CHAPTER 167: WHEN THE DAWN BLEEDS

The temple was silent again, but it wasn’t peace—it was worship. A trembling, soaked kind of reverence. The kind born not of hymns or prayer, but of sweat-soaked skin and wombs stretched to fullness. Allen sat with his legs spread wide, cock glistening, half-hard and proud, a fresh streak of divine cum still clinging to his thigh. Around him, the air was sticky with heat, and the floor was a writhing nest of beastkin, goddess-born, and corrupted priestesses, all breathing in rhythm with his heartbeat.

Seraxa lay on the cold stone before him, face-down, ass raised, her scaled belly glowing red from the inside—full, pulsing with his seed, her lips parted in an exhausted smile. She didn’t speak. She couldn’t. Her body had broken somewhere between the fourth and fifth climax, but her soul had only just begun to unravel.

Allen’s hand rested lazily on her hip as he looked across the carnage. The Core still throbbed at the center of the chamber, her womb crystalline and visibly swelling. She no longer moaned aloud—her body had become more womb than woman now. Pure purpose. Allen’s purpose.

And yet, even as the sun began to pierce the cracks of the broken ceiling above, he felt it. Not resistance, not danger—but need. A hunger that hadn’t been sated. Not by Seraxa. Not by the dozen others before her. Not even by the holy fuckfest that had turned this temple from a place of worship into a breeding ground.

It came from deeper still.

Allen stood, his shadow stretching out behind him like a throne in motion. The girls barely stirred. Some raised their eyes to watch him, cheeks flushed, holes still gaping from what he’d done to them. They didn’t ask where he was going. They knew better than to speak when that look was in his eye.

He walked, bare feet slapping softly against wet stone, past the altar, past the broken stairwell, until he reached the arch that had been sealed by ancient blood—once a forbidden path meant only for high priestesses. He touched it, and the seal hissed away like mist. The air inside was thick with heat and scent and rot.

It was a birthing chamber.

Old. Hidden. Forgotten even by Seraxa.

Lining the walls were effigies—stone carvings of monstrous wombs, of faceless women moaning in silent agony, their bellies bursting with divine life. Some were cracked, broken. Others dripped with something too old to be called blood. It smelled like time.

And in the center of the room... was her.

She was tall—easily his height—and nude, though time had tried to wrap her in webs of dried fluids and ancient vines. Her skin was black, not like darkness, but like void. And her belly—round, taut, gleaming—pulsed with light that looked too gold to be holy.

She opened her eyes.

They weren’t eyes. They were wells.

And she smiled.

"I’ve waited," she said, her voice like a hundred priestesses whispering in unison. "Since the gods fell. Since men stopped believing. Since the last true seed passed through this temple and failed to finish me."

Allen didn’t blink. "Then get on your knees."

Her smile widened—and she obeyed.

No hesitation. No game. This wasn’t like Seraxa. This one knew her role. Her body cracked and stretched as she bowed, her breasts swaying heavy with swollen purpose, her breath catching as she inhaled him. Allen stepped forward, grabbed her by the chin, and lifted her face.

"You’ve been waiting for a god," he murmured.

"No," she whispered. "For something worse."

He shoved his cock into her mouth.

It was violent, it was sacred, it was final. Her lips stretched, her throat clenched, but she didn’t gag. She groaned like a vessel being filled for the first time in centuries, and Allen grabbed the back of her skull and fucked her like a relic. Her claws scraped at the stone, hips grinding against nothing, her belly twitching like it wanted to cum before her pussy even got touched.

He pulled out with a wet pop and shoved her onto her back, lifting her legs, spreading them wide until her cunt opened like a blooming nightmare—too deep, too wet, too ready.

Allen slammed in, and the chamber screamed.

Every effigy on the walls wept molten gold. The air vibrated with old chants, forgotten moans, and the sound of her back slamming against the birthing altar again and again and again. Her body bent to hold him, adapted around him, shaped itself like a perfect mold. Her tits slapped her chest, her thighs wrapped around him with animal desperation, and she begged.

Not for mercy.

For pregnancy.

"Breed me," she sobbed, eyes rolling, golden drool slipping from her mouth. "Ruin me, mark me, let me carry your—aaaaAAHN—"

He didn’t slow.

His hips were a weapon. His cock was a doctrine. His cum would be the gospel this place preached for a thousand more years.

When he finally came, it wasn’t just a climax—it was a detonation. Her womb lit up like a sunrise inside her, gold spilling from her pussy and mouth and eyes, her body spasming as the birthing altar cracked beneath them. Her stomach ballooned instantly, grotesque and glorious, packed tight with future.

Allen collapsed beside her, panting, his chest heaving, her body twitching like a vessel that had finally been used for its intended purpose. They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to.

Because outside the chamber, back in the temple, every womb that had tasted his seed twitched in unison.

Pregnancy had begun.

And dawn bled gold.

The walls pulsed.

Not metaphorically. Not like a poetic shudder of stone warmed by light.

They breathed.

Allen lay still, one hand curled around the thigh of the ancient vessel beside him, her belly distended and glowing, each pulse within it echoing like muffled thunder. She moaned softly in her unconscious sleep, her body not built for a god’s climax, yet remade by it. Her womb now throbbed with something deeper than life. Something that didn’t just grow—it remembered.

And the temple knew.

Above them, the girls who had been left behind stirred as one. Seraxa gasped awake, her hands pressing to her lower belly with a look of shocked reverence. Every drop of cum Allen had pumped into her felt warmer now. As if it wasn’t just semen. As if it was alive. As if it wasn’t done.

The priestesses writhed in silence, their bodies arching in slow, involuntary pulses. Some wept openly. Others simply moaned through clenched teeth, clutching their wombs as warmth spread—first between their thighs, then up through their chests, their necks, their souls. The Core herself, now fused fully with the altar, glowed like an incubator—no longer a guardian of purity, but a breeder of what came next.

Allen stood.

His cock hung heavy, half-hard again, smeared with glistening gold and slick. He didn’t wipe it. The air around him had shifted; it clung to him like musk, like pheromones, like fate. His steps no longer echoed—they resonated. When he passed the threshold of the birthing chamber, the stone beneath his feet shimmered.

Something beneath the temple moved.

The foundation trembled—not with collapse, but with awakening. From cracks beneath the floor, from forgotten cisterns, from the dry veins of the mountain itself, fluid began to rise. Not water. Not blood. But something older. Something thick and milk-colored, warm and fragrant, like the amniotic breath of gods.

It licked at the toes of the sleeping priestesses, then crept higher. The girls didn’t resist. They spread their legs wider. They arched, offering their soaked pussies to the rising flood. It filled them. Slowly. Worshipfully. Entering every used, gaping hole and staying.

Allen walked through it like a king through incense, the thick white liquid swirling around his ankles. Behind him, the first to wake moaned as the warmth inside them started to move. Not cum anymore. Embryonic divinity. Things shaping.

Fina and Rinni would’ve called him dangerous.

Luna would’ve giggled in awe.

But here, in this temple beneath the world, Allen was more than a man.

He reached the altar, and Seraxa was already on her knees again—legs shaking, cunt dripping anew, a trail of gold still marking her inner thighs. She didn’t speak. She just leaned in and kissed the tip of his cock, reverent and silent, before parting her lips again and inviting it in. Her throat knew the shape of him now. Her soul accepted it.

Allen didn’t stop at her mouth this time.

He lifted her with one arm—effortless, brutal, loving—and turned her around. Bent her over the Core’s glowing form. She gasped, breasts smashing against warm crystal, as her hips lifted perfectly into place. Her tail twitched once, then drooped in surrender.

And Allen drove in again.

No pause. No tease. Just full, raw, wet claiming.

Seraxa screamed—not in pain, but in holy release. Her soaked pussy clenched greedily, squelching around him with every thrust. The Core beneath her pulsed brighter, and Allen didn’t slow down. His hands gripped her hips like handles, slamming her against the altar over and over until her body was a limp, drooling mess and her womb was stretched tight with the second load of the morning.

He didn’t even finish inside her.

He pulled out, still rock-hard, cock glistening, and looked over the temple. The girls were awake now. All of them.

On their knees. Arms folded behind backs. Eyes low.

"Come," Allen said, and they did.

One by one, they crawled through the milky shallows toward him. Naked, wet, shaking. Each one desperate, each one already full—but wanting more.

A red-scaled priestess reached him first. She kissed the floor in front of him, then opened her mouth wide.

He let her taste the Core’s wetness still coating his cock. She groaned, sucking greedily, nose pressed to his base. Behind her, another girl lifted her ass in offering. Then another. Then another.

Allen walked the line.

He didn’t choose one. He took all of them. Sometimes slow. Sometimes fast. Sometimes just a taste—just enough to make their eyes roll and their bellies twitch. Other times he stayed buried until the milk rose around their bellies and their bodies stopped shaking.

And always, when he moved on, they whispered: "Thank you."

It wasn’t lust anymore.

It was worship.

By the time he finished, the temple floor was glowing. Not from light, but from life. Fertile life. Dozens of bellies now round, each twitching with seeded purpose. No one begged to be cleaned. No one crawled away. They stayed—on their hands and knees, holes still leaking, skin steaming in the womb-warm air.

Allen looked down at his cock. Still stiff. Still aching.

He turned toward the stairs. Up. Toward sunlight.

The outside world had no idea what was coming.

But it would.

And every step Allen took from that temple was a promise.

He wasn’t just fucking worshippers anymore.

He was building a religion.