The inside of the obsidian carriage had become a moving temple of sin.
Crimson lanterns swung wildly from golden chains, painting everything in blood-light. The velvet benches were soaked (sweat, cum, melted frost, foxfire ash). The air reeked of musk, brimstone, and the metallic tang of demonic arousal.
Ace had the first succubus bent over the central bench, her wrists bound behind her back with his belt. Her massive breasts bounced with every brutal thrust, nipples scraping the ruined velvet. Each time he slammed home, her wings spasmed open and her tail lashed the air like a whip. Wet slaps echoed like gunshots.
Kai had the second pinned against the curved wall, one hand around her throat, the other gripping her thigh so hard his fingers left bruises. Her legs were locked around his waist, heels digging into his back, urging him deeper. Every slow, grinding stroke dragged a broken moan from her throat, her eyes rolled back white.
Riven sat in the shadowed corner throne, the third succubus riding him reverse-cowgirl. Her hands braced on his knees, ass bouncing so hard the entire bench creaked. Frost exploded across her skin every time she bottomed out, mixing with the sweat and cum dripping down his shaft. A storm of ice and water swirled around them, fogging the windows solid.
Then:
BOOM.
The world detonated.
A shockwave slammed into the carriage like the fist of an angry god. Obsidian windows spider-webbed. The lanterns exploded in showers of crimson glass. The horses outside screamed in pure terror. The entire vehicle lifted six inches off the ground before crashing back down, wheels shrieking across suddenly glassed stone.
Bodies flew.
Ace and his succubus tumbled sideways, still connected. Kai's succubus slammed into the ceiling, wings flaring. Riven and his rider were thrown forward, her face smashing into the opposite wall with a wet crunch before she laughed and licked the blood off her lips.
Silence for one heartbeat.
Then, through the cracked windows, they saw hell itself being born.
A mile away (close enough to feel the heat, far enough that the combatants looked like titans carved from nightmare), two monsters clashed.
Azrath Kain Veyl stood shirtless in a crater the size of a city, skin glowing with living rivers of lava that traced every vein and muscle. Nine black horns curved backward like a crown forged from the heart of a dying star. Molten gold dripped from his fists, sizzling into glass where it landed.
Across from him, Lian Wuxin hovered three inches above the ground, white robes shredded into ribbons that fluttered like battle standards. The golden thread that once bound his hair had become a living whip of solar fire, coiling around his wrist. His sword sang in his hand (an extension of his arm, leaving trails of absolute nothingness in the air).
They didn't speak.
They flexed.
Azrath roared, spun once, and unleashed a spinning heel kick that birthed a black-flame tornado three hundred meters tall. The tornado screamed as it tore across the wasteland, uprooting mountains.
Lian flicked one finger.
His sword flashed.
A single crescent of pure, colorless sword intent sliced the tornado perfectly in half. The two halves spiralled away, carving twin canyons that bled magma. The shockwave alone flattened every tree for fifty li.
Azrath laughed (wild, delighted) and punched the ground with both fists.
The earth answered.
A geyser of liquid gold erupted upward, a reverse waterfall of molten metal a thousand meters high. The heat flash-boiled the clouds overhead.
Lian didn't flinch.
He stepped onto the rising pillar of lava as casually as a staircase, robes untouched by the heat. His sword moved (too fast to see, only the afterimages remained), a thousand silver arcs that diced the entire lava column into glowing rain that fell like burning tears.
Azrath charged through the molten rain, fists igniting into twin miniature suns. Each punch left a sonic boom shaped like a screaming demon.
Lian met him head-on.
He discarded his sword (threw it point-down into the earth where it stood humming).
Bare-handed.
He caught Azrath's first sun-fist with his open palm.
The impact detonated a perfect sphere of destruction. The shockwave vaporized a nearby mountain range. The ridge where Lian's nineteen cultivators watched cracked in half; half the men were flung into the air like dolls.
One cultivator, blood streaming from his ears, whispered in religious awe:
"Captain… is trading blows bare-handed with a Kain Veyl prince…"
Another just pissed himself and didn't care.
Back at the carriage:
Azrath's burning gaze snapped toward Thorne Varg for a single heartbeat across the mile-wide battlefield.
A nod (short, sharp, absolute).
Thorne Varg, eight hundred years old and still built like a war-forged tank, returned it without hesitation.
"Leave the young masters to me."
He cracked the reins.
Hell-horses screamed. The carriage lurched forward, wheels sparking across newly formed glass. The acceleration slammed everyone inside against the back wall. Succubi squealed in delight. Ace, Kai, and Riven exchanged one look (shrugged) and went right back to fucking like the world wasn't ending behind them.
Wet slaps resumed, louder now, defiant.
Far behind, the sky shattered again.
Azrath hurled a mountain he'd ripped from the earth, the entire thing wrapped in black flame.
Lian cut it in half with a single horizontal slash that parted the clouds from horizon to horizon.
Azrath blitzed forward through the raining debris, fists blazing like comets.
Lian smiled (the first real smile anyone had ever seen on that dead face, small, sharp, and terrifying) and met him blow for blow.
Every impact birthed a new crater.
Every clash rewrote geography.
Two gods, perfectly matched, neither yielding an inch, flexing harder with every heartbeat.
The battlefield was a graveyard of geography.
Where mountains once stood, only jagged stumps remained, their peaks sheared clean off and scattered across the horizon like broken teeth.
The sky itself bore a fresh wound: a perfect, glowing scar that ran from east to west, edges still flickering with leftover sword intent and black flame.
The ground had been glassed in concentric rings; lava cooled into black mirrors that reflected the fractured moon.
At the exact center of the crater (three thousand meters wide, five hundred deep, with its own swirling storm of ash and embers) stood two men.
One was on his knees.
Lian Wuxin.
His legendary sword, Moon-Cutting Regret, lay snapped in half beside him, the break so clean it looked surgical.
The golden thread that had bound his hair for twenty-eight years was gone; reduced to drifting motes of molten light.
His once-immaculate white robes hung in blood-soaked ribbons, clinging to a body covered in burns, bruises, and cuts that would have killed lesser men a hundred times over.
Blood poured in steady streams from his nose, his ears, the corners of his eyes, mixing with the sweat and ash on his face.
He didn't wipe it away.
His shoulders hitched once.
Twice.
Then the first sound tore out of him: a cracked, wet sob that echoed off the crater walls like a dying animal.
Another followed. Louder. Rawer.
Then the dam shattered completely.
Lian Wuxin (peak Golden Core, the man who had never blinked at genocide, who had narrated his own mother's betrayal like a weather report) folded forward, forehead slamming into the glassed earth, and cried.
Ugly, snot-bubble, choking, full-body-heaving crying.
The kind of crying that came from a place deeper than qi, deeper than cultivation, deeper than pride.
"Mommy…" His voice cracked like a child's. "Mommy, why… why wasn't I enough… I just wanted you to love me… I just wanted you to choose me…"
His fingers clawed at the glassed ground until they bled.
Across from him, Azrath Kain Veyl stood motionless, lava veins slowly dimming from blinding gold to a dull, exhausted red.
His chest rose and fell in massive breaths.
One horn was cracked. Blood (his own and Lian's) steamed off his knuckles.
He watched the broken man sob for a long, long moment.
Then he sighed, the sound of a volcano finally going dormant.
He crouched, big hand wrapping around the back of Lian's blood-crusted neck like he was picking up a lost cub.
"Oi. Cuck."
Lian kept crying, face hidden in his arms, body shaking hard enough to rattle bones.
Azrath shook him once, gentle but firm.
"Look at me."
Red-rimmed, swollen eyes lifted. Met molten gold.
Azrath's voice was low, almost kind.
"You fought me even for three straight hours. You carved my chest open twice. You made me bleed from places I forgot I had.
You're the first person in fifty years who forced me to go all-out just to keep breathing.
And now you're on your knees crying because your mom liked my dad's dick better?"
Lian hiccupped, tried to speak, failed, fresh tears spilling.
Azrath snorted, but there was no cruelty in it.
"Welcome to the family, asshole. My dad literally fucked my grandmother while I was on the phone with him last week.
We're all broken. Get in line."
He reached into the torn remnants of his battle kilt and pulled out a jug the size of a man's torso (black ceramic, sealed with a demon skull cork, radiating pure alcoholic sin).
Popped the cork with his thumb.
The smell hit like a warhammer: brimstone, fermented angel tears, and something that made the air itself feel drunk.
"Drink."
Lian stared at the jug like it was the only real thing left in the universe.
He grabbed it with both trembling hands, brought it to his lips, and chugged.
Half the jug vanished in ten seconds.
He came up coughing, choking, eyes bloodshot, tears still streaming, but something in his shoulders loosened.
Azrath took a long pull himself, wiped his mouth with the back of a lava-scarred hand.
"Come on. Thorne's hunting hell-boar. Fire's already lit. You're eating with us."
Lian sniffled, voice hoarse and small.
"…You're not going to kill me?"
Azrath barked a laugh that shook loose stones from the crater rim.
"Kill you? After that fight? I'm adopting you, you sad bastard. My little brothers need someone sane to look up to."
He hauled Lian to his feet like he weighed nothing, slung one massive arm around the smaller man's shoulders, and started walking toward the distant glow of a newborn bonfire.
Two hours later.
The crater floor had become a feast ground.
A bonfire roared fifty meters high, blue-white flames fed by hell-boar fat that exploded into fragrant fireballs every time it dripped.
Entire carcasses the size of elephants turned slowly on spits carved from dragon bone.
Thorne Varg moved between the fires like a war-forged camp dad, barking orders, passing out skewers the size of spears dripping with molten meat.
Nineteen neutral-path cultivators sat on one side of the fire, still shell-shocked, stealing glances at their captain.
Their captain was currently cross-legged on a rock, red-eyed and puffy-faced, wrapped in Azrath's spare cloak (black with crimson runes), drinking straight from the demon-skull jug while Azrath slapped his back hard enough to crack normal spines.
"—and then," Azrath roared, laughing so hard lava tears steamed off his cheeks, "Dad picks up mid-thrust and goes 'yeah the cuck's name is Lian Wuxin, hilarious right?' I almost dropped the fucking orb!"
The entire camp lost it.
One of Lian's lieutenants fell off his log, rolling in the ash, howling.
Huo Ba, the one-eyed veteran, wiped tears of mirth and raised his cup.
"To Captain's mom: best wingwoman in the nine hells!"
Lian raised the jug with both shaking hands, voice raw but steady for the first time all night.
"To the biggest dick in the universe. May it choke on its own ego one day."
Azrath howled approval and clinked the jug so hard the ceramic cracked, spilling liquor that hissed into the fire and turned the flames purple.
Ace, Kai, and Riven watched from the carriage steps twenty meters away, succubi curled in their laps like satisfied cats, passing a smaller flask of their own.
Ace grinned, lazy and smug.
"Five minutes ago they were trying to erase continents. Now they're drunk besties roasting each other's family trauma."
Kai smirked, fingers tracing lazy circles on his succubus's tail.
"Cultivation in a nutshell."
Riven just took a slow drink, frost swirling around the mouth of his bottle, voice quiet.
House of Lust – Regeneration Chamber
The air was thick with the scent of blood, milk, and healing incense.
Lilith Velloria de Ravenholt floated naked in a cylindrical vat of crimson regeneration fluid, only her head and shoulders above the surface. Her severed arm and both legs were slowly knitting back together (bone, muscle, sinew crawling like living threads) while crimson runes pulsed across her skin.
Her single remaining horn was cracked; milk still leaked from her swollen breasts in slow, mournful drops that mixed with the blood solution.
Valthorne Greysoul stood at perfect attention beside the vat, silver hair immaculate, vampire fangs hidden behind a butler's polite mask.
"Is everything stable, my lady? The Young Miss has been informed. She will want a full report the moment you are able."
Lilith's voice came out small, almost childlike, eyes glassy with pain and loss.
"My left arm… both legs… three days until I can walk again…"
Valthorne bowed slightly.
"Yes, my lady. The Patriarch's personal formula. You will be whole by then."
A single tear rolled down Lilith's cheek.
"How…"
Her lower lip trembled.
"How am I supposed to live three whole days without masturbating?"
Silence.
A crow cawed somewhere outside the mansion.
Valthorne's perfectly neutral expression developed a hairline fracture.
A single, massive, invisible question mark materialized above his head.
"…What."
Lilith turned her tear-streaked face toward him, completely serious.
"What."
They stared at each other for five full seconds.
Meanwhile…
Luxurious pink carriage – en route to the Abyss Auction House
Tamamo Lyris Veyl had Seraphine pinned against rose-quartz windows, nine tails wrapped around the ice girl's waist like living restraints.
Their mouths were fused (tongues sliding, saliva dripping in silver threads, moans muffled but loud).
Tamamo's fingers were buried knuckle-deep in Seraphine's dripping pussy, curling hard; Seraphine's icy hand was stroking Tamamo's swollen clit in perfect rhythm.
Every thrust of the carriage over-sprung carriage made their bodies slap together with wet, obscene sounds that drowned out the hell-horses outside.
Tamamo broke the kiss just long enough to gasp:
"Harder… make me squirt before we reach the auction…"
Seraphine answered by adding a third finger and biting Tamamo's neck hard enough to leave frost-burned teeth marks.
The carriage rocked like it was trying to escape.
Meanwhile, deeper in House of Lust – Patriarch's Private Bedchamber
Massive four-poster bed carved from the bones of a dead god.
Silk sheets soaked through.
Asmodeus Kain Veyl (nine horns glowing, muscles slick with sweat) had his own mother on her back, legs spread impossibly wide, pounding into her with long, possessive strokes.
Wet slaps echoed like thunder.
Her pussy (ancient, perfect, dripping like a fountain) gripped him greedily with every thrust.
She clawed at his back, moaning:
"Harder, baby boy… Mommy missed this cock so much…"
Asmodeus growled, slammed deep, and flooded her again, hips still moving, not even close to done.
Three different parts of the same mansion.
Three different flavors of absolute depravity.
Same family.
Same day.