Morning came, and with it, the warmth of a soft, bare body nestled against you. The scent of sweat and sex lingered in the air, the evidence of the night's blowjob still fresh.
Your morning erection pressed against her back, the smoothness of her skin sending a familiar rush of heat straight to your core.
Without thinking, your hand wrapped around your cock, stroking it slowly as you pressed against her entrance. She was already wet, her body instinctively ready for you.
With a low groan, you pushed inside, feeling the tight, heated grip of her pussy welcoming you once more.
A thin trickle of blood stained the sheets—a silent testament that she had given herself to you completely.
A soft, sleepy moan escaped her lips. "Mmh... uhm..."
Your arm tightened around her waist, pulling her closer as you thrust into her with slow, deliberate movements.
Her moans were quiet at first, barely above a whisper, but the way she clenched around you told you everything—she was savoring the sensation, adapting to the shape of you stretching her open.
As her body adjusted, you couldn't hold back any longer.
Your pace quickened, each thrust sinking deep, filling her inch by inch as slick warmth coated your cock. Her breathing hitched, her body stirring from sleep, and then—her eyes fluttered open.
She didn't resist. She didn't push you away. Instead, she arched her back, pressing herself against you, taking you in deeper. A silent invitation.
You grabbed her hips and drove into her harder.
Her moans grew louder, her breath coming in hot, shaky gasps as you fucked her into wakefulness. She rocked back against you, her own rhythm meeting your thrusts. The wet, obscene sounds of your bodies colliding filled the room.
And then—release. You groaned as you buried yourself to the hilt, filling her to the brim with your seed, her walls tightening around you as she shuddered beneath you.
But it wasn't over.
Before you could even pull out, Attila turned her head, looking at you with hazardous hunger in her eyes.
She pushed you onto your back and straddled you, your still-hard cock slipping back inside her slick heat as she impaled herself without hesitation.
"Ashborn... uhn... ah...!" she moaned, her voice thick with lust.
She rode you wildly, hips grinding and bouncing, her body taking you as deep as possible.
Her breasts swayed with every movement, her hands pressed against your chest for leverage.
You groaned, watching the way she devoured you, her cunt gripping you like it never wanted to let go.
Again and again, you filled her, her womb taking everything you gave her, her body convulsing as wave after wave of pleasure wracked her frame.
She collapsed against you, panting, pressing her lips against yours in a desperate, fevered kiss.
Neither of you cared about rest. The hunger was still there, burning, insatiable.
And so—you fucked until the hunger was satisfied.
Until neither of you could move.
Until the only thing left was exhaustion and the mess of your release dripping between her thighs.
Afterward, you began building your empire in this vast, untamed grassland. You molded the natives into warriors worthy of your legion, forging them through brutal training with no room for weakness.
Fail—and they would be absorbed into your shadow legion.
Survive and thrive—they would live, whole and intact, without needing to become part of your darkness.
But someone had ruled before you.
Attila.
You named your empire Hun. And in turn, Attila became Attila the Hun once again.
There was no respite, no rest in this land. Only those worthy of your heavy expectations could stand as part of your empire.
Even though Attila had lost her memories—along with much of her common sense—her instinct as a warrior, as an extinguisher of stars, remained unshaken.
With a single slash of her Photon Ray, she effortlessly cut down most of those who tried to overwhelm her with numbers.
Some she broke, others she accidentally killed—a testament to the sheer gap in strength.
But in this empire, nothing went to waste.
Every warrior who fell was precious—their manpower, their skill, their strength—and you would not let it slip away.
So you resurrected them.
They became your shadows, eternal warriors bound to your will, stripped of failure, reborn as instruments of your conquest.
In the ring of battle, the Hun tribes circled around us, their voices rising in a savage chant, fists pounding against the earth.
A single warrior stood at the center of the arena—the strongest to have emerged from your brutal training.
They cheered his name:
"Jormungand! Jormungand! Jormungand!"
A man with tanned skin and tribal tattoos, towering, muscle-bound, standing with a warrior's confidence, his body sculpted by hardship.
Attila watched him emotionlessly. Then she turned to you, her eyes cold, questioning, waiting.
You met her gaze.
"Let him prove his worth to our empire—or perish."
Your finality was absolute.
Attila nodded, stepping forward, her stance shifting into battle-readiness.
Jormungand moved first. Fast. Strong. But not strong enough.
He struggled to block Attila's attacks. Every strike she delivered sent shockwaves up his arms, the sheer force of her blows turning his muscles numb.
She gave him no chance to breathe, no moment to recover.
A ruthless kick to his knee. A sudden, merciless slash across his throat.
Jormungand froze, eyes wide with disbelief as he clutched at the deep gash, blood pouring between his fingers.
"You failed him. You failed, Ashborn." Attila said flatly, her voice devoid of sympathy as she watched him collapse, choking on his own blood.
His eyes, even in death, demanded an answer—why? Why, after coming this far, was he still not enough?
But neither you nor Attila gave him the luxury of an answer.
You simply watched—expression cold, gaze unwavering.
No amount of pleading, of silent screams, of desperate eyes could shake the ruthlessness within you both.
Jormungand was dead.
Not as a warrior standing at Attila's side, but as another shadow, another servant bound to you in death.
He would never fight alongside Attila.
He would never share in the glory of conquest.
He was yours now—another nameless soldier buried within your ever-growing legion of darkness.
The cheers had ceased.
For a moment, the gathered tribes fell silent, the weight of what they had just witnessed heavy in the air.
And in that moment, they understood—there was no room for weakness in your empire.
This is not the end.
It never will be.
Your hunger for conquest is insatiable, an all-consuming force that drives you to devour more and more land, feeding the ever-growing empire under your rule. From the lands of the Huns, to the Goths, all the way to the very borders of the Eastern Roman Empire, your dominion stretches far beyond what any warlord before you could have ever dreamed.
And your legion of shadows?
They have swelled into an unstoppable tide, numbering over 7 million, an army so vast, so overwhelming, that the very world trembles beneath their march. Those who refuse to submit? They are consumed, stripped of their free will, forced to exist as part of your shadow legion—a fate worse than death. Those who comply? They bask in the glory of your empire, standing among its elite, forever bound to your conquest.
Simple.
Your power grows, eclipsing all who stand before you. No, they are not as powerful as you. Nor as mighty as Attila. They are beneath you. Inferior. But they are countless. A swarm of warriors, scholars, magi, fallen gods—and you have absorbed all of them. Their knowledge, their experience, their very essence has become part of you.
You are playing the big game—one that no emperor, no conqueror, no god before you has ever dared to play.
Your conquest is relentless. You take everything. Burn everything. Crush everything.
And you know it.
You know that the Counter Force will not stay silent.
They will come for you.
But when?
Your mother once told you—kill Pope Leo.
But you didn't.
Because you are not her.
If you had followed her every order, obeyed her like a good little son, you would have never surpassed her.
And that was unacceptable.
You don't want to stand beside her.
You want to stand above her.
You want to crush her, to make her submit, to force her to recognize your power—not as her creation, not as her student, but as her conqueror.
You will put her beneath you—in every way possible.
Your ambition burns hotter than your lust, but you will have both. That is why you disobeyed. That is why you took matters into your own hands. That is why you chose your own path to power.
And now, look at what you have become.
Look at the legions under your control. Look at the power that surges through your veins. Look at the fear in the eyes of those who once thought themselves untouchable.
You are faster.
Stronger.
Unstoppable.
The warriors, the magi, the fallen gods—they are all part of you now. You know everything they knew, wield every skill they once held, and yet, you are still not satisfied.
And Pope Leo?
He could never have offered you this.