The corridor from the cathedral stretched on for a long time, the walls gradually changing color from black to gray, then to something warmer. The stone beneath his bare feet became smoother, cleaner. The cold retreated, giving way to a pleasant warmth.
The hero trudged on, barely able to move his legs. Fatigue had accumulated so much that every step was an effort. The confessional had extracted something important, leaving an emptiness inside. His soul ached, exhausted. His body was whole—immortality took care of that—but his mind teetered on the brink.
How many floors had he climbed? Four? How many times had he died? Hundreds? Thousands? The count was lost somewhere between the scream of the seraph and the teeth of the worms.
The scent struck him suddenly, stopping him in his tracks.
Incense. Roses. Something sweet, intoxicating, enveloping. A scent that made one's head spin, but not unpleasantly so. On the contrary, it beckoned, called, promised oblivion and peace.
The corridor widened, becoming a high passageway with burgundy-colored velvet curtains. Light filtered through the fabric—muted, pink, soft. Music emanated from somewhere within—a languid melody, hypnotic, as if specially crafted to make one forget everything.
The hero parted the curtains and entered.
The hall before him was luxurious. The red stone walls were adorned with golden patterns—ornate, graceful, depicting scenes the hero preferred not to look at too closely. Deep red velvet sofas and armchairs were scattered throughout. The lighting was provided by candles and magical crystals hovering near the ceiling, emitting a soft pinkish glow. Paintings in gilded frames hung on the walls—erotic, explicit, but executed with such skill that it was impossible to tear your eyes away.
Succubi wandered the hall.
Dozens of them. Each beautiful in her own way. Some with large leathery wings folded behind their backs. Others with graceful, curved horns adorned with jewels. Still others with long tails that wagged playfully as they walked. Their clothing was minimal—light silk dresses, sheer capes, lingerie that left little to the imagination.
The clients sat on the couches, relaxed and content. Demons with glowing eyes. Monsters who, on any other floor, would have tried to kill a hero. Even a few mortals—though how they got here was a mystery.
A brothel. It was a brothel. The hero stood at the entrance, covered in dirt, blood, and ash from the burning village, wearing only his underwear, barefoot, and empty-handed. Exhausted. Depleted. He looked like a necromancer's victim after a failed experiment.
Several succubi turned, noticing him. One giggled, covering her mouth with her hand. Another wrinkled her nose. A third simply turned away, losing interest.
A figure rose from behind the bar at the far end of the room.
Lilith.
Tall, with a perfect figure, accentuated by a burgundy dress that hugged every curve. Long black hair with red streaks flowed down her back and shoulders. Curved horns rose from her forehead, polished to a shine. Leathery wings were folded behind her back, but they fluttered slightly from time to time. Her long, pointed tail swayed lazily from side to side.
She came closer, and the hero swallowed involuntarily. The succubus's beauty was unnatural, too perfect, created to seduce and entice. Every movement was graceful, every curve of her body a work of art.
Lilith stopped a few meters away, crossed her arms under her chest, raising an eyebrow. Her appraising gaze slid down the hero, lingering on the tattered underwear, the scrapes and dirt, and his bare feet.
"What a sight..." she drawled, her voice low and velvety, with a hint of mockery. "Do you even know where you are? This isn't a homeless shelter, my dear."
The hero opened his mouth, trying to speak, but his voice wouldn't work. He hadn't spoken to anyone intelligent in too long. He had been surrounded only by monsters and the undead for too long. "I... I'm going up," he finally managed. "Through the dungeon. Up."
Lilith tilted her head, interest dawning in her eyes.
"Going up?" A pause. "From the millionth floor?"
She laughed—ringingly, sincerely, but without malice. The laughter was infectious, and several nearby succubi giggled too.
"And you came to my establishment like this?" Lilith circled him, studying him as if he were a strange find. "You're either mad, or..." She stopped in front of him, her eyes narrowed. "...hm, you're interesting."
The succubus's fingers touched his chin, lifting his face, forcing him to look into her eyes. Her gaze was piercing, as if she could see right through him, reading every thought, every memory.
"So much pain..." she whispered. "And still you go. Stubborn little mortal."
She released him and stepped back, the smile returning to her face.
"Okay. It's clear you need some rest. I have a rule: the client is always right, even if it looks like a necromancer's victim after a failed experiment." Lilith snapped her fingers, and the two succubi came closer. "My girls will take care of you. Food, a bath, entertainment..." She smiled slyly. "Anything your heart desires."
The hero blinked, disbelieving.
"And... how much does it cost?"
Lilith waved her hand dismissively.
"Oh, don't worry about that now. We're civilized demons. We'll bill you later." She leaned closer, her voice softer. "Rest first, poor thing. You deserve it."
The succubi led him up a wide staircase with red carpets. The corridors were just as luxurious—velvet, gold, soft light. The scent of roses and incense hung in the air, intoxicating and relaxing.
The room they led him to was spacious and cozy. A huge bed with silk sheets occupied the center. A bathtub stood against the wall—a real marble bathtub, already filled with steaming hot water. "We'll wash first," said one of the succubi, a short woman with red hair and a mischievous smile. "You look like you've been through the seven circles of hell."
"Close to the truth," muttered the hero.
They helped him undress, pulling off the tattered underwear, the only thing he had left on. They helped him climb into the bathtub. The hot water burned his skin at first, but then became pure bliss. Dirt, soot, blood—everything washed away, melting away, dissolving in the water.
The succubi washed him—carefully, tenderly, their touch pleasant, relaxing. They lathered his skin with fragrant oils, massaging his shoulders and back, where the muscles had hardened from constant tension. One washed his hair, her fingers sliding over his scalp, evoking a pleasant languor.
The hero closed his eyes, allowing himself to simply enjoy the moment. For the first time in... he didn't even know how long... he felt human. Not victim. Not prey. Just a man.
After the bath, they dried him with soft towels and dressed him in clean clothes—simple but comfortable. Soft pants, a shirt, even shoes—real shoes, not bare feet on cold stone.
Then they led him to a table laden with food.
Meat, roasted, juicy. Bread, fresh, still warm. Fruits, vegetables, cheeses. Wine—red, tart, warming from within. The hero pounced on the food, forgetting his manners, stuffing pieces into his mouth, washing them down with wine. A hunger he hadn't even realized burst forth. He hadn't eaten for... how long? Days? Weeks?
The succubi sat nearby, watching, smiling. One poured more wine. Another offered fruit. When his hunger was sated, the hero leaned back in his chair, feeling fullness and warmth spreading through his body. "Now, rest," the red-haired succubus said, extending her hand.
They led him to the bed. The silk sheets were cool and pleasant against his skin. The hero lay down, and fatigue immediately fell upon him like a weight, pressing him into the mattress.
The succubi lay down next to him, on either side, their bodies pressed against his, warm and soft. The hero felt every curve, every line of their figures through the thin fabric. Hands stroked his chest, moving slowly, teasingly down to his stomach. One kissed his neck—her lips were hot and wet, her tongue leaving a trail on the skin, sending waves of goosebumps down his spine. The other whispered in his ear—dirty, promising words, her voice low and hoarse with desire.
"Relax," the red-haired one whispered, her hand sliding lower, encircling him through the fabric of his pants. "We'll take care of everything." The touches grew more confident. Fingers unbuttoned his buttons and pulled his clothes down slowly, savoring every centimeter of skin revealed. The hero felt his body respond—his blood rushed, his penis hardened under their caresses, desire awakening, dormant for too long beneath layers of fatigue and fear.
His clothes were removed completely. He lay naked between two succubi, their gazes sweeping over his body with undisguised hunger.
"Handsome," the dark-haired woman assessed, running her nail down his chest, leaving a light red streak. "Haggard, but handsome."
Skin against skin. Their bodies pressed closer, the succubus's breasts pressing against his sides, her nipples hard through the thin fabric of her underwear. Her lips found his—the kiss was deep, their tongues intertwined, exploring, tasting. Hands were everywhere—on his chest, massaging and pinching his nipples; on his hips, scratching with nails; between his legs, grasping and caressing his member with slow up-and-down movements.
The red-haired succubus moved lower, her hair tickling his stomach. Her hot breath burned the skin of his penis for a second before her lips closed around the head. Wet. Hot. Her tongue swirled, licked, exploring every curve. The hero moaned into the dark-haired woman's mouth, who continued kissing him, muffling the sounds. "Delicious," the redhead whispered, pulling back for a moment, a thread of saliva connecting her lips to his cock. "It's been a while since I've been alive."
She took him deeper, the head pressing against her throat, the muscles around him clenching. Up and down, rhythmically, her cheeks drew in, creating incredible pressure. One hand massaged the base, the other caressed his balls, rolling them between her fingers.
The dark-haired succubus sat on the hero's face, pulling down her lingerie. The moist warmth of her pussy pressed against his lips, the scent of arousal filling his nostrils. He didn't keep her waiting—his tongue penetrated her folds, finding her clit and beginning to lick in circles.
"Mmm, good boy," she moaned, moving her hips in time with his tongue.
Pleasure washed over him in waves. The red-haired succubus's mouth worked relentlessly, sometimes slowly, drawing out the sensations, sometimes quickly, pushing him to the brink. The hero licked the pussy above him, feeling it grow even wetter, his hips trembling, approaching orgasm.
The redhead pulled back, licking her lips.
"My turn."
She sat on top, guiding his cock toward her pussy. Slowly, she lowered herself, taking him in centimeter by centimeter. Tight. Hot. Wet. Her walls clenched around him, massaging, drawing him deeper.
"God..." the hero groaned, pulling away from the dark-haired girl's pussy.
"Lick," she commanded, pressing his head to her.
The redhead began to move—slowly at first, rising almost all the way and then lowering back down. Her breasts swayed in time, her nipples hard and dark red. Her hands settled on the hero's chest, her nails digging into his skin as she sped up.
The dark-haired woman came first—her thighs trembled, clutching the hero's head, her pussy pulsating, releasing even more moisture. She moaned loudly, throwing her head back, her tail lashing the sheets.
The redhead moved faster, harder, impaling herself with all her weight. The sounds of their bodies connecting filled the room—wet, obscene. The pleasure grew, becoming unbearable.
"Come," she whispered, leaning toward his ear. "Come inside. Give me everything."
The orgasm washed over him in a wave—his body arched, his muscles tensed, his cock throbbed, spilling inside the succubus. She continued to move, drawing out every drop, milking every last drop, until the hero went limp beneath her, exhausted. The dark-haired woman sat on top, her pussy still wet from her orgasm. The hero's member, despite what had just happened, was hardening again—the succubus's magic, preventing fatigue from taking over.
She lowered herself slowly, taking him in centimeter by centimeter. It was tight and hot inside, her walls pulsing, still sensitive from the recent peak. The dark-haired woman moaned, biting her lower lip as he entered fully.
"Can you feel it?" she whispered, leaning closer, her breasts pressed against his chest. "I'm still shaking inside... from your tongue."
She began to move—slowly, rocking her hips in a circular motion. Not up and down like the redhead, but in a circle, rubbing her clit against his pubis with each movement. Her hands settled on his shoulders, her nails digging into his skin. The red-haired succubus settled down next to him, watching, one hand sliding between her legs, lazily caressing herself. With her other hand, she stroked the hero's thigh, moving higher, pinching his nipple, causing him to twitch.
"She likes it slow," the redhead commented with a smirk. "She draws out the pleasure... until she goes crazy."
The dark-haired woman sped up slightly, her breathing quickening. Her hips moved smoothly, hypnotically, her breasts swaying in rhythm. The hero looked up at her face—her eyes half-closed, her lips parted, quiet moans escaping them.
He raised his hands, gripping her hips, facilitating her movement. His fingers tightened on the soft flesh, guiding, accelerating. The dark-haired woman didn't resist, letting him set the rhythm.
"Yes... just like that..." she moaned, throwing her head back. Her long hair fell down her back, revealing her neck. The hero rose up, kissing the bare skin, biting, leaving marks.
She came slowly—not explosively, like the first time, but in a wave, rolling gradually. Her body trembled, her pussy clenched around his cock, pulsing rhythmically. A low, drawn-out moan escaped, almost a purr.
The hero continued to move, thrusting upward, meeting her movements. The pleasure grew again, rolling in waves. A few more thrusts—and he came a second time, spilling inside, feeling her walls contract, milking every drop.
The dark-haired woman went limp on him, her head falling onto his shoulder, his breath hot on the skin of her neck. They lay like that for a few moments, catching their breath.
"My turn again," the redhead playfully nudged the dark-haired woman in the side. "Don't be greedy."
Hours—or what felt like hours—passed in uninterrupted pleasure. They swapped positions, trying different positions. The hero took the redhead from behind, his hands gripping her hips as he moved, watching his cock disappear into her pussy. The dark-haired woman sat on his face, forcing him to lick until she came twice more.
When it was finally over, the hero lay between them, exhausted but satisfied as never before. His body ached with a pleasant ache, his penis sensitive from the excessive caresses. The succubi embraced him from both sides, their fingers lazily stroking his skin, soothing him.
"Good boy," the redhead whispered, kissing his shoulder.
"Very good," the dark-haired one agreed, her hand resting on his chest, feeling his heartbeat.
The hero closed his eyes, feeling consciousness slowly drifting away. The first real sleep without nightmares. The first peace after endless deaths.
It was good here.
Too good.
Time dragged strangely in the brothel. There was no day or night, only dim lights and music. The hero lost track—he would wake up, eat, the succubi again, more caresses, sleep again. A day? A week? A month?
Lilith came in periodically to check on him. She would sit on the edge of the bed and smile:
"Oh, have you tried Astoria's services?" It's expensive, but worth it, right?
Or:
— Wine from my personal collection? Excellent choice! Very rare.
Or:
— One more night? Of course, dear. As much as you want.
The hero didn't think about money. He didn't think about anything at all. It was too pleasant to simply exist, to rest, to enjoy himself. The dungeon seemed a distant nightmare. Deaths—someone else's memories.
It was good here. It was safe here.
One day, the door opened, and Lilith entered. This time, without her usual relaxed expression. Her smile was still there, but her eyes were businesslike. She held a scroll in her hands—a long one, tied with a red ribbon.
"Well, my dear," she began, sitting down on the chair opposite him. "You had a wonderful time, didn't you? I'm glad. My girls tried their best."
The hero nodded, not yet understanding where the conversation was heading.
"But..." Lilith unrolled the scroll, and it turned out to be longer than it seemed. A meter. Two. Three. The scroll rolled across the floor, covered in lines of tiny text. "...it's time to talk about calculations."
The hero's heart sank.
Lilith turned the scroll toward him, showing him the numbers. Enormous, incredible numbers.
"Astoria's services—fifty thousand souls. Wine from my collection—ten thousand a bottle, you drank seven. A luxury suite—five thousand a night, you spent here..." She peered at the scroll. "...twenty-three nights. Food, clothing, extra services..." Her finger slid over the lines. "Total: three million eight hundred and forty-two thousand souls. Or the equivalent in artifacts. Or..." She looked up. "...years of life. How much do you have left, by the way?"
The hero stared at the scroll, unable to utter a word. His throat was dry.
"This... what?!" he finally managed to squeeze out. "I can't pay that much!"
Lilith sighed, still smiling sweetly:
"Well, dear, you understood that pleasure isn't free, right? My girls tried. You ate the best food, drank the rarest wine, partied with the most experienced succubi..."
"I have nothing!" the hero's voice rose to a scream. "Nothing! I came here penniless!" Lilith folded the scroll and placed it on her lap. Her gaze hardened:
"Too bad. Very sorry." A pause. "Then standard procedure—you stay here to work. Forever." She bowed her head. "Either you give up your soul. Or your life." Her smile widened. "Choose."
"No!" the hero jumped out of bed. "I can't! I need to go upstairs! I must continue!"
"Nothing personal," Lilith shrugged. "Just business." She snapped her fingers.
The door swung open, and the succubi entered the room. The same ones who had caressed him, fed him, and entertained him. But now there was no softness in their eyes. Only cold efficiency.
They grabbed him by the arms and legs. The hero tried to resist, but his strength was lacking. The succubi were stronger than they appeared.
They dragged him out of the room, down the hallway, down the stairs—not the beautiful one he'd climbed, but a different one. Narrow, dark, leading to the basement.
The cell was small, with stone walls. In the center stood a table with straps. Tools hung on the wall—knives, hooks, something resembling syringes.
They strapped him to the table, the straps tightened so tightly that they dug into his skin. Lilith followed him in, holding a long needle that glowed a dull green.
"Soul extraction is a painful procedure," she said almost apologetically. "But quick." You won't feel anything... well, almost nothing.
The needle sank into his chest.
The pain was instantaneous and absolute. Like something was being ripped out from within, torn out by the roots. The hero screamed, thrashing in the straps, but they held tight. The needle glowed brighter, drawing in something invisible, flowing from his chest in a thin stream of light.
The world darkened. Cold filled his body. His heart slowed.
Darkness.
Inhale.
The hero opened his eyes.
He lay on the same table, in the same cell. The straps still held him. But there was no pain. The needle lay on the floor, extinguished.
Lilith stood nearby, her eyes wide with shock:
— What... how?!
The hero himself didn't understand. He was dead. Definitely dead. He felt his soul leaving.
But he returned.
Resurrected. Right here. Lilith leaned over, studying him, her fingers brushing his chest, his neck, checking his pulse.
"You're resurrected? Right here?!" She stepped back, tapping her finger thoughtfully against her lips. "Interesting..."
She picked up the needle and tried again. Pain. Death. Resurrection.
Lilith tossed the needle aside and looked at the hero with something akin to admiration.
"The dead don't pay their dues... but you died. And the living don't rise again... but you rose again." She sat on the edge of the table, thoughtful. "You're a mystery, my friend. A very interesting mystery."
A long silence. Then Lilith laughed—genuinely, cheerfully.
"Good. The debt is cancelled." She unbuckled his belt, freeing him. "You're too special to simply be written off. Go. Rise further."
The hero sat up, rubbing his wrists. He didn't believe it.
"Just like that?" "Not quite," Lilith smiled, but there was a seriousness to it. "You owe me a favor. I'll collect it someday. When you rise high enough. When you become strong enough." She ran her finger along his cheek. "Remember that."
The hero stood at the cell's exit, rubbing his wrists where the straps had dug in. He still couldn't believe it—they'd just let him go. A debt of three million souls wiped out. Simply because he... was being resurrected.
Lilith walked ahead, leading him back through the corridors. Silent, thoughtful. The hero was also silent, unsure what to say. Thank him? For what—for the torture? For not killing him completely?
They ascended to the first floor, to the main hall. The succubi and patrons continued their entertainment, oblivious to them. The music continued languidly, the incense intoxicating.
Lilith stopped at the bar, leaning against it, then turned to the hero:
"The exit is over there," she nodded toward the door at the far end of the hall. "Straight ahead and up. Next floor."
The hero nodded, about to go, but Lilith suddenly froze. Her eyes widened, and her head slowly turned toward the ceiling. Her wings fluttered behind her, her tail stiffened.
"What..." she whispered.
The hero followed her gaze. He saw nothing but the ceiling. But Lilith clearly sensed something else.
"She..." the succubus's voice grew quieter, almost reverent. "She's calling you."
"Who?"
Lilith slowly lowered her gaze to him. Something like fear was visible in her eyes. Or admiration. Or both.
"Astaroth." A pause. "The Demon Queen. Mistress. My... mistress."
The air in the hall changed. It became heavier, denser. The succubi froze in their places, the clients stopped moving. Everyone sensed the presence of something enormous, ancient, powerful above, on the third floor.
"She never..." Lilith shook her head. "She never summons mortals. For centuries. What are you, wanderer?"
The hero shrugged.
"I don't know."
Lilith exhaled, composing herself. She straightened up and smoothed her dress.
"Okay. Let's go. We can't keep her waiting."
She led him to another staircase—not the one the hero had climbed to his room, but a wider, more luxurious one. A red carpet, golden railings, paintings in expensive frames on the walls. They ascended to the second floor, then the third.
Lilith paused in front of the door at the top. She turned to the hero with a serious expression.
"Listen carefully. Before you stands one of the most ancient beings in the dungeon. Older than the gods of some worlds. More powerful than you can imagine." She placed her hand on his shoulder. "Don't be rude. Don't interrupt. Speak only when asked. And most importantly..." a pause. "...don't look her in the eyes for too long." You can lose yourself in them forever.
The hero nodded, his throat dry.
Lilith pushed the door. It opened silently, smoothly.
"Go," the succubus whispered. "I'll wait here."
The hero stepped inside.
The hall beyond the door was breathtaking.
Enormous, with high ceilings and panoramic windows that looked out... into the abyss. Not into the cave walls. Not into the sky. Into absolute emptiness, where stars and nebulae, distant galaxies and the cosmic darkness slowly drifted.
Luxurious furniture—sofas, armchairs, tables made of precious wood. The light was subdued, soft, created by floating magical spheres.
In the center, on a large velvet sofa, a figure reclined.
Astaroth.
She leaned on her side, in a relaxed pose, like an ancient goddess at a feast. Long silver hair spilled across the sofa and pillows, shimmering in the light. Black, curved horns rose from her forehead, polished and adorned with delicate gold patterns. Her dress was woven from shadows and stars—translucent, it concealed and revealed at the same time, playing with light and darkness.
Her eyes were bottomless, like the space beyond the windows. Looking into them was like looking into eternity.
In her hand, she held a long hookah with a black mouthpiece. Smoke swirled around her, forming strange patterns—faces, symbols, or something else entirely, nameless. It dissolved into the air, leaving a faint, sweet scent.
Astaroth looked at the hero, her posture unmoving. A long silence. Only the gurgling sound of the hookah broke the silence.
The hero wanted to say something, but she raised her hand with the mouthpiece—a clear gesture: be silent.
He fell silent.
Astaroth took a slow drag, her gaze fixed on him.
"Interesting..." her voice was low, velvety, enveloping, like hookah smoke. "...very interesting."
She exhaled, and the smoke formed faces—a multitude of faces, flickering and vanishing.
"The thread of fate is so finely taut, and you walk it like a blind kitten."
Pause. Her gaze scanned him from top to bottom, seeing not his body, but something deeper.
"Do you remember when the world called you superfluous?"
The hero blinked. What?
Astaroth took another drag, the smoke enveloping her face.
"Death is a capricious lady. She comes when she pleases... but it seems she's decided to make an exception for you."
She leaned back against the pillows, looking at the ceiling, as if seeing something there. A ring of smoke rose to the ceiling, slowly widening.
"The gods play dice with fates... but your dice fell on their edge and froze."
The silence stretched on. The hero tried to speak again.
"Go," Astaroth interrupted, cutting him off. "We will meet again... when you have learned enough to challenge the heavens."
Astaroth waved her hand.
The world distorted, space collapsed. The hero felt a tug, and the next moment he stood at the brothel's exit, on the street in front of a red stone building.
The last thing he saw when he turned around was her silhouette in the third-floor panoramic window. The hookah smoke swirled around him as if alive, forming patterns that seemed almost meaningful.
Then the building began to dissolve, becoming translucent, vanishing.
The hero stood alone on an empty stone platform. Ahead, a passageway was visible—further on, up, to the next floor.
Floor 999,995 awaited.
He took a deep breath, exhaled. The rest was over.
Time to move on.