Chapter 202: One Down

Night time

The streets of Valen burned with the color of dusk—not with flame, but with the glow of lanterns, with the murmurs of sin wrapped in laughter.

The city was alive in its hunger, feeding on itself: skin against skin, gold against greed, prayer against desire.

Moans drifted from open windows—low, breathy gasps of "Oh... ’yes’... deeper..." mingling with the slap of flesh on flesh, a woman’s sharp cry of "Fuck me harder!" echoing from a shadowed alley where shadows writhed in rhythmic bliss.

Seraphel rode through its heart as if through a graveyard. Every sound felt like mockery—the laughter, the perfume, the low hum of music that seemed to echo from beneath the world.

A distant "Ahhh... ’right there..’ trailed after him, a courtesan’s voice rising in ecstasy, her partner’s grunt answering in raw rhythm.

He had not wanted to come here. —no, Viscount Augustus—had insisted.

"The heretic hides among the filth," the lord had said, his tone heavy with purpose. "He was seen entering the House of the Veiled Star not an hour past. Can you imagine? The so-called Light-Bringer, crawling among harlots. There is poetic justice in that, don’t you think?"

Seraphel had agreed too quickly. The thought of Lucifer debased, reduced to flesh and lust, had kindled something savage in him—not joy, but a need to believe that the one who had unmade his blade could fall so low.

Now, as they rode into the crimson-lit street where the Veiled Star stood, he felt that same need twist into doubt.

From inside the brothel’s open doors, a chorus of moans spilled out—sultry and synced, a woman’s "Mmm... ’yes’, suck it like that..." layered over another’s breathy "Oh god... your cock’s so ’deep’... ’fill’ me..." The air thickened with the wet slap of bodies meeting, gasps rising in crescendo.

The brothel loomed like a cathedral inverted. Velvet curtains hung in the open windows, breathing with the night wind. The scent of wine and incense mixed with the faint tang of sweat and perfume.

From within came laughter—soft, distant, dangerously human—punctuated by a sharp "Ahh! ’Harder’... ’wreck’ me!" as a courtesan arched back against her lover, her breasts bouncing free, nipples hard in the lantern glow.

"Are you certain?" Seraphel asked, voice tight over the rising moans.

Aiden still in disguise as Augustus smiled. His eyes, pale and unreadable in the lamplight, caught a flicker of red flame. "Certain enough to stake my faith on it."

He turned to the knights behind them—six of them, armored and silent. "Seal the street. No one leaves until the heretic is in chains."

The knights saluted, but as they dismounted, a moan drifted from the brothel’s entrance—long and needy: "Oh... ’yes’... your tongue... ’right there’... don’t stop..." One knight flushed, shifting uncomfortably, while another grinned wolfish.

"Filthy barbarians...." He commented.

Seraphel dismounted, his boots striking the cobblestones with a hollow sound. He touched the hilt of his sword—the reforged blade, colder now than the hand that held it. Inside, the moans swelled—a duet now, one woman gasping.

"Fuck... ’deeper’... your cock’s ’ruining’ me..." her partner’s grunt answering with a wet slap, bodies colliding in frantic rhythm.

"Let us finish this fast, I don’t want to dwell in this godless area much longer..," he said, pushing past the velvet curtain.

Aiden gestured gracefully toward the door. "After you, Inquisitor."

Inside, the air was thick—not just with scent, but with sound. A chorus of laughter, sighs, whispered names.

Candlelight trembled across velvet walls painted with gold leaf. The perfume of roses barely masked the sharper smell of musk and oil. Moans wove through it all—like a hidden orchestra, rising and falling in waves.

The women moved like ghosts of silk—painted faces, dark eyes gleaming with knowledge of every sin men feared to name. They saw the knights and stilled; they saw Seraphel and crossed themselves with mocking reverence.

One, mid-kiss with a patron, broke away with a breathy "Ahh... ’later’, love..." her lips swollen, hand trailing down his chest to squeeze his bulge teasing.

"God walks among sinners tonight," one murmured, her voice husky from recent cries, a fresh hickey blooming on her neck.

Seraphel ignored her. His eyes scanned every corner—the curtains, the stair, the alcoves where laughter became silence. From a nearby room, a moan spilled out—sharp and sultry:

"Oh fuck... ’yes’... your fingers... ’curl’ them... make me ’squirt’!" The wet slap followed, rhythmic and urgent, a woman’s gasp turning to a wail of release.

"Where is he?"

The madam, a woman draped in scarlet, appeared from the shadows. Her voice was low, smooth as aged wine. "My lord, if you seek a man named Lucifer, you will not find him here. Though," she smiled faintly, "many of my guests believe themselves gods before the night ends." Behind her, from an open door, a courtesan’s "Mmm... ’suck’ it harder... ’yes’... your mouth’s so ’good’..." drifted out, layered with a man’s groan.

Aiden stepped forward, playing his role perfectly—the nobleman’s authority, the soldier’s edge. "He was seen here," he said coldly. "Tall, fair, blue eyes. A man who burns when he looks at you. Where is he?"

The madam’s smile did not fade. "Then perhaps, my lord, you should look in a mirror."

Laughter rippled among the courtesans—low, musical, tinged with cruelty. From the stairwell, a fresh moan rose—breathless and building: "Ahh... ’deeper’... your cock’s ’stretching’ me... ’fuck’... don’t stop... ’yes’!"

Seraphel’s hand tightened on his sword. "Enough mockery. We search the rooms."

Aiden nodded. "Go. Every corner."

The knights obeyed, their armor glinting in the flicker of candlelight. They pushed through curtains, opened doors, overturned beds.

The laughter faded as tension grew. Only the soft moans from upstairs lingered—detached, rhythmic, like a ritual echoing from some other realm.

One knight kicked open a door to reveal a tangle of limbs—a woman on her back, legs spread wide, her lover thrusting deep as she gasped " ’Harder’... ’yes’... ’fill’ me with it!" The knight averted his eyes, door slamming shut amid her cry of release.

Minutes passed. The knights returned, one by one.

"Empty."

"No one fitting the description."

"Only girls and drunk men, my lord." One added, voice low, "And... uh... busy ones."

Seraphel frowned. "He must have fled—"

Aiden’s hand landed gently on his shoulder. "Or perhaps, Inquisitor... he was never here."

Seraphel turned. "What are you saying?"

Aiden’s smile deepened. It was small, almost kind—and yet, in it was the shadow of a truth too vast to name.

From an alcove, a moan peaked—"Oh god... ’cumming’... ’yes’!"—fading to heavy pants.

"I’m saying," Aiden said softly, "that faith is a beautiful drug."

The words hung there. For a moment, Seraphel thought he had misheard.

Then Aiden laughed. Taking off his wigg, his black hair showing.

It was not the laugh of the Viscount, not the rehearsed charm of nobility. It was rich, low, and terribly old—like something waking after centuries of silence.

A nearby courtesan paused mid-moan, her gasp turning to a curious "Ahh...?" before resuming her rhythm.

"Did you really think," he said, his tone now dark silk, "that the Lightbringer hides in brothels? That he flees from men like you?"

The knights did not move. Their faces were expressionless.

Seraphel’s pulse quickened. "You!!...how!!?...What are you doing?"

Aiden stepped closer, the mirage of the Viscount flickering—just slightly—around the edges. "Showing you what it means to seek the divine." From the stair, a fresh cry rose—" ’Fuck’... ’deeper’... your cock’s ’so big’!"—the wet slap punctuating like applause.

He snapped his fingers.

Two of the knights moved faster than thought—seizing Seraphel’s arms, forcing him to his knees. He tried to resist, but their strength was inhuman.

"You, Lucifer—!"

One of them pressed a cloth against his mouth. A sweet, metallic scent filled his lungs. His vision blurred.

The room swayed—velvet walls melting into shadow, laughter twisting into whispers. A moan swelled from an open door—"Mmm... ’yes’... ’lick’ it... ’oh’..."—fading as darkness crept in.

Aiden crouched before him. The disguise was breaking now: his eyes were no longer human but gold, luminous, reflecting every flicker of candlelight. A distant gasp echoed—" ’Cumming’... ’yes’!"—like a final, mocking echo.

"Don’t fight it," he murmured. "You wanted revelation. You prayed for it. It’s coming."

Seraphel tried to speak, but his tongue was heavy, his thoughts collapsing like sand. The perfume, the heat, the sound of his own heartbeat—it was all too close.

"This is...beyoud heresy...

What—what are you?"

Aiden leaned in. His whisper brushed against Seraphel’s ear, intimate as confession.

"The question is not what I am, Inquisitor. It’s who you are, when the fire goes out."

Darkness took him then.

"Rest, Inquisitor," Aiden said softly. "When you wake, the world will have shifted, and you will have to choose which god still deserves your knees."

Seraphel tried to speak, but the drug still lingered in his veins, pulling him downward, inward.

He thought he heard laughter again — not mourneful, but almost happy.

Then the light faded.

And the world fell away.