As dawn hovered on the horizon, Truman stirred, his bleary eyes opening.
His hand still clutched Elaviel's breast, his half-soft cock nestled in her angelic pussy, making a soft pop as he withdrew.
Rubbing his aching back, he crawled out of bed. The angel's allure was unimaginable, surpassing all prior romps. Even as Elaviel begged for mercy in the latter half of the night, he'd kept ravaging her relentlessly.
Truly depraved.
Elaviel lay exhausted, sprawled on the bed, her breathing steady. Her discarded robe, stained with cum and slick, was a filthy mess. Her pale body was cocooned in her wings, like a flawless diamond.
Her inner thighs were scrawled with tally marks, her plump rear branded with oil-pen graffiti: "Master's Exclusive Fleshlight," "Slutty Angel Fucktoy." The stark words on her creamy skin screamed of the night's ferocity and endurance.
Oddly, a mythical being's stamina had faltered against a mortal's. Truman half-joked to himself that he must have a knack for fantasy creatures, his sexual prowess maxed out, capable of screwing even gods in bed.
It made sense. She was a wounded mythical being, her rank unstable, while he was a peak ninth-stage mortal, honed over twenty years, his foundation unshakable. Crossing realms to conquer her wasn't impossible!
He indulged in gallows humor but soon faced grim reality.
"Ugh, waiting for death sucks."
Elaviel likely wouldn't wake soon, but he had no urge to flee. Partly, he didn't want to evade his fate; partly, escape was futile. How could a mortal outrun a mythical being?
Controlling her further via the master-servant contract was a pipe dream. Binding a mythical being for one night under extreme conditions was already a miracle.
To survive, he had two shots: either Elaviel's lust curse persisted, keeping her in last night's state, or he could find a reason compelling enough to stay her wrath.
Yes, he still believed she was reasonable—an unscientific notion after defiling her, but he clung to it. If he could justify his survival, she might suppress her fury and spare him.
Yet, after racking his brain for ages, he came up empty. Despair loomed.
"Master, you're amazing! You even conquered that angel!"
Just as he resigned himself, a voice chirped in his ear.
It was Sylvia, newly awake, her starry eyes brimming with awe.
She'd witnessed her master subdue a mythical being. When Truman first blasphemed Elaviel, Sylvia had trembled, certain her short life—and her joyous times with him—were over.
This was a mythical being, capable of slaying millions in a rage! Yet her master had dominated her, making her moan beneath him. Unthinkable!
She'd spent the first half of the night in shock, the latter lulled to sleep by Elaviel's seductive moans, dreaming of serving her master alongside the angel in lascivious harmony.
"Of course. I'm your master, Sylvia. Doing the impossible's just another day."
Truman fondly ruffled Sylvia's hair, making her cheeks flush.
"Also, Master, you're so strong! That angel's holy fire didn't even scratch you. I thought you were toast…" Sylvia gushed.
Truman chuckled dismissively. "That's 'cause Elaviel was bound by the master-servant contract… Wait."
Hold on. Something clicked. That shouldn't be right.
The contract didn't prevent a servant from harming the master; commands had to be actively given. He'd only ordered her not to move, yet she could've attacked otherwise.
Her holy fire had flared, but why was he unscathed?
Truman's mind raced back to his early days in this world. Freshly transmigrated, he'd hoped to be a prodigy, a pride to transmigrators everywhere. Yet he flunked every major organization's aptitude tests, showing zero affinity for alchemy or magic.
That was rarer than perfect affinity—only a true "ordinary" person could achieve it. But in this world, who was truly ordinary?
During the Demon Suppression Division's thunder technique test, he'd excelled in resilience, shrugging off lightning bolts that should've fried him. The old Taoists thought they'd found a gem, only to be baffled by his nonexistent spiritual roots.
He'd brushed it off as a transmigration quirk, but last night's events made him question everything.
Could it be…? No time to waver. "Sylvia, try hitting my hand with magic."
"Okay, Master."
Sylvia didn't hesitate, casting a simple spell she knew.
Half an hour later, Truman slumped to the floor, soul-drained, eyes wide with shock and existential doubt.
You're telling me my newbie gift pack was locked because I was too much of a slacker? This far into the story?!
His ashen heart reignited with a thirst for life. He'd never felt so grateful for a shot at survival.
"Whew, better late than never. I might just make it…" he reassured himself. It wasn't too late. His fate now hinged on luck.
...
A surreal dream gripped Elaviel. She ascended to paradise, then plummeted to hell. Radiant light poured from a towering holy city, where countless prayed for her return. But a black figure crashed in, flames erupting. Golden palaces and floating cathedrals shattered, ancient murals crumbled in dark fire, Senia's mocking laughter echoing.
Elaviel fought to intervene, but it dissolved like a mirage, leaving only Truman's leering, depraved face…
"Ngh…"
Near noon, Elaviel stirred from slumber. Mythical beings didn't need sleep, but her rank was slipping, her existence fraying. And last night…
"Last night, with that mortal!"
A bolt of clarity struck her from the fog.
She turned to her pristine body, every inch of creamy skin tainted by that sinful man's scent, her lower half marked by his traces.
"It was real? What have I done?"
She longed for it to be a dream, those impure acts undone. But the lascivious memories were undeniable. She'd been a stranger in her own body, a passive witness.
Panic and shame gave way to boundless fury—her judge's majesty. Her eyes snapped open, the entire apartment building quaking.
With effort, she cleansed the traces of their coupling, restoring her holy facade. But she knew some things were lost forever.
Her mind sought the man who enraged her. At that moment, he stepped into the room.
"Your Highness, you're awake? Shall I fetch you some food?"
Truman's smile mirrored last night's, paired with his feigned reverence. It yanked her back to the depravity, fury flaring.
"Truman, in your final moments, I'll hear your last words on the Lord's behalf."
Elaviel donned her robe, golden hair floating, an invisible pressure radiating. Sylvia trembled in another room, but Truman stood unfazed.
A flawed descent…
An incomplete form, teetering on collapse…
Unable to return to the holy city or vanquish demons…
Her body defiled, blasphemed, betraying the Lord's teachings…
All because of this man, more shameless than any devil!
Elaviel's exquisite face twisted with rage. She never imagined she'd hate a mortal—a speck of dust in her eyes!
She had no doubt she'd sentence this human to the ultimate penalty for blasphemy.
He'd be cast into roiling thunderclouds, his body and soul reduced to ash, scattered to the earth—a symbol of eternal damnation. A punishment cruel even for demons, now reserved for a mortal.
Listening to his final words was merely procedural. Resistance or pleas would meet merciless execution.
Yet Truman took an unexpected path, saying something she hadn't anticipated.
"Your Highness, do you wish to return triumphantly to the holy city, yet find yourself trapped here?"
Elaviel paused, caught off guard. She hadn't expected this lecher to care about such matters on the brink of death. Still reeling from last night's ecstasy, with the curse of sin stirring within, her mind was foggy, unable to discern his intent.
"What of it? It's none of your concern, blasphemer."
She lowered her eyelids, veiling her dim amber eyes. Killing this mortal wouldn't change her fate. With Eden collapsed, she'd soon fade into nothingness, forever silenced.
Her cursed state made rebuilding Eden impossible.
The thought of decades of the Church's efforts ruined pained her deeply.