Cherreads

[BL] The Epic of Aerax 18+

MILF_H
7
chs / week
The average realized release rate over the past 30 days is 7 chs / week.
--
NOT RATINGS
463
Views
Synopsis
This is the tale of Aerax — an anthro stallion born into slavery, who becomes entangled in an ancient prophecy foretelling the rise of a new god. On the run from his captors, Aerax is thrust into brutal trials where his body is pushed to its limits and desire becomes a test of spirit. Each step forward is a battle, each companion he gathers — seductive, loyal, and hiding secrets of their own. Together, they journey toward the ultimate goal: the Moving Temple — a mythical sanctuary that appears only under the blood moon once every thousand years. There, Aerax will face his true destiny… and perhaps ascend as a god born from flesh, lust, and ancient power.
VIEW MORE

Chapter 1 - Chapter 1: Stone Arena

The hot wind from the desert swept across the city of Thermyros, licking the white stone walls of the ancient arena. Every day, the sun beat down directly onto the sand and blood, where creatures with human bodies and beast heads were pushed together, screaming, biting, tearing, bleeding, and dying—all for the pleasure of the nobles.

Aerax stood at the edge of the iron cage, his thin body nothing but skin stretched over bones. Dark brown fur ran from his horse's head down his body, soaked with sweat and dust. His dull black eyes no longer reflected life, but a lingering emptiness—just like his existence.

No one remembered where he came from. Only that many years ago, a merchant from the north brought Aerax, then just a young foal with smooth fur, to the arena gates and sold him cheaply: three jars of perfume and a string of dried sausages.

"A pretty useless thing," the merchant said with a dry laugh. "Can't fight, can't bite, only knows how to run and tremble."

Since that day, Aerax lived like an object. He no longer had a name but was only called "The Sixth Horse." The trainer—a massive bull named Gravos—beat him mercilessly because he refused to attack other slaves during the first training session. The steel whip left deep dark red cuts on his back, but more painful was the scornful gaze of the fellow slaves around him.

They, the slave warriors, though chained, still carried the burning desire to fight. They shouted, pounded their chests, stood shoulder to shoulder in deadly battles. Aerax did not. He curled into a corner of the stall, neither neighing nor breathing heavily, just staring up at the sky—the highest place, where no one from the depths of this society could reach.

Once, he was almost raped by three hyenas. They mocked his large black equine member like a joke, calling him "The Half-Breed Mare" for not daring to use his god-given weapons to punish others. They dragged him to the bathing floor, forcing him to kneel. If Gravos hadn't passed by, Aerax would have been raped.

Gravos didn't save him out of kindness. He just shouted, broke the bones of the three attackers, then kicked Aerax in the stomach: "No one breaks my stuff unless I allow it."

Aerax learned that: he was not a person, he was property. A piece of living meat waiting to be thrown into the arena when the crowd demanded.

And then came that day.

One scorching noon. The arena gates opened, and Aerax was dragged out, handcuffed and shackled, wearing only a small loincloth that barely covered what everyone was staring at. In the stands, the cheers thundered like a storm. They didn't call his name. They called him by number: "Six! Six! The Sixth Horse!"

His opponent was a three-meter-tall anthro forest bear, wielding a stone hammer. Aerax had nothing but a rotten wooden shield. No one expected him to survive. Even the commentator joked, "Another meal for the vultures."

Blood splattered. Bones cracked. Aerax screamed—not from pain, but because he felt… utterly empty. It wasn't death he feared. It was the death of one who had never truly lived.

He stood up after the first blow. Jaw broken. Ribs shattered. He still stood. He lifted his head, looking up—higher than the arena, where the light was so bright he had to squint. In that moment, the crowd fell silent. Not because he fought back. But because of that gaze—a look that did not belong to the depths.

He was knocked down, of course. But he didn't crawl. He fell, blood dripping from his mouth, and still smiled.

That night, he was left in the sterilization room, a damp place filled with the smell of disinfectant and feces. No one came to tend to him. But he was still breathing. A soldier threw him half a moldy bun and said, "You're not dead yet?"

Aerax ate like a wild beast. Blood dripped from his mouth onto the crumbs. And in the darkness, for the first time, he spoke true words:

"I will not die here."

Not a plea for mercy. But a vow.

Outside, the roar of battle still echoed. The arena went on. Blood kept flowing. But in that rotten corner, a very small flame was lit.