CHAPTER 160: TEMPLE OF THRONES (18+)

The silver-robed priestess never broke eye contact as she sucked the last drop of Allen’s seed from his tip. Her lips moved slow, reverent, like she was tasting prophecy. When she pulled back, a thread of cum connected her mouth to his cock, glistening in the temple’s golden torchlight.

"I needed confirmation," she said, licking her lips like it was honeyed wine. "Now I’m certain. You’re not just a man. You’re the correction."

Allen blinked, still half-hard, chest rising with each breath. "Correction for what?"

She stood, elegant and unhurried, brushing her hands clean on her robes like she hadn’t just deepthroated a demigod. "For centuries, we’ve called this place a holy site. But its true name—what we whisper behind closed doors—is the Temple of Thorns. Not for the flowers that grow here, but for what grows beneath."

She stepped closer, and Allen noticed her robe shimmered with sigils—each one pulsing faintly, as if alive. "The temple was built over a prison," she said. "One carved into the stone by elven architects and sealed with angelic scripture. It holds the worst of what our ’superior races’ call impurities."

Allen’s jaw tightened. "Beastkin."

She nodded. "Not just them. Sirens, lamias, oni, dryads—even fae. Anything that wasn’t born from the Five Pure Lines: humans, elves, dwarves, demons, or angels... was marked as filth. But beastkin? They were singled out. Seen as the original sin."

Allen’s fists clenched.

"They’re forbidden from education. From owning land. From speaking out of turn." She spoke casually, like reciting doctrine. "They can’t wear clothes except for loincloths, and even that’s a recent mercy. Only children are allowed hide coverings—until their thirteenth cycle, when they’re deemed ’ripe.’ Then, they’re stripped."

Allen’s vision darkened.

"Why?"

"To keep them in their place," she said simply. "To remind them they are property. You’ve seen the branded ones, haven’t you? The letters on their backs? Some mean ’breeder.’ Others, ’servant.’ Some are simply numbers."

Allen had seen it. Too many times.

And now he understood why this temple felt so wrong.

It hadn’t just been converted to worship him—it had been built to erase others.

His voice was low. Dangerous. "And you support this?"

"No," she said. "I was born into it. Groomed to continue it. But the moment your seed touched me, I remembered something buried deep in our scrolls—something we were told to burn if we ever found it."

She pulled a scroll from her robes.

It looked ancient, ink faded, but still legible. She unrolled it slowly and pointed.

"And lo, the Scourge will rise not with blade nor fire, but with seed. He will enter the wombs of the faithful and make them doubt. He will breed through the blessed and awaken the broken. The Godbreaker does not destroy temples. He fills them."

Allen stared at the words.

His smirk returned.

"Fills them, huh?"

The priestess smiled, then dropped to her knees again. "I want to help you burn it all down. But first... I want to feel what it’s like to be ruined by a correction."

Allen’s cock twitched.

She spread her robe open.

Underneath, she wore nothing but a ceremonial thong made of temple sashes twisted into a thin triangle, soaked through before he even touched her. Her breasts were bare, inked with divine sigils that shimmered with magic—until Allen grabbed her tits and squeezed.

The magic flickered.

Cracked.

Died.

"Let’s see how pure your world stays once I cum in every womb you’ve been taught to fear," Allen growled.

He flipped her onto her back and pinned her down right in front of the altar. Her legs wrapped around him instinctively—then spasmed the moment he plunged inside.

SHHLK—!!

She gasped. Her back arched. The glow returned—but this time, it burst in a ring of light around them.

It was like the temple recognized him.

Or surrendered.

He pounded her relentlessly, the air filling with wet slaps and sharp moans. Her divine tattoos unraveled with each thrust, lines of light warping like they were melting off her skin. She tried to chant a prayer but it turned into breathless whimpers.

"You gonna bless me now?" Allen teased, biting her neck. "Or are you already baptized?"

"I’m... I’m unclean," she moaned, tears slipping from her eyes as he pounded harder. "Make me unclean forever—"

He growled and slammed into her deeper—then pulled out and shot thick, hot ropes across her breasts, her neck, even her face. The moment it hit, the scroll behind her caught fire. It burned fast. Like it had been waiting.

Allen watched it turn to ash as the priestess collapsed, twitching and smiling with glassy, blissed-out eyes.

He stood.

The temple rumbled.

A new sigil appeared on the wall behind the altar. His mark.

And far below, in the sealed prison under the stone, something stirred.

Something beastly.

Something that felt him coming.

The floor beneath Allen’s feet gave a low, shuddering thoom, as if the temple itself exhaled. The priestess lay sprawled beside him, twitching in a haze of broken magic and cum, whispering half-formed blessings that no longer belonged to her gods. Allen pulled his cloak over his shoulder—still naked beneath—and stepped toward the altar.

The wall behind it was bleeding light. Not glowing—bleeding. Thin, sacred lines cracked apart to reveal a spiral staircase descending into darkness, lined with chains and runes older than the temple above.

Allen didn’t hesitate.

Each step echoed. Not just in sound, but in memory—like the walls themselves were soaked with suffering. The further down he went, the more the scent changed: incense gave way to sweat, rot, and the coppery sting of dried blood. The polished stone became rough, chiseled, then eventually dirt-packed. The walls tightened. Chants faded into growls.

And then he heard it.

Whimpers.

Dozens.

Maybe hundreds.

A gate appeared ahead, made not of bars but interwoven bones. Etched on it was the symbol of the Five: a hand with five fingers, each one carved to resemble a race. The thumb, a human. The pointer, an elf. The middle, a demon. The ring, a dwarf. The pinky—an angel. Beneath it, burned into the bone, was a single phrase in Old Script:

"All else, excrement."

Allen spat on it.

The gate opened.

The room beyond wasn’t a cell. It was a pit. Deep. Cavernous. Lit by flickering blue crystals embedded in the walls. Iron cages stacked in tiers, like a forgotten menagerie. Some beastkin were chained by their necks, others suspended by wrists, ankles—some barely moved at all. All of them wore the same thing: rough loincloths or nothing at all, their bodies covered in welts, old scars, fresh bruises. Muzzles on some. Collars on others.

Allen stepped in, and every pair of eyes turned toward him—wide, fearful, blinking in disbelief.

A voice whispered near the gate.

"Another warden?" It was raspy. Female. Angry. "Or maybe one of their fucking pets."

"No," Allen said. His voice cut through the silence like a blade. "I’m here to unmake this place."

Footsteps padded closer. From behind a set of rusted bars, a beastkin woman emerged—tall, muscular, with a matted lion’s mane of hair. Her golden eyes glowed faintly in the dark, one ear missing, a fresh scar running across her chest. She looked feral. Defiant. Half-starved.

"Bullshit," she spat. "We’ve heard that before. Every savior ends up taking their fill and leaving us chained."

Allen stepped closer to her cell. No fear. Just heat in his eyes.

"You think I’m here to save you?" he said. "I’m here to breed rebellion into you."

The lioness blinked.

He reached through the bars, grabbed her muzzle, and forced her face close. She didn’t resist. She couldn’t. Something in his scent, his presence—it clawed past the trauma. It touched something deeper.

Her breath hitched.

"You want out?" he growled. "Then you kneel. Not as a slave—but as a weapon."

The key was still warm from the priestess’s robes when he slid it into the lock and twisted. The bars creaked open. She lunged—not to attack, but to submit, dropping to her knees and pressing her forehead to his thigh. Her body trembled with need and disbelief.

Allen’s cock was already hard.

"Stand up."

She obeyed.

"Turn around."

She obeyed.

"Bend over."

Her loincloth dropped to the dirt without hesitation.

He spread her cheeks and spat. She gasped as he plunged inside, no hesitation, no mercy—just pure dominance slamming into something long-abused but still burningly alive.

THWAK. THWAK. THWAK.

The sound echoed through the pit. Beastkin all around stirred—panting, whimpering, watching. Their savior wasn’t preaching. He was claiming. The lioness clawed at the stone, eyes rolling back, guttural moans ripping from her throat.

"You feel that?" Allen snarled, yanking her hair. "That’s not pity. That’s not love. That’s power, tearing down what they built."

"I-it’s... it’s freedom," she sobbed.

"No." He bit her neck, thrusting harder. "It’s the beginning."

He didn’t pull out.

He bred her.

Hard.

When he came inside, the entire pit seemed to quake. The blue crystals flared white for a heartbeat, and the chains holding dozens of beastkin snapped with an almost divine crack. Like the magic binding them shattered the moment he filled one of them.

He pulled out with a wet pop, cum dripping down her thighs, and turned to face the rest.

"Who’s next?" he said.

And the pit exploded.

Dozens of beastkin surged forward—torn between worship and desperation, touching his cloak, grabbing his arms, begging for his seed, his fire, his mark. Foxgirls with twitching ears, minotaurs with quaking thighs, a trembling mousekin girl clinging to his leg like a lifeline. One even licked the cum off his hand and moaned like it was nectar.

Allen smirked, cock still hard, veins bulging.

He had work to do.

Not just to ruin the priestesses up above...

But to seed an army of the so-called unclean.

And this pit? It wouldn’t be a prison for long.

It would be his breeding ground.