Nearly a week had passed since Lucifer descended upon Asher's Duchy like a plague of living wrath.
At his core, Lucifer remained an eighteen-year-old boy—soft-spoken, gentle-eyed, heart still capable of kindness. But the moment he uncovered the truth of what happened three years ago, something inside him ruptured forever. His mother Mia and his sister Amelia had been dragged into the ducal cellars, stripped, held down, and violated for hours by the Ashers and their guards. Screams had echoed off stone walls slick with sweat and terror. Even in this world of free use—where flesh could be claimed freely, even by beasts—consent was the Creator's sole immutable law. The Ashers had shattered it without remorse, then silenced the women with threats: speak, and little Lucifer and Christopher would be butchered; stay silent, or be sold to the orc breeding pits in Remis Kingdom, where thick green cocks would split them open day and night until their wombs burst from overuse.
Lucifer had been only fourteen then. Mia shielded him from the horror. Years later he learned the ultimate betrayal: his own "father," Christopher—a pathetic cuckold from Purefield—had hidden in a darkened chamber, hand furiously pumping his cock as he watched every degrading thrust through a magic crystal ball. Instead of drawing steel for vengeance, he spilled his seed to his wife and daughter's agony. Lucifer decided no father at all was better than that creature.
His retribution had already painted the land in red. In under fifty minutes he annihilated the entire Asher army—25,000 souls. The air had been thick with the coppery reek of blood, the wet slap of cleaver through bone, the gurgling screams of knights as limbs were severed and entrails spilled steaming onto cobblestones. Lucifer's black blade sang as it diced dying bodies into quivering cubes of meat. He plunged fingers into eye sockets still warm, scooped out jelly-like orbs while victims thrashed and shrieked. Brains squelched under his boots like rotten fruit. The town square became a stinking slaughterhouse, rivers of viscous blood carrying clumps of fat and hair through the streets. A week later, the rotting chunks had been shoveled into mass graves or torn apart by wolves, but the earth still exhaled the sickly-sweet stench of death; every footstep released a faint, wet squelch from soil forever saturated with gore.
Now, inside the cavernous ducal hall—its once-gleaming marble floors now sticky and dark with dried fluids—Lucifer lounged upon the blood-crusted throne, the metallic tang of old slaughter clinging to the air like a second skin.
Before him knelt Xavier Asher, Archduke no longer, reduced to a whimpering husk. His brothers Haalaand and Gerdy trembled beside him, urine pooling beneath their knees. Wives and daughters huddled in reeking clusters, skin mottled with bruises, the sour stench of unwashed fear rising from their bodies. Xavier's eighty-one secondary wives, Haalaand's eighteen, Gerdy's sixteen—all naked, ribs visible beneath taut skin—had not tasted food in seven days. When hunger clawed too fiercely, Lucifer permitted only strips flayed from living kin: the warm, slippery texture of human meat sliding down throats raw from screaming.
Every fingernail and toenail had been torn out with rusted pliers; exposed nail beds wept yellow pus that dripped in slow, burning rivulets. Every tooth had been pulverized with a hammer, leaving mouths full of jagged stumps and the constant taste of blood.
Across the hall, the air thrummed with the wet, rhythmic slap of flesh on flesh and the heavy, musky reek of animal rut.
Kevin Asher—Xavier's youngest son, Travis's brother—remained on all fours exactly where he had been chained for six unbroken days and nights. Two massive boars, their bristled hides crusted with dried shit and seed, continued their relentless assault. One drove its thick, veined cock into Kevin's prolapsed, bleeding asshole with obscene, squelching thrusts—schlorp-schluck-schlurp—while the other forced its filthy shaft down his throat until his neck bulged grotesquely. Kevin's body glistened with layers of pig cum, sweat, and blood; his skin was raw, bitten, torn. The stench of boar musk was overpowering, thick enough to taste. His broken, gurgling moans bubbled around the invading cock:
"Mmmrrgghh… ooonk-onk… nngghhh… deeper you stinking pigs… aaaarghhh… sluuurrp-slop… choke me till I black out… hrrkkk… flood my guts with your hot slop… uuunnnghhh… breed me… breed me like the sow I am…"
Beside him, Wendy—Ravina's husband, Xavier's son-in-law—lay strapped face-down over a heavy table, hips bruised purple from the constant pounding. For six endless days a monstrous black stallion had mounted him, its tree-trunk cock—slick with blood and equine seed—plunging into his ruined rectum with long, brutal strokes that lifted his entire body off the wood. The wet, sucking sounds of each withdrawal were followed by the heavy slap of massive balls against torn flesh. A lake of thick, creamy horse cum, streaked pink with blood, had pooled beneath the table, its sharp, ammonia-like stench burning the nostrils. Wendy's abdomen bulged unnaturally from the gallons forced inside him. Through the sodden gag came strangled, desperate cries:
"Hrrrmmmfff… neeeigh-neigh… tear me apart… aaaarrrghhh… it's splitting me in half… whiiinny… pound my insides to mush… nnnngghhhh… pump me full… haaaargh… I can feel it in my throat… don't ever stop…"
In the far corner, six ravenous mastiffs ripped into the flayed carcasses of Derun and Brenda. Skin had been peeled away in sheets; exposed muscle glistened wetly. The dogs' jaws worked with savage frenzy:
Crunch-SNAP… ripppp… wet tear… slobber-slurp… bone-shatter-CRACK… munch-munch-munch… hot blood spraying in metallic arcs… marrow sucked from splintered femurs with obscene, slurping pops… the greasy stench of torn intestines filling the hall like a butcher's yard.
Lucifer idly rolled Xavier's severed left eyeball between his fingers—the optic nerve still dripping warm vitreous fluid. He brought it to his lips.
Bite… CRRUNCH… the tough outer sclera shattered like thin cartilage… chomp… squiiish… chew-chew-chew… slurp… the gelatinous center burst across his tongue in a hot, salty-sweet flood of ocular jelly, thick and viscous, coating his teeth like warm phlegm. He masticated slowly, savoring the faint pop of delicate membranes, then spat the pulped, stringy mess onto Xavier's upturned face with a wet, meaty splat.
"Completely tasteless," Lucifer murmured, voice soft as a lullaby, licking the sticky residue from his lips. "Next volunteer?"
The hall reverberated with choked sobs and the endless, wet symphony of animal violation. They all cursed Travis's corpse in their minds: he could have rotted alone, but his arrogance summoned this gentle-eyed boy who now wore hell like a second skin.
Lucifer continued recording every detail—the screams, the squelches, the crunch of bone and the reek of despair—into his magic crystal ball. One last Asher still drew breath: Angelina Asher, Xavier's grandmother and King Ignis's fourth mother.
This living nightmare was her invitation. If she did not come crawling, Lucifer would drag her here himself and show her what true sensory overload felt like.
He smiled—boyish, almost shy—and the hall somehow grew colder, the stench thicker, the wet sounds louder, as though the very air itself feared what came next.