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.