Chapter 25: The Reign of the Wolf God (Part 4)
Chaos was an ocean, and I was the motionless island at its center. The orgy had reached its peak, a tide of writhing bodies and moans crashing against the grotto walls. The air was thick, a primordial broth of sweat, wine, semen, and the floral scent of the nymphs. It was a monument to depravity, a feast that would have made the oldest gods blush.
And I was bored.
The novelty had faded. The submission of the demigods was predictable. The devotion of the priestesses, monotonous. The lust of the nymphs, repetitive. I had tasted every flavor, explored every limit. My hunger, though vast, required something more than simple flesh and ecstasy. It required a challenge, novelty, a power that did not yield so easily.
'Enough.'
The thought was a silent command, an intention that began to spread from me, ready to snuff out the fires of the orgy and plunge the grotto into the silence of my indifference. I was about to withdraw my tentacles, to dissolve into the shadows and abandon this exhausted playground.
That was when I felt the disturbance.
It was not a sound breaking the cacophony. It was not a smell cutting through the musk. It was a vibration. A pure, crystalline note introduced into my symphony of chaos. A frequency of power so alien to the primordial lust of the grotto that it was like a drop of holy oil falling into stagnant water.
I lifted my massive head, my ember eyes narrowing. Instinct, honed by eons of survival and dominion, bristled. This was new. This was... different.
A light began to filter down from the cavern roof. It was not the flickering light of the braziers, nor the silver light of the moons. It was a golden light, pure and warm, descending in a perfect column toward the center of the arena. It was not a light that burned or blinded; it was a light that soothed, that ordered.
The effect was instant and absolute.
The orgy did not stop; it froze.
Bodies, intertwined in ecstasy, went motionless. A demigod, mid-thrust into a dryad's cunt, froze, his face a mask of interrupted lust. A nymph, about to scream her climax, let out a stifled gasp and fell silent. The music of slapping flesh, the moans, the laughter... everything ceased in an instant.
The silence that fell was deeper and more absolute than the one I had imposed. It was a silence of reverence.
And then, one by one, they began to kneel.
It was not out of fear. Fear makes creatures shrink away, flee. This was different. It was an innate response, a compulsion etched into the essence of their divine and mortal beings. It was the instinct of creation bowing to a higher authority.
Alkeus, the broken hero, was the first. He rose from the woman he was using and prostrated himself on the sand, his forehead touching the stained ground. The Amazons, warriors who knelt to no one, lowered their heads and bent a knee, their faces a mixture of awe and respect. The nymphs and dryads partially dissolved into their elements, their forms bowing in natural submission. The priestesses and mortals simply fell to their knees, their hands clasped in a gesture of forgotten prayer.
In a matter of seconds, the entire pack, all the participants of my bacchanal, were kneeling, their heads bowed before the column of golden light.
Only I remained.
I stood tall on all fours, a mountain of defiant night amidst a field of devotion. The light did not harm me. It did not weaken me. I simply felt it as something alien, a concept so opposed to my own nature that it was almost an academic curiosity.
'So the old gods still have power in this land.'
The column of light intensified for a moment, and then, from its golden heart, a figure descended.
He did not walk. He floated. His perfect, bare feet touched the sand, which was stained with the sweat, wine, and semen of the orgy. But where his feet touched, the sand seemed to cleanse itself, returning to its pristine state.
The figure was of a beauty so perfect it was almost inhuman, androgynous and ethereal. He had wings, not of feathers, but of pure woven golden light, folding gently at his back. His skin glowed with an inner radiance, and his eyes were the color of liquid honey, devoid of judgment, anger, or lust. They held only quiet purpose.
The messenger.
His presence changed the atmosphere of the grotto. The heavy, musky scent of sex was pushed back, replaced by a subtle fragrance of ambrosia and nectar. The flickering, lascivious light of the braziers seemed dirty and cheap compared to the pure aura emanating from him.
He did not look at the kneeling worshippers. He did not look at the evidence of the depravity surrounding him. His existence seemed to operate on a different plane, immune to the filth of the mortal world.
His honey eyes lifted and met mine.
There was no fear in his gaze. There was no challenge. Only recognition. He saw beyond the wolf form, beyond the power of the Longinus. He saw the primordial essence that I was.
'He sees me. Not as a monster. But as an equal.'
The realization was intriguing.
The messenger took a step toward me, his movement as fluid and effortless as light itself. He stopped at a respectful distance, tilting his head slightly in a gesture that was not of submission, but of an ancient and forgotten diplomatic protocol.
And then, his voice, which was neither male nor female, but a perfect melody, spoke. Not aloud, but directly into my mind, an intrusion so elegant and effortless that it made my own telepathic invasions seem brutal in comparison.
The messenger stopped before me, a pillar of golden calm in my storm of depravity. His beauty was an affront to the crudeness of the scene, his purity a silent challenge to my darkness. The worshippers kneeling around us were mere scenery, irrelevant to the conversation about to take place between two conceptual powers.
I did not wait for him to speak. My own voice, a blade of cold night, slid into his mind.
'Do you come to purge this place, little angel? Have you come to preach light to a world I have claimed for the shadows? Save your breath. Your gods have no jurisdiction here.'
The messenger did not react to my hostility. A slight, almost imperceptible smile curved his perfect lips. And then, his voice, which was neither male nor female, but a melody of crystal bells and stellar wind, filled my mind. It was not an invasion like mine. It was an invitation.
"I bring no sermons, Ancient One. Only a message. My mistress does not care for games of light and shadow. She only cares for passion."
His liquid honey gaze swept the scene for the first time. He did not see the brutality, nor the submission, nor the depravity. He saw the energy. He saw the raw desire, the desperate ecstasy, the lust that had become a form of worship.
"You have created a fervor here," continued the messenger, his voice tinged with genuine curiosity. "A storm of desire so potent that its echoes have reached the peaks of Olympus. You have piqued my mistress's interest."
'Your mistress.'
Disdain dripped from my thought. 'Another queen on a throne who thinks the universe revolves around her.'
"She is not a queen. She is a principle," replied the messenger, reading my thought with infuriating ease. "She is the force that drives the hearts of heroes and the lust in the eyes of gods. She is the reason this very feast exists. She is Aphrodite. The Golden One. The Foam-Born. The Lady of Passion."
The name resonated with ancient power, one of the primordial deities of this realm.
"She has felt your presence," said the messenger, his golden eyes meeting my red embers. "She has felt a new deity of primordial desire acting in the mortal realm. A power not based on beauty, nor on love, but on raw dominance. On the predator's instinct. She feels... intrigued."
A pause. The silence of the grotto was absolute, broken only by the dripping of the waterfall.
"You are invited to a celebration at her palace on Olympus. A feast to honor pleasure in all its forms. My mistress wishes to meet you. The gods await your presence."
The invitation hung in the air, a shining jewel offered to a beast. It was a game-changer. I had gone from being a prisoner, to a fugitive, to a king of a savage cult in a forgotten corner of the world. And now, the gods themselves were summoning me. Not as a monster to be hunted. But as an equal to be welcomed.
'Do they think they can seduce me with wine and promises? Do they think their "queen of passion" can offer me something I haven't already taken by force?'
The messenger smiled again, an expression of infinite patience. "She does not seek to seduce you. She seeks to understand you. And perhaps, to play with you. Olympus can be as boring as a forest, Ancient One. A new toy is always appreciated."
A toy.
The word resonated. The arrogance of the gods. They believed they could play with me.
And in that instant, in the heart of my indifference, a new spark ignited. It was not lust. It was not ambition. It was the old, familiar instinct of the alpha predator.
I had conquered the heroes. I had dominated the spirits of the earth. I had established my dominion over this small pack of mortals and demigods. I was a big fish in a small pond.
But Olympus... Olympus was the ocean. An ocean full of arrogant sharks who believed themselves masters of creation.
A cold, predatory curiosity burned in my eyes.
I did not answer the messenger. I did not need to. He saw the answer in my gaze.
With a final bow of his head, the golden figure began to dissolve. Not into darkness, but into motes of ascending light, like the embers of a sacred bonfire rising toward the sky. The column of light withdrew, and the oppressive, sacred atmosphere vanished with it, leaving the grotto plunged back into its lascivious gloom.
The silence was broken. A trembling moan from one of the priestesses. The hesitant movement of a demigod. The orgy, interrupted, did not know whether to resume or dissolve into shame.
But I was no longer there. My mind was elsewhere. On a mountain said to touch the heavens. In a palace made of clouds and ambrosia. In a new hunting ground.
I have conquered the creatures of the earth.
Now, the gods were calling me. And I was going to answer.
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