CHAPTER 164: DESCENT OF DIVINITY

Smoke curled in slow spirals around Allen’s body as he stood at the heart of the ruined temple, bathed in the afterglow of divine corruption. His breath came slow, steady, rolling from his chest like heat from an open furnace. The collar on the angel at his feet still glowed faintly, her golden body twitching in the filth he’d pumped into her. The others hadn’t dared move yet. Ten seraphs circled him like wolves around a fire—cautious, uncertain. They hadn’t expected their sisters to fall. They hadn’t expected him.

The ground shifted again. The temple groaned. All around them, the floor heaved upward, lifting from the crust of the world with the sound of mountains cracking. It wasn’t stone anymore. It was something living—muscle and root and molten vein, fusing temple ruin and vault womb into a single ascending monument. A spire of flesh and history.

Allen stood atop it like a king atop a crown of corpses.

"I’m not leaving," he said, low, eyes locked on the next seraph who dared to step forward. "You brought judgment. I’m here to judge you."

The seraph’s blade trembled.

The beastkin behind him were rising now. Naked, marked, used. But not broken. They moved like disciples, with reverence and fury in equal measure. Some were chanting. Others wept. Many crawled to the edge of the spire’s growing peak and spread themselves open to the rising light as if offering themselves to the gods—but it was Allen they moaned for. Allen they called to.

The next seraph charged, wings folded, blade aimed low. She moved faster than the others, a blur of searing wind. Her warcry cracked the air like thunder, her blade carving a line through the sky.

Allen didn’t move.

The blade came down—and caught on his forearm.

It didn’t cut.

It sparked.

Allen’s skin, hardened with divine taint and ancient blessing, held firm. He met her eyes as the force of her strike surged through him—and grinned. She gasped. Then he headbutted her.

The sound of celestial bone breaking echoed off the rising spire.

She stumbled, dazed, blood—real, red blood—running from her nose. Before she could regain balance, Allen slammed his fist into her gut, sending her flying backward into the crumbling arch of the temple. She hit it hard enough to shatter what was left of the dome.

He was on her before she could slide down.

Grabbing her by the hair, Allen dragged her forward and shoved her face-first against the ruined stone, tearing at her armor. It came apart like foil, crumpling in his hands. Her body beneath it was divine, but not perfect anymore—softening, humanizing.

He pressed himself against her back, cock twitching as it slid between her thighs.

"You ever think the gods made you wrong?" he murmured against her ear. "Built you for worship, but forgot what it meant to be worshipped?"

She gasped something, a denial, a plea—but he didn’t give her the chance to finish it.

He entered her in one brutal thrust.

Her scream echoed across the rising tower, high and broken and real. It wasn’t rage. It wasn’t pain. It was shock—that he was in her, that he could be, that his cock was dragging her down from everything she was meant to be.

He fucked her against the altar ruins, hand tangled in her hair, other gripping her wing. He forced her to look down at the beastkin watching them, forced her to see their awe, their hunger. She writhed, resisted, tried to summon power—but the spire pulsed around them, draining her strength, leeching divinity and replacing it with want.

With every thrust, her body changed.

Her glow dimmed.

Her voice cracked.

Her hips began to roll with his, matching the rhythm she swore she didn’t want. Her moans lost their sharpness. They became breathy. Wet. Shameful.

He whispered into her ear as he came, slow and full, hips grinding against her trembling ass. "Say my name."

She didn’t answer.

So he came again.

And this time, as it flooded her, her breath hitched—and she whispered it.

"Allen."

The other seraphs didn’t move. They stood frozen, watching their sister go limp in his grasp, leaking down her thighs, face slack with the dazed shock of submission. A second collar clicked around her throat.

Two down.

Allen let her drop to her knees, hair matted, eyes unfocused.

He turned to the others. "Still think I’m a man?"

None answered.

The spire rose higher.

Clouds split around it. A vortex spun overhead. The sky was opening—and not just in wrath.

The world was changing.

From the wound in the heavens above, they began to descend.

Not angels.

Not seraphs.

Higher beings.

Ones even the seraphs looked up to.

Celestial mothers.

Primordials.

Pantheon-born gods who hadn’t walked the mortal realm in a thousand generations. They came clothed in light and shaped like desire—massive wings, towering beauty, and expressions carved from judgment and hunger.

Allen felt the vault beneath him rumble in answer.

The Mother was awake now. Fully.

And pleased.

He dropped his arms, cock still glistening, face streaked with sweat and angel-spit and divine milk. "You’ve all built a heaven on control," he called to the sky. "But I’ve learned something down here."

His voice deepened—not just louder, but more real. The spire acted like a speaker, echoing him into the wind.

"You can’t control desire. You can’t bury truth. You can’t sterilize power."

Another collar clicked into his palm, summoned from the vault like a loyal pet.

"I’m not here to destroy your heaven," Allen said, smiling. "I’m going to breed it into something better."

And as the goddesses began to descend, as light bent and the beastkin moaned in a choir of rebirth, Allen stepped forward, unafraid, cock rising again, arms wide.

The throne was ready.

And so was he.

The air above the spire shimmered with pressure as the divine pierced through the torn heavens, layer by layer, slower than the seraphs, heavier than judgment. The celestial mothers did not fall—they descended, their presence making the sky groan and the earth tighten like it remembered something ancient and feared it. They didn’t ride light. They dragged it behind them, robes spun from starlight trailing like comet tails, each movement both holy and arousing.

Allen stood at the summit of the flesh-forged throne, his chest rising steady, cock still half-hard, streaked with the last angel he’d conquered. His body bore the warpaint of power—milk, blood, ash, ichor, and spit. Around him, the beastkin gathered, a court of the marked and reborn. They didn’t cower as the goddesses arrived. They stared up, hungry and trembling, eyes wide with disbelief and hope and dripping anticipation.

The first of the goddesses touched down without sound, her bare feet not disturbing even the air. She was tall, maybe nine feet, or maybe it was just her presence that loomed. Her skin was the color of opal and dusk, shimmering with impossible iridescence, her hair flowing like rivers of silver smoke. She didn’t carry a weapon. She didn’t need to. Her body was one—shaped perfectly, impossibly fertile, breasts full and pendulous, stomach smooth and powerful, hips flared to cradle civilizations.

Her face was unreadable. Eyes like nebulae. Lips like commandments.

"You are the rot beneath the skin of creation," she said.

Allen smiled slowly. "And you’re the womb that forgot how to give birth."

Gasps rippled through the beastkin. The seraphs didn’t speak. They didn’t even breathe. Even the broken angel who’d whispered his name before—she looked away now, ashamed or afraid or wet again.

The goddess didn’t blink. Her body didn’t move, but the wind did. It bowed around her. The light twisted into her curves.

"You defiled our children," she said, voice both below and above. "You corrupted the sacred."

"No," Allen replied, stepping down from the altar, bare feet leaving prints of radiant filth. "I freed them from you."

She narrowed her eyes, and in the same moment, her hand was around his throat.

It wasn’t fast. It was instant.

He was lifted into the air, held like a rag of meat before a goddess of law.

Her grip was ice and flame and weight. He couldn’t breathe. His cock twitched.

She looked into his eyes as if to peel apart his soul. "You think your seed can build a better world?"

He laughed, even as blood rose in his throat. "No. I know it can."

Then his fingers gripped her arm, and the sigils of the womb-vault flared along his skin.

Her hand twitched.

Just a little.

A crack formed where her fingers touched him—not in her flesh, but in her control.

Allen’s body pulsed with the gift of the Mother. This wasn’t just him anymore. This was legacy. He reached forward, locked eyes with the goddess, and forced her arm back with a grunt. Her expression flickered—just once—with something that might’ve been confusion.

Then he grabbed her tit.

Firm, perfect, powerful.

He squeezed it like it belonged to him.

She gasped.

And for the first time in her immortal life—stumbled.

Allen didn’t hesitate.

He threw her back—not far, just enough to shift the dynamic—and then he stepped into her, caught her wrist, spun her around, and bent her over the edge of the altar. Her enormous breasts spilled against the fleshstone like liquid planets. Her ass arched with divine grace, but her balance broke. Her hair pooled around her like a star-map unraveling.

"You want to teach me reverence?" Allen growled, cock dragging up the cleft of her ass. "Then you’ll learn humility first."

She tried to rise. He shoved her down.

One thrust.

Her body screamed in light.

Her mouth opened, and the stars dimmed.

Her cunt clamped around him like it had never known intrusion—tight, divine, screaming resistance. Her pussy was built to create stars, not to be fucked—and yet it welcomed him. Despite her cries, her body melted into the shape of his. She moaned, low and stunned, like she’d been denied this for eons and couldn’t even name the need.

Allen pounded her.

Flesh clapped. Nectar spilled. Light burst in rhythmic flashes with each thrust. Her body fought to keep its form, but his cock forced it to adapt. Forced the eternal to submit.

The spire moaned beneath them, pulsing with each impact.

Her wings—too large for the sky—fluttered in stuttered spasms. Her hands clenched the edge of the altar, eyes wide with disbelief.

"You don’t understand," she gasped.

Allen leaned in, hips still slamming. "No," he whispered, teeth grazing her ear, "you don’t."

She came.

Hard.

The sky flickered.

A storm of golden rain fell across the earth.

The other goddesses trembled.

Allen flipped her, mounted her again, this time face-to-face, kissed her so hard her power broke down into hunger. She clawed at his back, legs wrapped tight around him, moaning his name like a curse she didn’t want lifted.

When he finished inside her, her body went limp, glowing, stretched, overflowing.

The collar clicked shut.

The goddess blinked up at him, dazed. Soft. Owned.

And behind her, the next one stepped forward.

Younger. Curvier. Wearing armor made of solid flame.

She looked down at her fallen sister, then at Allen, then at the throbbing cock still dripping divine nectar.

She dropped her weapon.

"I want to know," she whispered, voice trembling, cheeks flushed with divine heat.

Allen nodded once, slow.

"Come learn."

And she did.

And so did the next.

And the next.

Each one more powerful. Each one more sacred.

And each one, by the end, bent over his throne, moaning, gasping, begging.

By the time the stars returned to their proper paths, the heavens had been bred.

And Allen sat on his throne, soaked in goddess sweat, beastkin adoration, and the birth of a new world.