CHAPTER 168: FIRST PILGRIMS

By the time Allen stepped out into the broken sunlight, the temple’s stone doors were already weeping milky condensation, glowing softly with each breath the mountain exhaled. Behind him, the sacred womb he’d awakened pulsed steadily, its new priestesses asleep in orgasmic comas, their bellies swollen and glowing with quiet purpose. The air outside tasted different—lighter, but not clean. Tainted. The wind carried the scent of what had happened deep below. Not just sex. Not just cum. Rebirth.

He cracked his neck and adjusted the waistband of his trousers, still half-soft, cock gleaming from hours of worship. He didn’t bother wiping it. Let them see. Let them smell what he’d done.

The first to meet him were the guards.

They stood frozen near the edge of the broken temple path, weapons raised in the way people raise weapons when they think it’ll help. Their mouths opened, but nothing came out. Some stared at the trail of white fluid dripping down the mountain path behind him, others at his bare chest, streaked with gold and red scales, and some at his cock still twitching lazily under his robe.

"What... what happened to the priestesses?" one finally asked.

Allen didn’t answer. He walked right past them. No one stopped him.

They couldn’t.

He didn’t just radiate dominance anymore—he carried something older, heavier. Something that made every beastkin who saw him instinctively lower their gaze and bare their neck.

The path down the mountain was quiet. Birds silent. Wind dead. As if the earth itself was listening. And then, like ants finding sugar, the first pilgrims arrived.

It started with a merchant caravan.

A lizardfolk girl—young, curvy, her scales still shifting between adolescence and maturity—had wandered too close to the temple’s edge, drawn by the glow and the smell. She saw Allen and froze. Her tail thumped the ground. She dropped to her knees without knowing why, thighs twitching, nipples poking through her travel blouse.

"Please," she whispered, not even knowing what she was asking for.

Allen stopped. Looked her over.

"Do you believe?" he asked.

She nodded.

"Then open your mouth."

She obeyed before she could question it, tongue out, breath held, pupils wide with holy desperation. Allen stepped forward, and with a single stroke, smeared the last of the Core’s nectar across her tongue. Her eyes rolled back. Her thighs quivered. She collapsed on the spot in a puddle of her own climax, tail curled like a ribbon of submission.

She wasn’t the last.

By the time Allen reached the base of the mountain, there were dozens. Merchant wives. Local shrine girls. A handful of curious foxkin travelers. Even a few beastkin warriors who’d heard rumors of a holy event and come to investigate.

They didn’t find gods.

They found him.

Some tried to speak. Most couldn’t. The second their eyes met Allen’s, their legs weakened. The second they smelled him, their thighs dampened. He walked past them, but many followed. Crawling. Begging. Touching the stone where his seed had dripped just to lick it off their fingers.

It wasn’t a cult.

It was an infection.

Allen reached the village by dusk.

The mayor was waiting. A turtlefolk man with old scars and shaking hands, surrounded by guards who looked like they wanted to run. He opened his mouth to speak, but Allen raised a hand and the man fell to his knees, choking on unspoken words. Allen walked straight past him, toward the shrine at the village center.

He’d been there before. Once. A quiet place. Empty offerings. A cracked statue of some forgotten beastmother.

He shattered the statue with a single punch.

Then turned to the growing crowd and said only three words:

"I’ve returned home."

The reaction was instant.

The lizardfolk girls in the front row fell to their knees, heads bowed, lips moving in silent prayer. Others pulled open their robes and pressed trembling fingers between their legs, eyes glazed over. A few brave—or desperate—ones crawled forward, offering themselves, not as individuals, but as vessels.

He picked one. A foxkin girl with short hair and teary eyes, her body trembling as she laid on the shrine floor. Allen lifted her legs. Entered her slowly. Deliberately. In front of everyone.

She sobbed in relief the moment he bottomed out.

And Allen didn’t stop.

He fucked her like a declaration. Slow and rough. Wet and deep. Her pussy drooled over the altar, her moans echoing through the shrine walls, a beacon of heat and need. The others watched, some openly fingering themselves, others too stunned to move. When he came inside her, she passed out with a smile, belly twitching, her womb sealed by a kiss from something unseen.

He pulled out, still hard.

Another girl was already waiting.

Then another.

And another.

By midnight, the shrine was full of swollen bellies and glazed-over eyes. Some girls couldn’t walk. Others wouldn’t. They clung to each other, whispering prayers to a name they didn’t know but now belonged to.

Allen.

He stood at the center of it all, cock finally soft, covered in the scent of divine filth. The shrine walls pulsed with heat. The ground itself felt softer, warmer, like the mountain had begun to spread.

And above, in the stars?

Something new was watching.

Something hungry.

The first pilgrims had arrived.

But the world was only just beginning to kneel.

Morning came not with birdsong, but with moans—quiet, reverent, echoing across the village like a prayer passed from mouth to mouth. The shrine where Allen had seeded his first new congregation pulsed with a strange, fertile glow, the stone floor still slick with the proof of his blessings. Girls lay where they’d fallen, some twitching with aftershocks, others half-conscious, cradling their bellies and whispering his name like a mantra. Not Master. Not Lord. Just Allen. Like it was both holy and obscene at once.

He stepped outside, breath steaming in the cool dawn air. Villagers lined the path, kneeling. Every woman’s thighs were wet. Every man looked hollow-eyed, stunned into docility, as if whatever beast had guarded their hearts had quietly surrendered in the night.

A carriage waited for him at the edge of the plaza.

Not just any carriage—royal. Glossy blackwood, silver-trimmed, pulled by six scaled behemoths draped in temple silks. The driver was a Rhelgar girl, once noble, now collared and naked beneath her ornate sash. Her hands gripped the reins, but her eyes stared ahead with the blank, worshipful obedience of someone freshly reprogrammed.

"We heard the Core stirred," said the woman standing beside the carriage. She was tall. Pale. Human, but marked—tattoos across her scalp and arms, glowing faintly with old magic. "The capital sent me to ask if the rumors are true."

Allen didn’t answer. He walked past her, gripped her chin, and made her look him in the eyes.

The woman shuddered. Then dropped to her knees. "They’re true," she whispered.

"Take me to your city," he said.

The journey was swift. Word traveled faster than wheels. By the time they reached the outer gates of the capital—twin towers carved with centuries of beastkin history—people were already waiting. Not guards. Not nobles. Women.

Hundreds of them.

Some naked. Some in silks. Some dressed like warriors, others like temple acolytes. But all of them bore the same look—needy. Desperate. Ready. They lined the roads, moaning quietly, some weeping, others touching themselves as Allen passed.

He stepped from the carriage and the crowd surged, but didn’t touch. No one dared. Instead, they parted like waves before a storm, and the temple bells began to ring.

The capital’s high shrine was ancient—older than the city itself. Built atop a forgotten wellspring of mana, it was the seat of divine power in all the beastkin lands. The elders who ruled it were said to live for centuries. Untouchable. Untouching.

Allen kicked its doors open.

They crashed inward with a thunderous echo, and the gasps from the congregation were immediate. The entire inner sanctum had been assembled—elder priestesses, divine scribes, mana-channelers, and beastkin nobles in ceremonial robes, each one bearing decades of authority.

Allen ignored them.

He walked straight up the central dais, unbothered by the silence, the stares, or the magical pressure gathering around him. At the altar, a foxkin matron in golden robes stepped forward, her voice shaking. "You... you come uninvited to the sacred heart—"

Allen backhanded her across the face.

She crumpled to the floor, robes falling open, revealing her aged but still voluptuous body. Her mouth moved, but no sound came. Just a breathy, involuntary moan. The entire shrine gasped.

And Allen smiled.

"You ruled this land in the name of gods who never answered," he said, voice low, carrying. "You demanded offerings, demanded submission, all in worship of silence. I offer you something louder."

He unbuckled his pants.

The shrine didn’t erupt into chaos. It melted. Like wax beneath a torch. Magical sigils across the walls began to distort. The air thickened. Power rippled across the room as dozens of priestesses stared, transfixed, at the cock that had awakened the Core and seeded the mountain temple. The silence cracked.

One of them—a pantherfolk nun, young and shaking—stepped forward.

"I... I want it," she whispered. "I want you."

Allen didn’t even nod. She dropped to her knees and took him into her mouth.

The high shrine devolved into madness.

Robes flew. Moans rang out. Elders screamed until they came. Spells fizzled as focus collapsed. The temple guardians—once proud lizardwomen in gilded armor—fell into trembling heaps, masturbating furiously against the cold floor, begging to be used.

Allen used them.

Every single one.

He fucked the shrine not as a man, but as a prophet. Girls clawed over one another for a chance to suck his cock, to ride his lap, to be pinned and filled and blessed. A pair of divine twins from the eastern sect begged to be taken together. He bent them over the altar, stacked like offerings, and pumped them full in front of the trembling clergy. The scent of sweat, sex, and sanctity corrupted filled the chamber, and soon the mana well beneath the floor began to glow—crimson.

By the time Allen stepped away from the final elder—her womb quivering from three loads and her holy staff clutched like a dildo between her thighs—the shrine was no longer a seat of worship.

It was a nest.

And the city?

The city had already begun to change.

Fountains overflowed with creamy froth. Banners once bearing religious script now warped into lewd declarations of fertility and submission. Shops sold carved wooden idols of Allen’s cock, worn proudly by women as good-luck charms. Houses were marked with runes of openness and offering—he may enter, take, breed.

And every night, from every corner, the moans returned.

Not from pain. Not from shame. From devotion.

Allen stood on the palace balcony, looking down at the city of moaning lights. His girls—Fina and Rinni—rested beside him, both swollen with purpose, both glowing from hours of attention. The twin priestesses lay beneath them, twitching, soaked in sweat and seed. Beyond them, the air shimmered.

The stars above shifted.

And something ancient blinked awake in the dark.

This wasn’t the end of a conquest.

This was just the opening ceremony.