was familiar—records, formal and bureaucratic, the sort only nobility used.

Sir Aiden of Leonidus. Knight of House Leonidus and sworn sword under House Merlin.

Engaged to Lady Flora D. Leonidus.

The letters blurred slightly as he stared at them. For a heartbeat, the air felt colder.

When he looked up, Shila was watching him.

"So," she said, voice a whisper that cut like silk, "it’s true."

There was no accusation in her tone. Only curiosity.

Aiden folded the parchment carefully and set it on the table beside the candle. "You’ve been busy."

"I have eyes everywhere," Shila replied. "It is the duty of an Abbess to see through deception."

"Then you should know what happens to those who pry too deep."

"I know," she said, and stepped closer. "And yet here I am."

The silence that followed was thick—so thick it seemed to muffle the world beyond the room.

Shila moved like a shadow, her presence radiating a strange calm, a dangerous poise.

"I must ask," she said, stopping only a few feet from him. "Why would a knight of noble position abandon his house and disguise himself as a priest?"

Aiden met her gaze. The candlelight reflected in his eyes, making them look otherworldly—blue, deep, and cold.

"For myself," he said simply.

She tilted her head. "That’s not an answer."

"It’s the only one I’ll give."

He turned away, as if to leave, but she stepped in front of him—too fast. Her hand pressed lightly against his chest, stopping him.

Her palm was warm.

"A man like you doesn’t kneel to gods or lords," she whispered. "So why kneel to faith?"

He smiled slightly. "Who says I’m kneeling?"

Her breath caught. For a moment, they were statues carved of breath and silence—two forces locked in a tension neither wanted to break.

Then Shila spoke again, softer. "The Church fears you...your words, coming true again and again...."

"They should."

"And yet, I think..." she hesitated, her eyes flicking to the faint scar near his collar, "...they need you."

Her words echoed like prophecy.

Aiden’s gaze darkened. "Need is just a slower kind of worship...you all will learn soon...."

"Then perhaps I’m worshiping," she said.

There was no mockery in her tone—only a strange sincerity, one that unnerved him more than hatred could.

For a long moment, they simply stood there. The single candle sputtered, its flame swaying between them like the fragile line separating faith from heresy.

Aiden spoke first. "You’ve seen enough to know what I am. So tell me—what will you do with it?"

Shila looked down, then back up. Her eyes glinted. "That depends."

"On what?"

"On what miracles are you going to make happen?" She said, coming closer. Sniffing the scent of fresh sex on him.

The question struck deep.

Aiden didn’t answer right away. He srood still, his hands on himself.

"What kind of miracles" he said quietly, "the ones which you witnessed the day before?"

The chamber door clicked shut behind them, sealing the world out.

Candlelight danced across the stone walls, casting long shadows that licked at the edges of the room like eager tongues.

Aiden leaned against his desk, arms crossed, blue eyes fixed on Shila. The Abbess paced slow, her habit whispering with each step—white wool hugging her curves in ways the church never intended.

Auburn hair peeked from under her veil, wild and untamed, framing a face flushed with something far from piety.

Her blue eyes burned—locked on him, on the way his robes hung loose, hinting at the hard body beneath. The air hummed. Thick. Charged. Like the moment before a storm breaks.

"Yes, same like that, pound for pound..." She said as her hand lingered on his chest—fingers tracing the line of his collarbone through fabric.

Then lower. Bold. Her palm pressed flat against his stomach, feeling the heat. The hardness. She slid it down—slow, teasing—until her fingers brushed the bulge in his pants.

Thick. Full. Twitching under her touch. She squeezed gentle, tracing the length through cotton. "Mmm..." A soft moan escaped her lips. Her breath hitched. "You’d treat me the same, right? Like her, like all those other nuns... the ones who came to ’pray’... and left with your cock ruining them deep."

Aiden’s smile was slow. Wicked. He didn’t pull away. Just watched her—golden eyes darkening as her grip tightened.

"Shila..." His voice rumbled low, like thunder trapped in his chest. "You know what I do to them. How I make them beg. Spread wide. Gushing around me until they forget their gods."

She bit her lip—hard. Her fingers worked the button of his pants. Pop. Slow. Teasing.

"I heard you today. In the dorm. Fucking them. Hard. Raw. The moans... the slaps... it made me ’wet’ just listening." Her pussy throbbed at the memory—clit aching, wetness soaking her smallclothes. She was higher than those sisters.

Abbess. Leader. She deserved the same. No—’more’. "I’m not some novice. I’m ’you’—turned. Give me that faith. That ’hunger’. Or I’ll take it."

Aiden chuckled soft. His hand caught her wrist—firm, but not stopping her. "What about your god, Abbess? Your position? Vows don’t bend easy."

Shila’s eyes flashed. She yanked her wrist free—pulling his pants open wider. The fabric slid down. His cock sprang free—thick, long, veined. The head glistened.

She stared. Breathed. "I prayed already. Begged forgiveness for this... sinful heart. This throbbing pussy." Her voice dropped husky. Fingers wrapped around him—stroking slow. Feeling the heat. The pulse.

"God always forgives. Even whores like me. Even when I ’need’ this cock ruining me."

She sank to her knees. Habit pooling around her like a white surrender. The stone bit her skin, but she didn’t care.

Her eyes went wide—locked on his "behemoth." ’oh loooorrd... so big...and thick...’ Her mouth watered. Hand pumped him—slow, firm—thumb circling the tip, smearing pre-cum.

"My worship... it belongs to you now. The new prophet. ’You’." She leaned in—breath hot on the head. "Guide me. Show me your ways. ’Fuck’ me like you do them."

Aiden smiled. Lazy. Hungry. His hand threaded her auburn hair—guiding, not forcing. "Good abbess. ’Worship’ it then. Show me how bad you need your prophet’s cock."

Shila moaned soft—lips parting. She licked the tip—flat tongue lapping slow. Tasting salt. Him. "Mmm... ’salty’... so ’good’..so fresh.... I can still smell, the sisters juice here..." Her mouth stretched wide—taking the head.

Sucking soft. Tongue swirling the slit. Lapping more pre-cum. Her hand stroked the shaft—up and down, twisting gentle.

"Good girl...." Aiden muttered. His smile reaching cheek to cheek.