Zigeyr grabs Ria's boobs, feeling the softness and warmth against his fingers. 'Though she is quite ugly, but her pitiful expression is enough to entertain me for some time.' In terms of humans, Ria was already quite beautiful, but she will be termed as a 'quite ugly' in front of gods.
For the next one hour, the sound of moaning and clapping sounded inside the room. The daughter was fucked by Zigeyr ruthlessly in front of her own father. Though Zigeyr controlled his strength in order to not kill her, but her legs and private parts still suffered from pain. Idom was unable to do anything, as he was not even able to stand. His eyes were dull, and his thought process has stopped working. This will be one of the darkest moment in his whole life.
Zigeyr looked at Ria with tears streaming down her face. He admired her broken eyes, the way they reflect the pain, confusion and fear inside her heart.
Zigeyr then stood up from the bed. The clothes which were magically disappeared now appeared magically.
Zigeyr turned to the prime minister. He asked with a low and threatening voice,"So prime minister, are you now loyal to me after I fucked your daughter?"
Idom's gaze was a turbulent storm of anger and fear. In that moment, countless wishes raced through his mind. He wished, desperately, that all of this was nothing but a dream. He wished he had never contemplated betraying this god. He wished he possessed the strength to prevent what was unfolding, the power to stand and defy what now seemed inevitable. He even wished, impossibly, that he could kill the god before him.
But deep down, he knew the bitter truth. He was powerless. Helpless. His hands had failed to defend his only child. And in that crushing helplessness, a memory emerged unbidden—a girl, the leader of a faction that had once opposed him. Her father had been a man of immense influence, a threat to Idom's authority. And in his desire to secure his position, he had destroyed that man before his family's eyes. Now, he felt, with unbearable clarity, the fear and pain that girl and her mother must have endured.
The realization struck with merciless weight: to be unable to protect those you love is the greatest regret. Time and again, we wish for strength we do not possess, praying to gods above to shield our cherished ones. And now, one of those very gods had turned that cruel truth against Idom. Thoughts spiraled, colliding and vanishing in a chaos of despair—until a voice cut through them with chilling precision.
"If you are considering converting to other religions," Zigeyr said, stepping closer, "let me grant you this small kindness: it will be your gravest mistake."
Idom remained kneeling, trembling under the god's gaze.
"The gods do not favor converted followers. Your status will sink to the lowest depths. All that you possess will be taken from you. Your family will suffer, and your life will be a daily struggle. Perhaps, if fortune permits, you might find some humble work—but even then, sustenance will be earned only through ceaseless toil. The ease you have known is gone, human. It is gone forever."
The coldness of Zigeyr's words swept over Idom like a freezing tide, drowning all remaining hope.
"If you doubt me," Zigeyr continued, smiling faintly, "you are free to act as you wish."
And perhaps he was right. Even humans rarely respected converts; why should gods be any different? The old platitudes—"God loves all"—rang hollow. To Idom, the other gods were no different. They were distant, indifferent, and merciless.
A soft, hollow laughter echoed through the room, a sound devoid of joy. It was the laughter of despair, a bitter acknowledgment that there was no hope left. Idom laughed, at his own weakness, his inability to protect, his misjudgments. And Zigeyr's smile deepened, watching the unraveling of a man who had gambled and lost, quietly savoring the spectacle without uttering a sound.
The scene was nightmarish in its perfection. A broken girl lay on the bed, her eyes hollow, unresponsive to her surroundings. A maddened father knelt, laughter twisting into the emblem of impotence and regret. And before them stood a boy, smiling quietly, the depths of his calm radiating an almost violent power—a stillness that eclipsed even the father's despair. Perhaps he did not need to laugh; perhaps he did not wish to interrupt the symphony of hopelessness that had been orchestrated before him.
This tableau—so deliberate, so precise—was horrifying in its clarity. It revealed, without ambiguity, the consequences of human folly, the gambler and the gambled, the victor and the vanquished. It was a rare, haunting painting, a work that could ensnare even the most distant observer and highest of beings, drawing them inexorably into its despair. A masterpiece, perhaps, crafted by a prodigious artist… or perhaps by something far more profound, a being who itself is an 'Anomaly of Art'. Could such a painting exist? Only the rarest eyes in the universe could witness it. And yet, here it was, and here it would linger in memory, a portrait of hopelessness beyond imagining.