The spacious hall with its towering dome ceiling, usually empty and serene, was now filled to capacity. More than a thousand priests from around the world had gathered, their hushed voices creating a constant low buzz as they conversed in subdued tones, careful not to disturb the solemn atmosphere.
Their faces bore complex expressions—a mixture of sorrow and pride. The loss of their beloved Head Priest still weighed heavily on them. He had led their faith for decades, the longest-serving leader in their history. He was cherished, not only by the priests but by millions of followers worldwide.
Yet, amidst the mourning, there was also excitement and honor. Each priest present was a representative of their country, selected to witness the coronation of a new Head Priest. The elders, after three days of closed-door meditation, had finally received an answer to their prayers. The successor had been chosen.
Tomorrow, the coronation would take place.
Tonight, however, was reserved for the welcome dinner—a grand event to host and honor the attending priests.
"Di dove sei? (Where are you from?)" a middle-aged priest asked the young priest seated beside him.
"Nazione K," the young priest replied with a friendly smile.
"Così giovane per essere un prete. (So young to be a priest.)" The older priest patted his shoulder.
"Ho una vocazione da quando ero molto giovane. (I have had a vocation since I was very young.)" The young priest took a slow sip from his wine glass.
"Quello è buono. (That's good.)" The older priest nodded approvingly.
Their conversation was suddenly interrupted.
The doors swung open, and all eyes turned toward the entrance.
A moment later, everyone in the hall stood and applauded.
The new Head Priest, James Maurotio, had arrived.
He walked in, his golden robes flowing, followed closely by the elders. The elders remained behind as Maurotio stepped forward, taking his place before the standing microphone.
"Good evening, my fellow priests. Thank you for your presence. I am deeply honored and humbled to welcome you here," Maurotio began.
A reverent silence filled the hall.
"As I will declare in my coronation tomorrow, I wish to share my vision with you tonight.
"In this chaotic world, it is imperative to establish a strong, unwavering faith in God. The right faith. The unbending faith."
A murmur of agreement rippled through the audience.
"What I have witnessed is that our faith—our sacred religion—has weakened. We have compromised too much, accommodated too much. We have bent where we should have stood firm. That ends tomorrow."
The hall erupted into applause.
"From tomorrow onward, we shall return to God's word in its purest form. We shall purify our faith. Sanctify the nations that uphold our religion as their foundation."
A second round of applause.
"Thank you... thank you. Now, please, enjoy your dinner.
"I must apologize, for the elders and I will not be able to accompany you tonight. We must meditate and prepare ourselves for tomorrow's sacred event. I trust you will understand."
A third wave of applause filled the hall.
As Maurotio finished his speech, the great doors opened once more, and dozens of servers entered, carrying trays.
Moments later, plates of fresh salad were placed before each priest.
The young priest from Nation K ate eagerly. As soon as his plate was emptied, a server swiftly removed it. The level of service felt almost royal—a luxury these priests rarely experienced.
After washing down his meal with wine, the young priest stood up.
"Mi scusi... gabinetto. (Excuse me... toilet.)," he said, a little awkwardly.
The priests around him nodded.
He made his way across the aisle, stepping aside briefly to allow a procession of servers to pass by with the next course. Once they had gone, he continued toward the restrooms.
Inside the lavish restroom, he entered the third stall and locked the door.
Then, with steady hands, he stepped onto the toilet seat and pushed open the ventilation cover.
Hidden inside the duct was a black bag.
He pulled it out, placed an earpiece into his ear, and activated the device.
"I'm on," he murmured.
A young woman's voice responded through the earpiece.
"Good. Give it ten minutes for optimal effect, Death."
"Roger, King," he replied.
He removed his priest's robe, revealing a sleek, all-black suit beneath. Then, from inside the bag, he slipped on a pair of leather gloves.
Finally, he sat down and waited.
Ten minutes later.
The woman's voice returned. "It's time, Death."
Deathstalker reached into the bag one last time and retrieved his final item.
A gas mask.
With precise movements, he tucked his robe into the bag and threw it out the only window in the restroom.
Then, adjusting his mask into place, Deathstalker left the restroom.
His weapon was already in hand.
A DSLR camera.
His pistol rested against his waist—hidden but ready.
This mission was unlike anything the Royal Knights had ever handled before.
Usually, their orders were clear-cut.
Elimination. No room for discretion.
But this time, elimination was optional.
Not only that—this type of close-contact mission typically belonged to Gila. But this time, Gila had refused.
His reasoning?
This was his faith. His religion. And despite everything, he… loved it.
So Deathstalker had taken his place.
"Ready, Fire?" Deathstalker whispered.
A sharp, eager voice responded.
"At your service."
Deathstalker pushed open the massive double doors.
Immediately, he squinted as he took in the scene before him.
++++++
[Warning 18+ Material, It contains explicit sex scene]
A mess was an understatement.
The hall had transformed into a sweltering, hedonistic orgy, a place where faith had been stripped away, replaced by raw, unrestrained desire.
The thousand priests were still inside, but none of them were praying. Instead, they were moaning, panting, writhing in waves of lust.
Some were paired, moving in sync, bodies pressing together in fevered rhythm. Others had formed groups, their limbs intertwined in tangled pleasure, mouths exploring, hands grasping, hips grinding.
The long dining tables, once adorned with pristine white cloths, candles, and sacred dishes, had been repurposed into altars of flesh. Plates, goblets, and silverware had been shoved aside to make room for thrusting bodies, legs splayed, backs arching as pleasure overtook restraint.
The air was thick with the sound of wet, rhythmic slaps, muffled grunts, and high-pitched cries. Some had collapsed onto chairs, their heads thrown back in ecstatic surrender. Others were on the floor, bodies slick with sweat, indulging in acts of pure carnality.
Against the walls, some stood pressed together, gasping as they were taken from behind, fingers digging into stone pillars for support.
Some swallowed eagerly, moaning as their mouths were filled, while their own bodies were being penetrated in relentless rhythm.
"You're a devil, Viper," Deathstalker murmured, his voice edged with amusement.
The young woman on the other end of the line laughed, low and sultry.
"Turns out I'm a damn good chef," Russell's Viper purred. "No one refused my special soup."
Deathstalker chuckled, stepping forward.
He locked the door behind him before raising his camera, its lens capturing the writhing sea of bodies.
None of them noticed him.
They were too lost in their own pleasure, too consumed by their insatiable hunger.
Some of them had denied themselves for years—decades, even. For some, this was their first taste of unfiltered desire.
Deathstalker's lens lingered.
His gaze fell upon the middle-aged priest he had spoken to earlier.
The man was laid out across the table, face down, his fingers clutching the edges as his body trembled.
His gaze met the camera, but his eyes were wild, dark with unchecked lust.
His moans came in broken gasps as he was taken from behind, his body shuddering under the relentless thrusts.
"Oh… God… yes… fuck me harder! Yes, Lord! Harder… yes… harder!!"
The priest behind him grunted, fingers digging into his hips as he slammed forward, bodies colliding in rhythmic wet slaps.
Deathstalker smirked.
"It's time to head to the meditation room," the King's voice crackled in his earpiece.
With one last glance at the debauched display, Deathstalker turned and moved through the sea of writhing bodies.
He stepped over moaning forms, careful not to disturb the fevered motions beneath him.
At the far end of the room, he pushed open the heavy wooden door and stepped into the dimly lit corridor.
He turned right, walked a few paces, then reached the third door on the left.
The moment he opened it, he stopped cold.
The scene inside was just as depraved—if not worse.
The elder priests and the new head- that were suppose to meditate, were having sex to each other and.. few altar boys.
A priest was sucking another priest's dick, while his dick was thrusting an altar boy and his anus was thrusted by another altar boy.
The room was a lot smaller than the hall, so the sex scent wad barely bearable.
Deathstalker walked toward Priest Maurotio who was pumping an underage altar boy. The altar boy was laid on the desk. His eyes were all white and he moaned and moaned in a pure ecstasy, "Ooh.. aah.. yes, padre.. yes.. ooh.. ooh.. padre.. padre.."
Deathstalker pulled a syringe from a small pocket strapped to his waist. Without hesitation, he gripped Priest Maurotio's arm and plunged the needle into his vein, injecting a dose of morphine.
Morphine—a temporary antidote to the powerful aphrodisiac coursing through his system.
Yes, these priests—just like the ones in the main hall—had been turned into mindless beasts, all because of that chemical.
The aphrodisiac in the hall had been mixed into their food. But for these priests, it had been refined to its purest form.
Extracted from Yellow Tongkat Ali, it had been distilled into a potent aphrodisiac oil, then brushed onto the surface of the candles in the meditation chamber. The oil was so potent that it took only a single drop per candle to create this depraved scene.
Deathstalker grabbed a chair and sat down, waiting.
Two minutes later, Maurotio stirred.
His eyes fluttered, the fog of lust beginning to clear.
Deathstalker smirked. "Bentornato, padre. (Welcome back, Father.)"
Maurotio blinked in bewilderment. Then he looked around.
His breath caught in his throat.
A scream ripped from his lips.
"Lord God, have mercy!!" he gasped, stumbling backward, snatching up his discarded robe and clutching it to his naked body.
Deathstalker laughed darkly.
"God… Priest Andrez! Wake up!!" Maurotio shouted, shaking the priest beside him—who was still thrusting mindlessly into another body.
Deathstalker sighed. "Don't waste your time, Father… they can't hear you."
Maurotio turned on him, eyes burning with fury.
The altar boy he had been with moments ago was still groping at him, desperate for more.
Disgust twisted Maurotio's features, and he shoved the boy away.
"What do you want?" he spat.
"You have ten minutes to sober up, so I'll make this quick," Deathstalker said, leaning back in his chair.
"The organization wants you to step down as Head Priest."
Maurotio's face twisted in rage.
"What?! You're insane!!" he bellowed. Again, the altar boy reached for him, and again, he shoved him aside with revulsion.
"I'm not," Deathstalker replied coolly, lifting the camera in his hand. "But this is."
He tossed the device toward Maurotio.
The priest caught it instinctively, his fingers fumbling over the buttons as Deathstalker helped him play the footage.
Maurotio watched.
His face drained of color.
His breath hitched.
His fingers clenched around the camera.
"You… bastard!!" he roared.
In a fit of rage, he hurled the camera at Deathstalker, then lunged.
Deathstalker sidestepped with ease, catching Maurotio's wrist in a vice grip. With a sharp twist, he spun the priest's body and drove his knee into his spine.
Maurotio crashed into a cupboard, sending sacred relics clattering to the floor.
Deathstalker straightened. "We've already saved the footage to our servers. If you refuse to step down, this will go public.
"That scene—every second of it, including you fucking your own congregation— will be broadcast worldwide."
Maurotio gritted his teeth.
"Bullshit!!"
"You think we can't do it?" Deathstalker asked, tilting his head. "You think we **don't have the power, when we so easily made you do it in the first place?"
Maurotio stilled.
For a long moment, he was silent.
Then, with lightning speed, he snatched a knife from his robe and hurled it.
"Over my dead body!!"
Deathstalker caught it mid-air.
But another knife followed.
Then another.
He dodged one, caught the second, evaded the third.
Deathstalker smirked. "I'll gladly oblige."
In a blur, he lunged.
He landed right in front of the priest, the blade aimed for Maurotio's throat.
But just as the knife was about to slice into flesh—
Something slammed into him from the side.
The altar boy.
The attack was animalistic, primal—driven by blind rage.
The boy thought Deathstalker was stealing his mate.
He lashed out, nails raking down Deathstalker's face, leaving behind deep, searing scratches.
Deathstalker growled, shoving him away.
The boy flew backward, crashing into Maurotio's body.
Then Deathstalker froze.
Something felt wrong.
A chill ran through him.
His mask—
His mask was gone.
"Shit," he hissed.
Without hesitation, he whipped around and, in one swift motion, slit Maurotio's throat.
The priest gurgled, blood spilling down his robe as he collapsed.
Before the altar boy could react, Deathstalker struck him hard, knocking him unconscious.
In one fluid motion, he snatched his mask from the boy's limp grip, secured it back over his face, and vanished into the darkness.
++++++
The door of the penthouse swung open, revealing Deathstalker's figure.
"You really had to take the alternative route, huh?!" The King remarked.
Deathstalker shrugged. "He insisted," he said nonchalantly as he stepped inside.
The King chuckled. "Alright, then. I'll inform Madam to proceed with Plan B. But—mission accomplished. Good job." She flashed Deathstalker a small smile.
Viper approached him, her brows furrowed in concern. "Are you okay? You're sweating."
"I'm fine," Deathstalker replied, deliberately widening his stride to avoid her. "I need to take a bath," he added before disappearing into the bathroom.
Two hours later.
"Who's in the bathroom?" Fire asked, glancing around, his voice laced with agitation.
"Death," Bruno answered indifferently.
"Really? He's still in there?" Fire frowned.
Viper's eyes narrowed. Without another word, she quickly walked toward the bathroom. "Death… are you there? Are you okay?"
Silence.
Her heart clenched.
"Bruno, Fire—help me open this door!" she called urgently.
Without Gila, none of them had the strength to break it down.
"Wait, I'll blow the lock," Bruno said. He reached into his bag and pulled out a small, compact device.
He stuck it to the doorknob.
"Step back, everyone!"
Boom!
The small explosion blew a five-inch hole around the knob—no smoke, no unnecessary damage. Bruno swiftly reached inside, unlocking the door.
As soon as it swung open, Viper rushed in.
"Quint! Quint, wake up!" she cried, grabbing Deathstalker's shoulders and shaking him.
He didn't respond.
His eyes were closed, his lips trembling. His skin was burning.
"He has a fever. Help me get him out of the tub," Viper instructed.
Bruno and Fire moved quickly, lifting Deathstalker's limp body out of the water. They wrapped him in a bathrobe and carried him to his bedroom.
"What's wrong?" The King asked as she entered, fresh from her call with Madam.
"He was exposed to an aphrodisiac," Viper hissed.
"What? How—"
"I don't know," Viper said, her frustration evident. "But he has a fever now, and I saw… uhm…" She hesitated, her face reddening. "I saw his erection."
The King sighed. "You can counter it with morphine, right?"
"I can, but I have no idea how much he's been exposed to. I don't know the exact dosage he'd need," Viper admitted. "If I give him too much, it could have serious side effects."
"But we can't just leave him like this…" The King bit her lip.
"Aphrodisiac effects last around twenty-four hours," Viper said.
"So we just lock him inside his room, let him sleep it off, and by tomorrow, he'll be fine, right?"
"The effects will wear off, yes," Viper confirmed, then sighed. "But he'll be in unbearable pain for twenty-four hours."
The room fell silent.
The King shivered. "We don't have any other option. And I—I am not about to offer myself up to satisfy him. At this stage, who knows what he's capable of doing?"
She turned to Viper. "Do you?"
Viper's cheeks burned. "N… No, I don't want to either," she stammered.
"Alright, then," the King said firmly. "Fire, lock the door."
Without hesitation, Fire secured the room, sealing Deathstalker inside.
@@@@@ AUTHOR'S NOTE @@@@@
The events in this chapter are purely fictional. While certain elements may seem similar to real-world religions, this story does not represent or refer to any actual faith.
Just wanted to clarify! :)
If you enjoyed this chapter, please Vote with a Power Stone!