Chapter 498
Ikenga lounged in a steaming abyssal hotspring, the blackened waters bubbling gently around him, their warmth tinged with strange magical energy that soothed both muscle and spirit. Surrounding him were women—eerie and beautiful, their forms both human and not, born of the abyss and yet sculpted to allure. Their hands moved across his body with practiced grace, massaging out the tension from his shoulders. Some whispered praise in ancient tongues. Others giggled softly as they traced the jagged scars across his chest and arms.
Scars that should have faded long ago.
Any ordinary wound would have vanished from Ikenga’s body with a single thought, his form easily capable of rejecting injury. But these he had kept, though not by choice. Something deeper, buried in the marrow of his soul, wanted them to remain. Subconsciously, he clung to the pain they represented. These scars were not marks of weakness, but memories—proof that he had felt something real for the first time in what felt like an eternity. That fight, brutal and exhilarating, had given him something no pleasure or conquest ever had in recent years: fun.
And now, as his body lay relaxed and half-submerged, his single remaining eye stared into the rising steam, glazed over with the weight of memory. The soft moan of the springs and the faint sighs of the women became white noise against the louder echo of the past.
On the edge of the spring, Keles sat cross-legged with uncharacteristic stillness. Her normally sharp and impatient demeanor was dulled, focused entirely on the grotesque trophy Ikenga had brought back with him—the severed head of a cursed being, or rather, what remained of it. Its twisted features were frozen in an expression of agony and defiance, its aura still faintly pulsing with residual curse energy. She studied it like one might a riddle or a weapon yet to be understood.
Back in the water, one of the women’s hands began to wander. She drifted lower, fingers brushing bold territory. Ikenga raised a brow lazily but said nothing. He didn’t stop her, nor did he encourage her. His mind was no longer here—not really.
Because in the privacy of his thoughts, he was still back in that moment—steel clashing against flesh, the roar of a dying enemy, the thrill of near-death. He could still smell the blood in the air, still feel the heat of the cursed aura biting at his skin.
And it made him smile, just a little.
After their last serious exchange, Ikenga found himself weighed down not just by the words he had spoken to Keles, but by the way he had delivered them. Harsh. Dismissive. Demeaning. It had not been his intention to belittle her, but intention rarely softened the sting of truth, especially when wrapped in cold steel.
For a while, he told himself it was necessary. That she needed to hear it. That, as gods walking a world of treachery and ruin, sentimentality was a luxury they couldn’t afford. But even amidst his pride and pragmatism, a flicker of guilt remained. And it grew.
So he began to think: how could he make it up to her? What could this dark, desolate world possibly offer that would be worthy of a goddess like Keles—the mistress of death and darkness.