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

Chapter 712: Chapter 711- A Request to world to fuck their priestess

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."

The crowd was silent. Waiting. The ’what-happens-now’ anticipation.

Then the sky lit up.

The light came from above. Not sunlight. Not fire. Holy light. Divine energy. The radiance, golden and warm, descended from the clear morning sky like a pillar. The beam, wide and encompassing, fell on the crowd.

The healing began.

The commoners felt it first. The old woman with the bad hip, the one who had been limping for years. The pain vanished. The joint, arthritic and swollen, smoothed. The cartilage, worn and frayed, regenerated. She stood straight. For the first time in six years.

The farmer with the missing fingers. The stump, the old injury from a threshing accident, tingled. The flesh moved. The bones grew. The fingers, three of them, regenerated in seconds. He stared at his hand. At the new fingers. At the impossible, ’this-cannot-be-happening’ reality.

The child with the fever. The infant with the cough. The man with the broken leg. The woman with the tumor. One by one. All of them. The divine energy, the extreme level healing power that exceeded anything the Holy Church had ever produced, swept through the crowd.

The Paladin’s mouth fell open.

The old man, who had been standing with his fist clenched and his lips curled in anticipation of Viktor’s submission, stared. At the light. At the healing. At the impossible, ’this-power-exceeds-mine’ divine energy that was descending from the sky.

His knees buckled. Not from pressure. Not from force. From the sheer, overwhelming presence of divine power that exceeded his own by orders of magnitude. The ’this-is-beyond-me’ recognition that made the Paladin, the warrior of the Goddess, fall to his knees.

Myra gasped. Her violet eyes, wide and shocked, found the sky. The light, the golden radiance, was divine. She could feel it. The energy, the pure, unadulterated divine energy, was the same frequency as the Goddess’s power. The same. Not similar. The same.

Her hands clasped together. The prayer was automatic. The ’Goddess’ whisper that came from the deepest part of her faith.

"Goddess," she breathed. The word was worship. Reverence. The ’you-have-descended’ prayer of a priestess who had spent her life serving and was now witnessing the impossible.

The crowd followed. One by one. The commoners, healed and whole, fell to their knees. The ’a-saint-has-arrived’ realization spreading through the crowd like wildfire. The ’the-Goddess-has-sent-a-saint’ understanding that transformed the gathering from a political rally into a religious experience.

"Saints have arrived!" someone shouted.

"Saints have descended!" another confirmed.

The cry spread. Through the crowd. Through the square. Through the town. The ’a-saint-has-come’ proclamation that the Holy Church had taught the people to recognize and revere.

The Paladin, on his knees, looked up. At the sky. At the light. At the source.

The voice came from the light.

"Hey there. You look as gorgeous as before."

The words were casual. Conversational. The ’I-am-talking-to-an-old-friend’ tone that was utterly inappropriate for a divine manifestation and absolutely devastating in its effect.

Myra’s blood went cold.

The voice. The ’hey-there-you-look-gorgeous’ voice that she had heard in the bathroom. In the garden. The voice that had said ’you-are-a-fat-little-thing’ while fingering her clit. The voice that had whispered ’I-would-fuck-you-in-front-of-your-orphanage-children’ in her ear.

The voice of the devil.

The sweet, casual, ’I-am-your-worst-nightmare-disguised-as-a-friend’ voice that made every memory of the previous day return in a single, overwhelming flood. The bathroom. Berenga’s cum-leaking pussy. The wall. The garden. The tree. The finger. The piss. The orgasm. The ’I-came-while-he-was-touching-me’ orgasm.

Her body trembled. Every muscle. Every nerve. The ’he-is-here’ tremor that was both terror and something else. Something she couldn’t name. Something that lived in the place where the orgasm had come from.

The Paladin, still on his knees, looked up. At the light. At the source. His old face, already pale from the divine pressure, went white.

"Viktor Catorian!" he yelled. The name was a curse. A condemnation. The ’how-dare-you’ shout that was supposed to carry the authority of the Holy Church.

But the divine energy was overwhelming. The power, the holy radiance that exceeded his own, suppressed his voice. The yell came out as a croak. The ’I-cannot-compete-with-this’ weakness that was visible to everyone.

The crowd was not listening to the Paladin. The crowd was looking up. At the light. At the figure, descending from the radiance, that was emerging from the divine energy.

Viktor descended.

He floated. No wings. No magical construct. No visible support. His body, clad in white, descended from the golden light like a deity stepping down from heaven. The white robe, not his usual attire, was the formal garb of a holy practitioner. The silver embroidery, the sun motif, the blessed fabric. The ’I-am-holy’ clothing that was both statement and mockery.

His feet touched the platform. The divine light, surrounding him, dimmed. Faded. Left him standing. On the platform. Beside the kneeling Paladin. Beside the trembling priestess. Above the prostrated crowd.

He looked down. At the old man. At the Paladin, on his knees, his white robes pooled around him, his face tilted upward. The old man’s expression was a mixture of terror and confusion and the ’this-cannot-be’ denial of a man whose entire worldview was being demolished.

Viktor’s hands were in his pockets. The casual posture. The ’I-just-descended-from-divine-light-and-my-hands-are-in-my-pockets’ nonchalance that made the Paladin’s jaw clench so hard his teeth creaked.

"You look good on your knees," Viktor said. His voice was quiet. Conversational. The ’do-you-remember’ tone that was directed at the Paladin’s memory of the hall. "You remember?"

The Paladin trembled. The old man, the warrior of the Goddess, the man who had planned to make Viktor beg, trembled. The ’he-put-me-on-my-knees-once-and-he-is-reminding-me’ humiliation that was worse than the original act.

"Indeed," the Paladin said. The word came out as a croak. The ’I-acknowledge’ submission that his pride fought but his survival demanded. "Indeed, your sire."

The title. ’Your sire.’ The ’you-are-above-me’ acknowledgment that the Paladin had never, in his decades of service, given to anyone except the highest authorities of the Holy Church.

And he had just given it to Viktor.

The divine energy. The holy power. The ’he-has-the-Goddess’s-own-power’ realization that made the Paladin’s submission not optional but mandatory. The power of divine, the authority of the Goddess channeled through a man the Paladin had called a devil.

The old man’s fear was complete. Not the political fear of the hall. The spiritual fear. The ’this-man-wields-the-power-I-have-dedated-my-life-to-serving’ fear that undermined everything the Paladin believed.

Viktor turned. Away from the Paladin. Toward Myra.

The priestess was frozen. Her violet eyes, enormous and wet, were fixed on his face. Her hands, clasped in prayer, were shaking. Her black robe, the formal priestess garment, covered her body. But Viktor’s eyes, the green eyes that saw everything, traced the outline of her figure through the fabric. The full breasts. The thick waist. The wide hips. The pussy, hidden beneath layers of cloth, that he had touched yesterday.

"Can I borrow this priestess for a few days?" Viktor asked. The question was directed at the Paladin. The ’I-am-making-a-request’ tone that was actually a command. "I want to bestow upon her thick holy water. Stuffing her with the holy energy she needs everyday to make her reach heaven."