The village of Hollow Petal no longer resembled the place it once was. Where there had been prayers, there were now moans. Where there had been scripture, now verses were written in sweat and whispered through lips kissed by sin.
At its center stood the new Temple of Flesh and Flame.
Constructed from the bones of shattered idols and the stone of the old altar, it rose like a twisted bloom—blackened spires etched with runes of desire and domination. A great brazier burned at its peak, lit not by firewood but by Lucien's Qi, eternal and devouring.
Within, dozens of acolytes knelt in endless worship. Some wept from joy. Others moaned in ecstasy.
All bore his brand.
Lucien sat atop a throne sculpted from petrified wood and blood-colored silk. Talia knelt by his side, naked save for the necklace of holy teeth—trophies from priests who had tried to stop the spread.
He raised a hand.
The doors of the temple opened.
A line of new initiates filed in, eyes wide, trembling. Most were virgins. All were eager.
One by one, they approached the altar, disrobed, and pledged themselves.
Lucien did not take them all.
He chose.
The ones with fire. The ones with fear. The ones whose hearts quivered with both disgust and desire.
He whispered to each.
"Do you want to be cleansed?"
"Yes, my lord."
"Then give me your shame."
And they did.
The Rite of Furnace Blessing was no gentle ceremony.
He took them on the altar, in front of all.
Every thrust drove their moans louder, their fears lower, and their belief higher. He poured Qi into their wombs, their souls, their minds—searing away the old gods one climax at a time.
The crowd joined in. Some worshipped by touching themselves. Others by offering their partners, crying out for his gaze.
When a woman came beneath him, it wasn't just flesh—it was conversion.
She would rise different.
Eyes glowing.
Lips chanting only one name.
Lucien.
Talia often joined the rites. She would ride him before the congregation, her body the chalice from which all faith flowed. Her screams of ecstasy were prayers. Her sweat, sacrament.
Lucien grew stronger with every worshipper.
But this was not lust.
It was dominion.
He was building an army—not of swords, but of bound souls. Every blessed initiate became a vessel of his Qi, capable of spreading his influence, of drawing power from across the realms.
In the heavens, old gods screamed.
A temple of song had gone silent.
A shrine of purity now moaned filth.
They looked down—and saw not a man, but a deity of blasphemy feeding on faith and flesh.
But they did not descend.
They were afraid.
Lucien smiled in his temple of screams.
The Furnace God had been born.
And he was still hungry.