Chapter 69 Chapter Sixteen
Not everyone was born with their sins. Some were born with it already, while others had it forced on them until it stuck.
Ciel had envy in her blood from the start—always staring at someone else’s share, clutching at what wasn’t hers. Malachi never hid his greed either; the boy would claw for scraps, coins, gems—anything he thought could be owned. Benedict? Sloth stuck to him. The priests didn’t have to teach him to waste away; he came into the world already half-asleep.
Ezra—Pride was rooted in him from the start. Arrogance, superiority, dominance. Training was unnecessary because it was already his nature.
However, they were still forced to carry out inhuman deeds, including massacre, robbery, and countless physical and sexual assaults, grooming them into men without souls.
They were watched. The priests, and the robed men in the corners observed every movement, every need, and every flaw.
Then came the ones whose sins had to be forced in. Reuben didn’t start out gluttonous. He was just small, a wiry thing with no more appetite than any other boy. They fixed that. Bowl after bowl until his stomach split with pain, until he was gagging and crying while they held him down and forced more between his teeth. They fed him until his body betrayed him, until hunger became horror. The same was done to those chosen before him but the difference was that they never lived to tell the story.
Death from overeating, choking, and even one whose stomach tore open, granting him immediate death.
And Enoch—he always had rage. But rage alone wasn’t enough. His fists were quick, but his body was soft. They fixed that too. Drills until his bones screamed, until bruises layered over bruises. They taught him to sharpen his fury with muscle, to give wrath teeth and claws.
Lucian, on the other hand, didn’t have lust in him naturally. He was cold, detached and to forge Lust into him, they put him through processes of training—exposure, temptation, deprivation until it carved desire into him.
On the Seventh Day of Seven Weeks: The Ultimate Submission to Lust.
The goblet was pressed into his hand before he could speak again. Dark red, thicker than wine, laced with something bitter beneath the sweetness. Lucian tasted it, spat—but the robed figure’s grip forced the rim back to his lips. The rest of it slid down his throat before he could wrench free.
Heat bloomed instantly running through his veins. His chest burned, his gut coiled. He snarled, shoving at them, but there were too many hands. They tied a rope around his wrists as they yanked his arms above his head. They bound his ankles too, spreading him wide on the cold stone chair.
“Fuck you,” he spat, straining. But the potion was already working—his body betraying him. His cock stirred against the confines of his trousers, heavy, swelling, traitorous.
The torchlight shifted to a particular spot, and at first, it was just shadows swaying along the wall. But then they sharpened into something obscene.
A man and a woman.
The man’s silhouette loomed broad, hips driving relentlessly. The woman’s outline bent forward, breasts swaying, her head thrown back in a silent cry. His cock was clearly shown as it plunged into her, over and over, her body jolting with each thrust. The shadows moved with obscene rhythm—slapping hips, grinding flesh.
Lucian’s jaw clenched so hard it ached. He tore at the ropes until his skin burned raw, yet the outline on the wall grew increasingly detailed. Every roll of the man’s hips showed his cock sinking deep, pulling out slick, then burying back in. The woman clawed at the wall, her mouth opening in a shadow-scream.
Lucian’s own cock swelled, straining, hard as stone beneath the leather binding. He cursed under his breath, humiliated.
“Do you feel it?” one of the robed figures whispered in his ear. “Your body knows what it craves, even if your mind denies it.”
Another voice slid in, low and coaxing: “Look right there, Vale. Look how he fucks her… how she breaks for him. That could be yours. That should be yours.”
He shook his head violently, hair plastered to his temple with sweat. “No,” he growled, but the drug dragged a groan out of him when the pressure against his cock grew unbearable.
The shadows kept moving vividly. The man bent the woman over, her silhouette spread wide, his cock ramming into her hole so deep her body jolted forward with each brutal thrust. The outline of his shaft bulged inside her, showing everything, every inch forced into her.
Lucian’s breath grew ragged. His hips twitched against the bindings, involuntarily. A growl tore from his throat, half pain, half hunger.
“Good,” the cult hissed, voices layered and cruel. “Let it take you. Give in.”
And then time passed, but Lucian still wouldn’t give in. Anger twisted the leader’s face as he gritted his teeth, turning towards the door, and shouting, “Prepare her,” the leader hissed.
The door creaked open. A naked girl was shoved inside, her bare body dragging against the ground. She couldn’t have been older than sixteen, her face hollow, eyes swollen from crying. She froze when she saw him strapped down, her lips trembling.
One of the men laughed. “Go on, girl. We’re tired of your crying. Don't worry, you won’t have to deal with any of us tonight. You’ll deal with him instead.”
She stumbled forward, her bare feet dragging on the cold floor. Her body trembled, not from surprise—she knew what they wanted—but from dread. Every time was the same. Every time left her hollow.
But when her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she froze.
The man waiting for her was not like the others.
He was tied to the bed, wrists bound tight to the frame, chest heaving with shallow, angry breaths. He glared at the guards, his muscles straining against the chains, but the bonds held. His face was flushed, jaw locked, his fury clear—but he couldn’t move.
Unlike the ones before, he wasn’t coming to her. He wasn’t reaching out, wasn’t forcing his weight on her. He couldn’t.
She shook her head weakly. “Please… please don’t…”
A rough hand shoved her forward, until she stumbled against him. Her body shook, but the men behind her were merciless. They yanked her hair, forced her on top of him, their jeers echoing off the walls.
“Ride him,” one barked. “Or I’ll gut you right here.”
Her tears fell hot onto his chest as trembling hands reached down.
And so, against her will and his own, her body sank onto him. His cock slid inside her, her sob muffled against his shoulder. Shackled wrists ground against iron until skin tore, blood slicking the chains. He could do nothing but thrust his hips upward, helpless and furious, even as unbearable pleasure surged through him. Although every part of him screamed against the humiliation, the heat of her body dragged a guttural sound from his throat.
Because the body betrays. Because no matter how filthy, how wrong, the heat of her tightness wrapped around him and pulled a reaction he couldn’t stop. Shame burned in his chest even as a dark pulse of pleasure spread low in his gut. It was the kind of rush a man never forgets—the first time, the overwhelming flood, that wild instant when hunger tore through him, demanding more.
But here it was poisoned, corrupted. His pleasure was a weapon in their hands, his body reduced to a tool. He didn’t choose it, didn’t want it, and yet he felt it all the same.
The men laughed, spitting their mockery. “Look at him—he’s hard for it. Don’t matter if he’s drugged and chained, he wants it.”
He wanted to die right there, with the girl crying above him, forced to move because they told her to, because her life depended on it. Every thrust they made her take carved the memory deeper into him.
Soon, release tore out of him with violent force. He spilled into her, filling her, and in that climax, his body convulsed so hard the iron snapped. Metal bit deep into bone and skin as the chains split, blood spraying from his shredded wrists. He caught her in his freed arms as she collapsed against him, head lolling, her body spent.
Lucian’s chest heaved. He stared down at her slack face, her lips parted, lashes trembling as though she were lost between pleasure and unconsciousness. Something flickered in him—something that wasn’t rage. His heart, iron for so long, cracked open with a single, unbearable thought: she never wanted this. Another victim. Another soul crushed beneath their twisted rites.
He cradled her tighter, jaw clenched, eyes burning with fury and sadness.
The cult leader’s voice broke the silence: “No being should bear the seed of lust itself.”
Hands seized her, wrenching her from Lucian’s hold. “No!” His roar shook the chamber, blood raining from his torn wrists as he lunged. But he was too late.
The girl’s limp body was hurled against the stone wall. Before she could even cry out, the cutlass sang. One clean arc—then her head split, cleaved in half, spilling a torrent of blood across the altar floor.
The spray hit Lucian’s face. Her warmth, her life, her everything, scattered in seconds.
His body trembled as he quickly dragged himself across the cold floor, every muscle screaming but his heart screaming louder. He reached her limp form and collapsed beside her, pulling her into his arms as if holding her could undo what had just been done. The sobs tore out of him—raw, jagged, ugly cries that echoed off the stone walls. Tears streaked down his face, soaking into her hair, his chest heaving as he clung to her. To him, she wasn’t just another victim—she was a sister, a reflection of himself and the six others, all of them forced, broken, made to bow to horrors they never chose. That bond, that shared helplessness, ripped him open.
He cried and cried, shoulders shaking violently, his tears mixing with the stillness of her wasted body. Then, rage burned through the grief. He forced himself up, staggering forward, teeth bared, eyes wild. He hurled himself at the leader, fists ready to land, desperate to strike. But the leader didn’t flinch. The iron rod came down fast, crashing against Lucian’s skull.
The crack was sickening. A steel weight slammed against his skull, the world splintering white-hot. His knees buckled, and blood gushed, warm and fast, spilling down his face, his temples, dripping onto the stone in thick, red splatters. The pain wasn’t just sharp—it was fatal.
He collapsed in a heap, consciousness slipping away as his blood pulsed out in frantic waves. Darkness closed in.
“Take him,” the leader’s voice cut cold and final. “Clean him. Dress him in the robe. He will be ready for the final ritual.”
One of the men stepped forward, seizing Lucian’s limp form, dragging him away to be prepared—unconscious, bleeding.