"Now, Seraphine… we conquer."
Those words echoed through the vast obsidian throne room as Auron Valarion rose from his throne, one hand still wrapped in Seraphine's silken golden hair. The archangel knelt naked at his feet, wings tattered and spread wide behind her, eyes gleaming with an unnatural mixture of devotion, fear, and arousal. The Slave Crest that pulsed above her womb glowed with divine light corrupted by dark magic — a symbol of her fall, and Auron's rise.
"Where do we begin, Master?" Seraphine asked, voice trembling, still flushed from the hours of ecstasy that had claimed her soul.
Auron stepped forward, his crimson cloak billowing behind him, eyes fixed on the massive crystal map projected before his throne.
"The southern pits," he said. "The Blackfang Arena. There's a half-demon bitch there causing trouble — undefeated, brutal, famous. We'll tame her next."
The journey to Blackfang was swift. With his teleportation gates and command over infernal steeds, Auron arrived within hours, with Seraphine at his side, clad now in black leathers and her wings wrapped like a cape.
The arena was a pit of violence, lust, and death — and it welcomed him like a god.
"She calls herself Azhara the Red Fang," Seraphine whispered as they stood at the overlook. "She's half-demon, born in blood, bred for war. She kills everyone they put in front of her."
"She'll kneel," Auron said simply.
He walked into the arena without invitation. The crowd jeered, until the sigils on his armor flared — ancient, forbidden symbols of dominion. The guards dropped their weapons. The high priest who ran the games bowed. And soon, the only thing standing between Auron and total control was Azhara herself.
In the Arena…
Azhara stood tall, muscles gleaming, long black hair tied back in a warrior's knot, crimson tattoos coiling around her thighs and arms. She eyed Auron like a predator.
"You don't belong here, outsider."
"I belong everywhere," Auron replied. "Especially between the legs of those who think they can resist me."
She snarled and charged.
The fight lasted mere seconds.
Auron didn't draw a blade. He caught her by the throat mid-air, slammed her to the ground, and activated the Slave Crest ritual.
"Name," he growled.
"Azhara," she hissed.
"Wrong. Your name is mine."
And with a flash of red lightning, the crest branded her womb. She screamed, not from pain — but from the overwhelming force of submission.
System Activation: Obedience Protocol – Target: Azhara Resistance: 73%.
Lust: 48%.
Status: Crest Embedded.
Later, in the Dungeon Below the Arena…
The stone walls were wet with heat and magic. Auron stood before her, chains binding Azhara's limbs in an arcane suspension. She hung in the air, body twitching, still fighting the pleasure that threatened to consume her.
"Still think you're in control?" he asked, running his fingers down her muscular abdomen, teasing the edges of the glowing crest.
"I'll… rip your cock off…" she hissed.
He grinned. "That's cute."
And then he showed her what true power felt like.
Hours Later…
Azhara lay on the bed of black silk in his private chamber, her once-defiant eyes now hazy and full of lust. Her body bore the marks of dominance — red from his grip, wet from her own surrender.
She moaned softly, crawling across the bed to press her lips to his hand.
"Do I please you now, Master Auron?"
"You do."
System Update: Companion Azhara – Fully Subjugated New Traits Gained:
"Demonic Endurance (Sexual)"
"Berserker's Submission (Combat bonus when controlled)"
He turned his gaze to the guards standing at the door.
"Bring in the next ones."
Three more women were dragged forward — gifts from the arena's overseer. And Auron smiled as he looked upon them.
"The world bends," he said. "One bitch at a time."