100x Rebate Sharing System: Retired Incubus Wants to Marry & Have Kids

Chapter 711: Chapter 710- Viktor Ktorian is a Devil

Myra was a wreck.

The young woman, her black robe disheveled, her violet eyes red-rimmed, her hands clasped in her lap, was not composed. She was not the serene, holy priestess who healed the sick and blessed the faithful. She was a woman who had been fingered to orgasm in a garden, who had pissed herself against a tree, who had been threatened with sexual violence in front of orphans.

And now she sat across from the Paladin, who was asking questions.

"Priestess Myra," the Paladin said. His voice was controlled. Barely. The ’I-am-asking-a-simple-question’ tone that was anything but simple. "I know you must have been overwhelmed. That is a devil. A monster. You are going to make sure that everyone knows the real face of the grandson of the Catorian family who has joined hands with the demon."

The word ’demon’ was emphasized. Spat. The ’this-is-heresy’ emphasis that carried the weight of the Holy Church’s judgment.

"We are going to exile him," the Paladin continued. His fist tightened. The knuckles cracked. "We will declare him anathema. We will—"

He stopped. His eyes, which had been staring at the priestess, narrowed.

"By the way," he said. The tone shifted. Became suspicious. The ’something-is-not-right’ tone. "Where were you when that brat was in the hall? You must have not seen it."

Myra’s body went rigid. The violet eyes, already red-rimmed, widened. The ’he-is-asking-where-I-was’ question that she had no acceptable answer for.

’I was in the bathroom,’ she thought. The memory surfaced. The garden. The tree. The finger on her clit. The piss running down her legs. The orgasm. The ’I-came-while-he-was-touching-me’ orgasm that had made her legs give out.

’I was being finger-fucked by the man.’

’And I came.’

’I liked it.’

The shame, the fresh wave of ’I-am-a-fallen-woman’ shame, hit her like a physical blow. Her face, already pale, went white. Her hands, clasped in her lap, trembled.

"I was outside, your sire," she said. The lie came out smooth. Practiced. The ’I-am-a-priestess-and-I-lie-well’ skill that she had developed over years of navigating church politics. The title, ’sire’, was the Paladin’s preferred form of address. The ’I-acknowledge-your-authority’ title that stroked his ego.

The Paladin’s eyes stayed on her for a moment longer. Then he grunted. Accepted. Moved on.

"Fine, fine," he said. His hand waved. The dismissal was physical. "We are going to the Holy Church. You are the only one who has the power of healing in this town. You have made the commoners believe in the Holy Church. Now you will make them believe that Viktor Catorian is a devil. You will make sure he does not step foot in this town again. You will make him beg on his knees."

The Paladin’s voice rose as he spoke. The anger, the wounded pride, the ’I-was-on-my-knees-and-I-will-make-him-pay’ fury, built with each word. His eyes, the old man’s eyes, were bright with the fire of righteous indignation.

"Make him beg," the Paladin repeated. The words were a command. A mission. A holy directive.

Myra nodded. The motion was small. Automatic. The ’yes-I-will-obey’ response that her body produced while her mind screamed.

’I will do that,’ she thought. The lie, even internal, tasted like ash. ’I will do that because I have no choice. Because if I don’t, he will tell the Paladin what happened in the garden. And if the Paladin finds out that a priestess was fingered to orgasm by the man he calls a devil, my life is over.’

’I am trapped.’

"I will do that," she whispered. The words came out barely audible. The ’I-am-doomed’ whisper that only she could hear.

Morning came.

The town square was crowded. The commoners, the merchants, the farmers, the laborers, the families. All of them. Gathered by the Holy Church’s call. The announcement, delivered by acolytes at dawn, had spread through the town like wildfire.

’A gathering at the square. The Paladin of the Holy Church speaks. Come and hear the truth.’

The platform, erected overnight by church construction crews, stood at the center of the square. Wooden. Raised six feet. The silver sun of the Holy Order, mounted on a pole behind the platform, caught the morning light and gleamed.

The Paladin stood on the platform. His white robes, clean and pressed, bore the silver sun on his chest. His old face, stern and righteous, looked over the crowd. His hands, clasped behind his back, were steady. The ’I-am-the-voice-of-the-Goddess’ posture that the Holy Church had cultivated for centuries.

Myra stood beside him. Her black robe, clean and formal, covered her body. Her violet eyes, still red-rimmed despite the night’s rest, were downcast. Her hands, clasped at her waist, were still. The ’I-am-the-serene-priestess’ posture that she wore like armor.

The crowd murmured. The commoners, who had been healed by the priestesses, who had received blessings from the Holy Church, who trusted Myra and her sisters, waited. The ’what-does-the-Paladin-want’ murmur that rippled through the crowd.

The Paladin raised his hand. Silence fell.

"Everyone," he began. His voice, enhanced by a minor amplification spell, carried across the square. Clear. Strong. The voice of authority. "Yesterday, I came to realize something. A Baron of the forgotten land. Abandoned by his own father, Count Redwood the Majestic. The one who blesses the prominence of his town. Abandoned his son."

The word ’abandoned’ was emphasized. The ’even-his-own-father-did-not-want-him’ emphasis that was designed to diminish Viktor in the eyes of the commoners.

"The son who is bestowed by the powers of the devil," the Paladin continued. His voice rose. "Returned with the name of Viktor."

He did not mention the Catorian family. The ’everyone-knows-Dukes-are-untouchable’ omission that was deliberate. He used the Redwood title. The lesser title. The ’he-is-just-a-Baron’ framing that made Viktor vulnerable. The past. The abandonment. The ’he-was-thrown-out’ narrative that turned public opinion.

The crowd shifted. The commoners, who had heard rumors, who had whispered about the young lord who had arrived at the Catorian mansion, listened.

The ’he-was-abandoned-by-his-father’ information was new. The ’he-has-devil-powers’ accusation was alarming.

The Paladin gestured to Myra. The priestess stepped forward. Her black robe, thick and formal, covered her body. But even through the fabric, the outline of her figure was visible. The thick curves. The full breasts.

The wide hips. The ’she-is-beautiful’ awareness that the Paladin had always resented and the commoners had always appreciated.

"My dear people," the Paladin said. His hand rested on Myra’s shoulder. The ’she-is-our-holy-vessel’ gesture. "This priestess has healed you. Has blessed your children. Has cared for your sick. The Holy Church has always been here for you."

The commoners nodded. The ’yes-the-priestess-healed-my-son’ nod. The ’the-church-blessed-our-harvest’ nod. The accumulated goodwill of years of genuine service.

"And now," the Paladin said. His fist clenched. The old man’s voice trembled with righteous fury. "The son of Redwood, bearing the mark of the devil, dares to walk among us. Dares to claim authority. Dares to put God-fearing men on their knees."

He was already imagining it. The ’Viktor-will-come-on-his-knees’ fantasy. The ’he-will-beg-me-for-forgiveness’ visualization. The old man’s lips curled. The ’I-am-waiting’ smile that was both anticipation and threat.

"You brat," the Paladin muttered. The words were quiet. Not meant for the crowd. For himself. The ’you-will-beg-to-me’ whisper that was both prayer and curse. "You will beg to me."