The ashes of the sacred altar still drifted through the sky when Lucien walked into the village of Hollow Petal. Robes stolen from a fallen priest clung to his form, the halo of cracked light floating above his head like a crown of lies.
Talia followed three steps behind—naked under a thin shroud of illusion, her eyes hollow and radiant, lips constantly moving in silent prayer to him.
The people fell to their knees.
They didn't recognize him.
They worshipped him.
He took residence in the desecrated chapel at the village's center. What once was a monument to the Celestial Flame now bent to his design. Statues were turned. Scriptures inverted. Talia recited new verses each morning—verses that glorified the fire that defiled, the god who consumes, the Furnace Lord of Temptation.
Lucien sat atop the altar as villagers filed in, offering incense, flowers… and eventually, daughters.
One by one.
He never asked.
But the people offered, believing the false god they followed would protect them from pestilence and Tribunal wrath.
Lucien smiled behind his divine mask.
The first was Liri—a girl of only nineteen, trembling with piety and fear. She knelt before the altar, whispering, "Use me, my lord, if it brings salvation."
Lucien descended from his throne.
Talia watched, lips curled in a soft, knowing smile.
Lucien cupped Liri's chin, his voice velvet and heat.
"Do you believe I am divine?"
Tears welled in the girl's eyes. "I feel you in my blood."
He leaned in, lips brushing her ear. "Then let me burn away what's unworthy."
And he did.
His hands moved with reverence and hunger, peeling her innocence away layer by layer, as if she were a sacred fruit meant to be devoured. She cried, moaned, begged, and at the climax of their union, Lucien channeled a fragment of his Qi into her soul.
Her eyes rolled back.
A brand appeared across her stomach—the sigil of the Furnace Lord.
She screamed.
And was reborn.
It did not end there.
Word spread.
More pilgrims arrived. Women and men. Some seeking miracles, others redemption. Lucien gave neither. He gave truth wrapped in pleasure, damnation disguised as deliverance.
Each night, Talia joined the rituals, sometimes leading them. Her once-pure voice now moaned hymns of corruption. Her body danced beneath his hands like she'd been created only to serve his will.
Lucien built not a cult—
—but a church of inversion.
He sowed his essence into the people, the land, even the dreams of those too far to walk.
In the spirit realm, ancient gods stirred.
One whispered: "There is a voice stealing my flock."
Another answered: "He wears our face."
But none dared descend.
Because Lucien's fire had changed.
He was no longer mortal.
He was belief, hunger, and blasphemy incarnate.
And his godhood had only just begun.