The Harem of Juicy MILFs

Chapter 42: New Lead [10]

While the muffled echoes of the carnage wrought by Hae-neul still resonated through the foundations of the base, Gerhman advanced with a serenity that bordered on insult. Behind him, the vice-mistress of the Aegis Prime guild was unleashing her power, probably activating her Overclocking to smash the cult’s resistance. Seyon, for her part, had remained in the previous room, no doubt pursuing her own objectives or watching their backs. For Gerhman, this commotion was nothing more than unimportant background noise. He walked with measured steps, his soft leather boots producing a regular click on the cold stone slabs.

At the turn of a corner, he crossed paths with a squad of cult members. Their dark robes flew behind them as they rushed desperately toward the place where Hae-neul was sowing chaos. Their faces were twisted by visceral panic, their turquoise eyes shining with an unstable glow. They passed beside him without even slowing down, too obsessed by the screaming threat that was devastating their ranks to notice this solitary young man with grayish hair. Gerhman did not grant them even a glance. For him, these fanatics were nothing but insects, insignificant debris.

Quickly, he reached a long corridor whose walls seemed to ooze corrupted energy. At the end of this passage, an imposing double door opened onto a vast room. Upon crossing the threshold, Gerhman felt the atmosphere change radically. The room was bathed in a permanent semi-darkness, an artificial gloom carefully maintained. The windows had been blocked by thick velvet curtains or nailed boards, cutting off any intrusion of natural light. Only the flickering clarity of dozens of beeswax candles tried to push back the darkness. The blackish drips of melted wax covered the edges of the carved furniture, forming dark and viscous stalagmites that seemed to throb under the warm and undulating glow of the wicks.

The air was saturated with a tenacious and omnipresent smell. A heavy mixture of burnt sage, myrrh, and a particularly acrid sandalwood incense floated in lazy swirls. This sacred perfume, meant to purify the place, barely masked a more metallic, colder note: the characteristic smell of dried blood and polished steel.

In the center of this macabre sanctuary stood a solitary silhouette. The man, dressed in a priest’s robe adorned with complex geometric patterns and golden borders, had his back turned to him. A long silver necklace bearing an imposing cross hung against his chest. When he turned around, Gerhman saw a pale face marked by demented fervor. It was the Prophet. His turquoise eyes fixed on the intruder with unbearable intensity.

"A lost sheep..." the Prophet began in a honeyed and drawling voice, punctuated by a dry laugh that contained no joy. "So you survived the external chaos to come and die here, in the silence of the ultimate truth. Tell me, little lost one, are you seeking redemption or simply oblivion in the Void?"

Gerhman let a carnivorous smile stretch his lips, a smile that never reached his icy gray eyes.

Always the same grandiloquent speeches, he thought with boredom.

"Redemption is a concept for the weak, priest," Gerhman replied in a monotone voice. "What interests me is much more pragmatic. Tell me... among the seven deadly sins, which one do you serve with such zeal?"

Upon hearing these names, the Prophet’s face froze. Surprise widened his eyelids, momentarily breaking his mask of fanatical certainty. That a simple Awakened, a mortal from this inferior world, could utter the names of the higher entities with such casualness was unthinkable. However, this initial shock quickly turned into an ecstatic joy, almost painful to behold.

"You... you know the Masters?" exclaimed the Prophet, his voice rising an octave under the effect of excitement. "Your soul is not as empty as I thought! You possess a spark of understanding. Join us, chosen one! The Cult of the Void opens its arms to you. Pledge allegiance to our god, and your unstable power will be stabilized by the very essence of the abyss! You will no longer be prey, but a predator among the fishers of this world!"

Gerhman looked at him as one observes a curious beast in a cage. The very idea that he could submit to an entity he had probably once devoured or humiliated was utterly ridiculous. He slowly raised his right hand, the very one that had torn out hearts and broken divinities.

"Join your cult of ragtag misfits?" Gerhman asked, his voice tinged with icy irony. "You should watch your words."

Without warning, he unfolded his middle finger in a gesture of contempt, the middle finger pointed directly at the Prophet’s face.

"Go fuck yourself," he said simply.

The silence that followed was heavy. The Prophet’s face went from pale to crimson, his features twisting under the effect of a blasphemous rage. For a fanatic of his rank, receiving such an affront in the holy of holies was a stain that could only be washed away by absolute violence.

"Insolent! Wretch!" the Prophet screamed, his voice vibrating with pure hatred. "You spat on the hand that offered you salvation! Your arrogance will be your shroud. You deserve only death, and your blood... yes, your blood will be precious. It will serve as sacred material to nourish the manifestation of our god on this decrepit earth!"

The Prophet abruptly raised his hands toward the vaulted ceiling, and an unstable magical pressure began to saturate the atmosphere of the room. The candles arranged around the altar went out all at once. The darkness that followed lasted only a fraction of a second, for a turquoise and malevolent aura soon emanated from the fanatic’s body, casting moving and distorted shadows on the stone walls.

"Zealots! Offer his flesh to the Void!" he cried in a hoarse and torn voice, even though they were alone in the room. It was as if he were addressing invisible entities lurking in the interstices of the world, things that only his hallucinated eyes could perceive. His robe lifted under the effect of a wind that came from no window, and his fingers, clenched like claws, began to trace incandescent symbols in the air.

He launched his first attack without waiting: a discharge of dark elemental magic. The trajectory was straight but deceptively fast, and it struck the floor exactly where Gerhman had stood half a second earlier. The stone began to melt under the impact, releasing a smell of sulfur and ash.

Gerhman had moved quickly to the left. He felt the raspy heat of the projectile brush his shoulder, but he did not slow his movement. He knew that the priest would not persist with this type of ranged attack, because projection magic required a concentration time that a man drunk with rage could not afford.

Indeed, the Prophet threw himself forward, his sandals striking the paving with a hurried cadence. His clawed hands, now surrounded by dark flames that licked his knuckles without burning them, were ready to tear Gerhman’s flesh.