CHAPTER 162: THE FALL OF LIGHT

The air in the temple was thick—hot, choking, pungent with sweat, cum, incense, and burning silk. Fires crackled in every corner. Smashed relics littered the floor. Holy hymns had been replaced by the wet, obscene chorus of broken priestesses and panting beastkin.

Allen stood with his hands behind his back, completely naked, cock still glistening with spit and priestess juices. His gaze swept over the wreckage like a king inspecting a conquered throne room.

Behind him, the stained-glass mural depicting the Five Superior Races had shattered. Only one face remained whole: the angel. Her golden gaze stared down, cracked through the eye, bleeding red light as if even the divine was weeping.

Rinni, naked except for a priestess’s veil around her neck like a trophy, skipped up to him. "You know they’re gonna send something after this, right?" she asked with a cheerful wiggle of her hips.

"Let them," Allen said, smirking as he turned to survey the ruined hall. "We just proved purity is a lie. Now it’s time the whole damn world chokes on the truth."

As if summoned by prophecy, a faint tremor rolled beneath the temple’s foundations. Not another quake—something deeper. Something ancient. The lioness stopped mid-lick from a pile of exhausted priestesses and turned toward the back of the altar room.

"There’s more below," she murmured. "Something sealed."

Allen’s smirk deepened.

They descended again—but this time, not to the beastkin prison. This was deeper. Older. A hidden vault buried beneath layers of holy enchantment, sealed off even from the priestesses. Allen didn’t break the enchantments—he corrupted them, thrusting his fingers into the glowing glyphs like they were trembling cunts, moaning as he twisted the symbols into filth and sin. Each seal broke with a lewd schlick and a pulse of heat.

The vault door opened like a yawning mouth, and inside?

Not treasure.

Not relics.

History.

Stone tablets and scrolls, piled high and bound in flesh. Hologlyphs danced in the air—records from centuries past, voices whispering in an old tongue. But Allen understood the meaning clear enough. He saw it all.

The Superior Races had not built this world—they had invaded it.

Humans, elves, demons, dwarves, and angels had descended like colonizers through divine gates, wiping out the native civilizations. Beastkin were the remnants. Once proud. Once clothed. Once kings of their own realms. But the Five had declared them unclean, unholy, and impure.

Clothing was stripped away. Languages erased. Bloodlines controlled. Loincloths became symbols of control, of humiliation.

The prison above? A mockery of what the beastkin once had. The so-called "Purity Laws" weren’t divine—they were a lie built to crush resistance and breed obedience.

Allen stepped into the center of the vault and raised his hand.

"History belongs to the winners, huh?" he said, staring at the flickering images of temples burning, beastkin royalty executed, children enslaved. "Then let’s make sure the next version of history never forgets what they did."

Behind him, beastkin girls dropped to their knees—not in fear, but in worship.

One of the foxgirls, her body still smeared with angel cum from earlier, reached up and grabbed his cock, eyes wide with tears and awe.

"You’re going to free us all... aren’t you?"

Allen looked down at her, gently brushed her hair from her face, then guided himself into her mouth.

"Freedom starts with truth," he whispered, "and you’ll all be dripping in it."

She sucked like she was starving.

More girls joined—catgirls, bunnygirls, even a scaled lizardkin girl who had been too afraid to touch him before. They kissed his thighs, licked his shaft, moaned into his balls as if praying. Allen held their heads, fucked their mouths, used their tongues to cleanse him of angel and elf and priestess juices, replacing it with devotion.

When he came, he made sure it went across all their faces—across cheeks, noses, eyelids, even tongues. They licked it off one another eagerly.

And then...

Another tremor.

But this wasn’t from below.

The roof cracked. A beam of searing white light pierced the ceiling like a holy lance. The surviving stained-glass shard—the angel’s eye—shattered into dust.

A voice descended.

"HERESY."

Allen grinned and rolled his shoulders.

"Oh good," he said. "The angels are finally awake."

The blast of celestial fury split the sky wide open, turning the temple’s shattered dome into molten glass. Debris rained down in shimmering arcs, the floor quaking under Allen’s bare feet. Beastkin girls scattered, shrieking, grabbing one another, ducking for cover beneath the stonework and columns. The air felt electric—thick with holiness, heavy like judgment. But Allen stood tall, cock still wet from devotion, eyes sharp with defiance.

Above him, a silhouette descended.

Feathers. Golden robes. A halo that flickered like a dying sun.

An angel.

Not a priestess playing dress-up. Not a mural or a statue. A real one. Her wings beat slow and deliberate, spreading radiance that threatened to burn through the shadows Allen had cultivated. Her voice rolled again, no longer just a word but a command, a force that bent space around her: "Your sin has reached the heavens."

Allen smirked. "Took you long enough."

The angel hovered, bare feet inches from the ground, her face the picture of wrathful beauty—sharp jaw, skin like marble, eyes carved from starlight. She looked down not just at Allen, but at the beastkin girls clinging to him, bodies marked by semen, faces smeared in defilement and joy. Her gaze twisted with disgust.

"You’ve corrupted the weak. Violated the sacred. Desecrated a holy sanctum. There is no redemption."

"Good," Allen said, lifting his chin, voice unwavering. "I’m not here for redemption."

Then he charged.

He didn’t wait for her to speak again, didn’t flinch from the heat radiating off her form. His foot cracked stone as he lunged forward. The angel raised a hand—but Allen was faster. He tackled her straight out of the air, slamming her into a broken altar, her halo skidding across the floor like a coin.

The beastkin gasped.

The angel growled—not screamed—growled like a cornered animal. "You dare lay hands on divinity?"

Allen gripped her throat, pinning her beneath him. "You dare call this divine?" he spat, nodding toward the vault, the girls, the truth bleeding out like pus from a wound. "You’ve built a world on chains and lies."

She struggled, light flaring from her body, but Allen didn’t flinch. His skin smoked where her aura touched him, but he pressed harder, until her back arched in pain—or was it something else? Her legs twitched beneath her flowing robes.

"I know what you really are," he whispered against her cheek. "A glorified enforcer for a dying order."

And then he kissed her.

Fierce. Dominant. Like he was claiming the last symbol of purity and dragging it into the dirt.

The angel’s body trembled—part resistance, part shock. Her wings thrashed, slapping against the broken altar, but her lips parted. She bit him, hard, drawing blood—but didn’t pull away.

Allen’s hand slipped beneath her robes, feeling the soft, untouched warmth of something divine. Her eyes flared. "You can’t—"

"I will," he growled, fingers pressing in. "You showed up too late. Now you’re just another soul in the pile."

The beastkin girls didn’t move. They watched. Awestruck. Eyes wide, mouths slightly open as they saw a literal angel pinned and gasping, writhing beneath the very man who had once been chained in their place.

The angel tried to lift her voice again, to cast a curse, a banishment, something, but Allen’s tongue slid past her lips again, silencing her. His fingers moved rougher, dirtier, until her holy composure fractured. Her hips bucked. A moan—choked and shameful—escaped her mouth.

It didn’t sound like divine fury.

It sounded like surrender.

Allen didn’t stop. He lifted her leg and slid inside her, her robes tearing like paper, her holiness stretching around him like silk resisting sin. The heat between them became unbearable. Divine light clashed with corrupted lust, sparks flying from every thrust. The altar cracked beneath them. Her halo rolled across the floor and shattered.

Each thrust was a statement. A new scripture. A rewriting of divine history.

The angel clawed at his back, cried out in a voice that sounded like broken bells. "Stop! Please!"

But her pussy clenched tighter, soaked through, a betrayal of everything she stood for.

The temple ceiling finally collapsed, light swallowing the entire hall—but Allen didn’t stop. Not until he finished inside her, hard, deep, leaking proof that even heaven could be filled with sin.

When it was over, he pulled out slow.

The angel lay there, twitching, legs open, dripping, face flushed and wet with tears she hadn’t even noticed. Her wings trembled, feathers scattered around her like fallen petals.

"You’re not the first," Allen murmured, wiping sweat from his brow. "And you won’t be the last."

Then he turned, walking back toward the vault.

The beastkin parted for him like a tide.

Behind him, the angel whispered, barely audible over the crackling ruin, "They’ll come for you..."

"I hope they do," Allen called over his shoulder. "It’s about time the world sees what gods look like when they’re begging."

And from somewhere deep in the vault—something answered.

Not divine.

Not pure.

Something darker, older, forgotten.

And it was waking up.