Alex Reed had never been a good man.
Not in the theatrical, cape-swirling villain sense. No grand manifesto, no childhood trauma that "explained" it. He simply never saw the point in pretending kindness cost him anything worth keeping. People were tools, obstacles, or occasionally amusing distractions. Seattle had been perfect for that philosophy: anonymous enough to disappear into, crowded enough that one more cold-eyed software engineer blending into the rain didn't register.
He'd died the way he lived—distracted, mildly irritated, scrolling hentai doujins while crossing against the light because the walk signal was taking too long. The truck didn't even honk. Just metal meeting meat, then nothing.
When awareness returned, it wasn't accompanied by guilt or reflection. Only a cold, lizard-brain assessment: I'm not dead. Interesting.
Sunlight pressed warm against closed eyelids. Scents hit first—rich loam, crushed wild mint, something faintly metallic like ozone after lightning. No car exhaust. No wet asphalt. No distant sirens. Just clean, living air that tasted almost sweet on his tongue.
He opened his eyes.
Two moons, pale as bone, hung in a sky too blue to be real. Below them stretched rolling emerald hills that ended at a storybook village: thatched roofs, curling chimney smoke, a river flashing like molten sapphire. His body felt… upgraded. Same height, same general proportions, but every muscle carried a low, electric hum. The drenched hoodie and jeans were gone; instead he wore loose linen that smelled of dried sunlight and crushed lavender.
Alex pushed himself upright. No pain. No soreness. Just power coiled under skin like a spring waiting to be released.
A blue panel materialized, floating at perfect reading distance.
[Welcome, Chosen Servant Alex Reed]
[MILF Conquest System – Divine Vessel Edition – Activated]
[World: Aetheria – Low Taboo Variant]
[Divine Decree: The pleasures of the flesh are sacred offerings. No stigma binds the willing; public union, shared devotion, multi-partner rites—all are holy expressions of life.]
[System Privilege: Free Use Anointment – Any mature vessel (30+) shall recognize your touch as the Goddess's will made manifest. Resistance is blasphemy; eagerness is virtue.]
[Starting Divine Gift: Appraisal of the Worthy (Passive)]
[Concealed Title: False Oracle of the Mother]
[Current Divine Favor: 0]
[First Holy Task: Bestow the Goddess's blessing upon your first chosen vessel. Reward: 800 Favor + Oracle's First Whisper]
The words hung there, gilded at the edges like illuminated scripture.
Alex's lips curled—slow, predatory, genuine for the first time in years.
Goddess's servant.
He almost laughed aloud.
He had read enough trash novels to recognize the setup. System isekai. Harem mechanics. Free-use cheat code. But this flavor… this one handed him the perfect mask. A holy man. A chosen oracle. Someone the world would kneel to trust.
And trust, he knew, was the sharpest knife of all.
He stood, brushing nonexistent dirt from linen trousers that hugged his thighs with expensive precision for peasant wear. The breeze carried layered perfume: honeysuckle, sun-warmed skin, distant baking bread. His senses felt dialed to eleven—every rustle of leaves sounded intimate, every scent had color and weight.
He started down the hill path. Gravel shifted under new leather boots that fit like they'd been waiting for his feet. Above, winged serpents—too beautiful to be dragons—coiled lazily through thermals, scales throwing prisms.
Halfway to the village a woman appeared on the upward path, wicker basket heavy on one hip. Mid-thirties, sun-kissed skin the color of fresh honey, auburn hair escaping a loose braid in copper tendrils. Her homespun dress—undyed cream linen—clung where sweat and gravity wanted it to: full breasts, soft waist rolling into wide, childbearing hips. She moved with the unselfconscious ease of someone who had never feared a stranger's gaze.
She saw him and smiled—open, warm, the smile of a woman who believed the world was fundamentally kind.
"Blessings of the Mother upon you, traveler," she called. "You wear the light of one newly kissed by Her hand."
Alex stopped. Let his face soften into something earnest, almost vulnerable. The system chimed like a cathedral bell.
[Appraisal of the Worthy]
[Name: Mira Thornwood]
[Age: 42]
[Status: Widowed – Innkeeper of The Hearth & Bloom]
[Children: None living]
[Hidden Desire: To feel chosen again]
[Current Devotion to Host: Neutral → Stirring gently (Anointment active)]
[Divine Offering Value: ★★★★☆ (High fertility, deep well of affection, public position)]
Perfect, Alex thought.
He dipped his head in what he hoped looked like humble reverence. "I… I don't know what's happening," he said, letting his voice crack just slightly. "One moment I was praying in my world. The next—I woke on the hill. A voice called me Her servant. I don't even know if I'm worthy."
Mira's eyes softened instantly. She stepped closer; the basket dipped, releasing a wave of crushed rosemary and thyme. Underneath it—her own scent: warm woman, faint soap, the clean musk of someone who worked with her hands and never apologized for her body.
"Oh, child," she murmured, reaching to touch his forearm. Her fingers were callused yet gentle. "Many are called. Few listen. Come. The Hearth & Bloom is mine. You'll have bread, stew, a bed—and time to hear Her voice clearly."
She turned, leading the way. Her hips rolled with each step, heavy and hypnotic. Alex followed three paces behind, eyes tracing the curve of her spine, the way linen caught between her thighs when she stepped over a root.
Inside his skull, calculation ticked like clockwork.
Step one: become the holy man they desperately want to believe in.
Step two: let that belief become dependence.
Step three: twist devotion into addiction.
Step four: harvest everything—bodies, loyalty, secrets, children, power—while they thank him for the privilege.
By the time they reached the village outskirts, children were already pointing. Women paused at doorways, wiping hands on aprons, eyes bright with curiosity. Men nodded respectfully, assuming the stranger must be important if Mira Thornwood walked beside him with that gentle, maternal glow.
The inn itself was sturdy golden timber and whitewashed stone, flower boxes spilling ivy and violet blossoms. A wooden sign swung gently: The Hearth & Bloom – All Are Welcome Under Her Gaze.
Mira pushed the door open. Warmth rolled out—woodsmoke, fresh bread, roasting meat, the faint sweet tang of spilled mead. Inside, a dozen patrons glanced up. Conversations paused. Eyes widened.
Mira raised her voice only slightly. "Friends, this is Alex. The Goddess has sent him to us. He woke upon the hill with no memory but Her name on his lips."
A ripple of murmurs. Several women—most in their thirties and forties—pressed hands to chests or lips in small, reverent gestures. A few younger men looked wary; most simply curious.
Alex lowered his gaze, letting cheeks flush on command. "I'm… overwhelmed," he said quietly. "I only wish to serve. To listen. To carry whatever blessing She intends."
Mira's hand found the small of his back—light, guiding. "Come upstairs. The best room is empty. You'll rest, eat, and we'll speak of what you've seen."
She led him through the common room, past tables where women watched him with open interest, past a fireplace where logs crackled like soft laughter. Up narrow stairs worn smooth by generations of feet. Down a short hall. Into a corner room with a wide bed, open window overlooking orchards, and a copper tub already steaming in the corner—someone must have seen them coming.
Mira closed the door. The latch clicked with soft finality.
She turned, cheeks faintly pink. "The village will want to meet you properly tomorrow. Tonight… let me tend to you. A bath. Food. Whatever comfort a servant of the Mother requires."
Alex met her eyes. Held them. Let the silence stretch just long enough for her breath to quicken.
Then, very softly: "Mira… may I ask something improper?"
Her lips parted. "There is no improper between the Goddess's children."
He stepped closer—slow, deliberate. Close enough to feel heat radiating off her skin.
"Would you… show me how the people here honor Her with their bodies? I was taught shame. I want to learn worship without it."
Mira's pupils blew wide. Her throat moved on a swallow.
Then she smiled—slow, maternal, and unmistakably hungry.
"Of course, sweet Alex," she whispered. "Let me teach you."
She reached for the ties of her dress.