The sky no longer wept light.
Where once there was divine brilliance, now only the thick fog of musk and cum-clouded heat lingered—smeared across broken pillars, soaked into hymn-stained floors, and dribbling down the still-twitching thighs of the angels Allen had turned into blasphemous playthings.
Above the crumbled dome, where moonlight used to pierce through sacred runes, there now loomed a portal.
A gate.
Cracked open.
Still glowing faintly with divine energy, but... flickering.
Allen's breath was steady. The cum on his abs had cooled into tacky trails, yet his cock remained defiantly erect—veins bulging, head flushed dark, still coated in the slick of a dozen consecrated wombs.
He walked forward, each step sticky on the desecrated marble.
Below him, the final seraph whimpered, still impaled, upside down, babbling something between prayer and orgasmic delirium.
And the gate called to him.
A whisper in a tongue that mortals weren't supposed to know.
He knew it anyway.
