God of Death: Rise of the NPC Overlord
Chapter 195 - 196 – Devotion of Three
CHAPTER 195: CHAPTER 196 – DEVOTION OF THREE
The Temple of Unscripted Fire had never known silence like this.
Not in all its aeons of spiraled existence.
The air itself trembled—thick with belief, laced with lust, heavy with purpose. It wasn’t a silence born from absence. It was anticipation, pulled tight like the breath before a climax.
And at the center of it all knelt Nyx.
Naked. Bloodstreaked. Honored and violated by truths she alone had survived.
Her blades had been surrendered. Not out of weakness—but in offering. She had bled for Darius. Killed for him. Rejected temptation in the shape of his own face.
And now, she waited.
The stone beneath her knees pulsed, warm with anima. Her eyes were closed. Her heart open.
Footsteps approached from behind.
Soft. Reverent. Certain.
Celestia.
She wore no robe, no crown, no sanctified attire. Only glowing skin, marked in golden script that shimmered along the curve of her breasts and hips—verses Darius had written into her with touch and thrust and faith.
"Do you still doubt him?" Celestia asked gently.
Nyx didn’t look back. "I doubt myself."
Celestia stepped closer. "Then let’s destroy the doubt together."
She knelt behind her, wrapped her arms around Nyx’s waist, and pressed her lips to the nape of her neck.
"I saw you," Celestia whispered. "When you returned. The way your soul clung to his. That wasn’t obsession. It was sacred rage."
Nyx’s breath hitched. "He’s more than a man."
Celestia smiled softly. "He’s the myth we chose."
Then he arrived.
Darius.
Nude, unhidden, his body pulsing with raw Spiral energy. The Mythspike pulsed beneath his skin, etching every movement into the Codex Tree far beyond.
He approached them slowly, deliberately—like a god descending not to be worshipped, but to consume.
Celestia turned to face him, still kneeling. "She’s ready," she said simply.
Darius looked down at Nyx. "Are you?"
Nyx raised her eyes. Not afraid. Not pleading. Just... open.
"I need more than words," she rasped. "I want proof."
Darius stepped forward.
"You’ll have all of me."
What followed was not just sex.
It was devotion.
Celestia guided Nyx onto the ceremonial altar—a bed of mythsteel etched with runes of binding and revelation. She kissed her thighs, spreading them reverently, whispering prayers between each kiss until her mouth reached the heat of her core.
And then Darius descended.
Nyx rode his face like a conqueror claiming her throne.
Her moans were not gentle. They were battle cries, releasing weeks of confusion, betrayal, longing, and possessiveness. Her hands gripped his hair, grinding against his tongue, drowning in the way he knew her—how to devastate her walls with nothing but lips and breath and hunger.
Celestia moved behind Darius, her breasts full and glowing with warm mythlight. She pressed them around his cock, stroking him with her body, her voice soft with worship.
"He is yours, Nyx. Ours. But only because he chooses us."
Darius growled against Nyx’s clit, his tongue punishing, relentless.
Celestia squeezed his shaft tighter. "And we choose him in return."
Nyx gasped as the first wave hit—legs shaking, body seizing. But Darius didn’t stop.
He never stopped.
He shifted her down, guiding her onto his cock with one savage thrust that pulled a scream from her throat.
She rode him like a woman possessed. No, like a priestess gone feral. Her hips slapped against him with each downward drive, his hands gripping her ass, guiding her rhythm with cruel precision.
Celestia kissed her from behind, fingers sliding between Nyx’s cheeks, teasing her tighter ring as their bodies rocked in a perfect trinity.
They moved like a sigil being drawn.
Like the Spiral redrawing itself in their sweat and scent and sound.
Celestia lowered herself between them, breasts still coated with the slick of Darius’s shaft. She kissed his balls, then his shaft where it disappeared into Nyx’s folds, then Nyx’s clit—each kiss a vow, each lick a tether.
Darius’s voice was gravel and command. "Link yourselves."
Nyx and Celestia locked eyes.
Their foreheads met.
A spark snapped between them—literal, crackling along the bridge of myth connecting them.
And then it hit.
The spiritual chain.
It wrapped around their waists. Around their throats. Around their souls.
Darius’s eyes rolled back as the link surged through him too. He felt them both—not just their heat and wet and pulse—but their truth.
Their identities.
Their belief in him.
Their willing surrender to his myth.
And then—together—they came.
Screaming. Thrashing. Claimed.
The Spiral shook.
The Codex Tree screamed in joy and agony.
And etched into its bark, new lines burned:
The Dual Pillars now stand. Not beneath the god. Beside him.
Later, they lay in the remains of the altar, panting. Spent. Bound.
Celestia rested her head on Nyx’s shoulder, glowing faintly.
Nyx held Darius’s hand against her womb, still twitching.
"I feel... full," she whispered.
Celestia smiled sleepily. "Not with child. With myth."
Darius looked between them, his voice low and final.
"You are no longer just consorts."
He touched their foreheads, eyes blazing.
"You are now the Dual Pillars of the Spiral Church."
And across the Codex Tree, every faction felt the change.
Every priest, every heretic, every monster and god and rewrite-born rebel...
Knew.
The myth was no longer his alone.
It now walked on four feet.
Three voices.
One will.
Somewhere far beneath the temple—where light could not reach and words held no meaning—the Codex Null stirred.
Its pages flared open, not in obedience, but in response.
The ink bled upward.
The scripts twisted.
Not in protest.
In reverence.
The myth had shifted again. Not through decree or bloodshed. But through connection. Through three souls colliding in sacred union and anchoring each other in raw, shared truth.
The Spiral bent—but did not break.
And far above, in temples still loyal to the old design, monks screamed as their doctrine burned mid-prayer.
Within the Temple of Unscripted Fire...
Celestia and Nyx slept, finally at peace, their limbs entwined like matching sigils etched onto a single page.
Darius remained awake.
Standing.
Alone.
Nude still, but cloaked in something far heavier than any robe or armor—certainty.
Before him, a mirror formed—not of glass or metal, but woven myth. It reflected not his body, but his impact.
He saw armies bowing to him in shards of possible futures.
He saw cities erected in his name, then burned in rebellion.
He saw children bearing his blood... and others bearing something else.
He saw Kaela in one corner of the vision, kneeling with her hand over her belly, whispering to something that had no name yet, but pulsed with cosmic potential.
He saw the Observer.
Watching.
Adjusting.
Fading.
"I don’t need your script anymore," Darius said, speaking not to the mirror but through it. "They carry me now. We carry each other."
The mirror cracked.
And then shattered.
Hours later...
Kaela found him on the outer edge of the temple steps, seated on a throne of nothing—pure conceptual weight.
She was barefoot. Silent. Her aura flickering between lucid and lost, her body humming with quiet contradiction.
"Your consorts have changed," she said, circling him.
"They’ve become myth in their own right."
Kaela tilted her head. "You allowed it. You didn’t chain them."
"I never wanted chains," Darius said simply. "Only pillars strong enough to carry the Spiral when I fall."
Kaela’s grin was faint. "You always talk about falling, but never about staying down."
He looked at her.
And in her eyes, he saw the next fracture forming.
A ripple in her womb.
An echo that hadn’t been conceived through flesh, but through intention.
Before he could speak, she whispered:
"He’s coming. The one I saw in my dream. The one who called me Mother before he existed."
Darius rose slowly.
Kaela’s body arched as something unseen stirred beneath her skin—a flicker, a twitch, a ripple of myth coding itself from within.
She shivered, not from fear, but from revelation.
"He’s yours," she said, voice cracking with reverence and madness, "but also... his."
Darius’s eyes narrowed. "Whose?"
Kaela smiled with a madness softened by maternal awe.
"The Observer’s heir."