Salvation of the Fallen - Chapter 34
“Uh, ha, uhang.”
“Say it. Arsena. Hurry. Say that you’re mine!”
Tarta sank his white teeth into Arsena’s delicate shoulder as if to tear off the flesh, leaving his mark like a brand. Arsena writhed greatly at the chilling sensation. But even with her lips hazily parted, Arsena only moaned. Like a beast unable to speak.
“F**k.”
Arsena shuddered along with the lewd splashing sounds. Before the bursting heat could be resolved, Tarta, grasping Arsena’s chest, shook greatly. The thick rod ceaselessly split and tore her flesh, pouring out viscous white fl*id. The thick l*quid that endlessly gushed out filled her womb.
Tarta didn’t stop. Using his own s*men as a lubricant, he raised his hips again. Each time Tarta’s g*nitals entered and exited, foam formed at the entrance covered in white s***n. Saliva that couldn’t be swallowed in time flowed from between Arsena’s blankly parted lips. Tarta embraced Arsena as if to break her, thrusting himself in while blocking her resentful lips.
“Hnnnng.”
The blue eyes blurred with ecstasy. As if about to depart somewhere, looking at a distant place.
Tarta ultimately couldn’t hear an answer.
***
“Huu. Huu.”
At the faint breath sound, thin as a spider’s web, Tarta spurred on. His hip movements, pounding more intensely as if breathing life into a stopped heart, were desperate.
Arsena, with her skinny legs, spread wide like a puppet with cut strings, shook and shook again. Her ankles dangled like paper, and her round br*asts swayed, drawing curves.
Strong palms grasped the wildly shaking br*asts and pulled them firmly. The soft flesh dented and turned red. As if that wasn’t enough, Tarta buried his red lips in Arsena’s nape. Thus, overlaying red marks on the corpse-like pale n*ked body, Tarta poured himself out.
“Haa….”
But even after the long, long ej*culation, Arsena no longer cried out. She merely trembled, looking at something beyond Tarta’s shoulder with soulless eyes. The minute trembling was not caused by Tarta.
Tarta began thrusting again without even pulling out. If he didn’t, it was clear that the entrance would dry up completely. He couldn’t miss this w*t moment, filled to the brim with his own.
Even Tarta couldn’t be sure how many days it had been. Since he had crammed himself into this narrow place.
He thought it would be fine if he could just have the broken body. He constantly thought that the soul didn’t matter. But he couldn’t let go for even a moment, fearing it might disappear. Arsena’s inner walls, tightly gripping his center, were his only and miserable solace.
“Ha…. F**k.”
Feeling the increasingly drying inner walls, Tarta urgently sought and rubbed Arsena’s cl*toris. Even when he pressed and rubbed it, coating it thickly with the white fluid seeping from their narrow junction, the area that had swollen like a balloon to tempt him only turned red hot.
“No. Ple, please.”
The faint voice of refusal heard occasionally was directed at a distant illusion.
Even the denial wasn’t his. Though he held Arsena, there was nothing for him. What he was holding was just a shell; Arsena wasn’t here. Tarta had miserably lost.
Tarta spread his madness-tainted wings and disappeared into the darkness.
***
A night that would never end, swallowed by darkness. Arsena, waking in the pitch-black darkness, knew the owner of the shadow.
“…Tarta.”
There was a familiar scent. That tingling fragrance that seduced her. Beyond Arsena’s gaze, as she opened her eyes with difficulty, Tarta’s breath was intensely exhaled from the darkness beyond, without even a torch.
“Arsena.”
The air changed in an instant. Arsena instinctively felt it. That something had changed. Not just the chilly air like a midwinter north wind and the swirling scent of death. Arsena’s entire body trembled.
Rumble, crash-.
Tarta, revealing himself with lightning that seemed to blind, shattering in the air, was smiling. Wrapping cloth soaked in thick blood color around his firm body, he was smiling, cruelly twisting the corners of his mouth.
“It’s all over.”
Creak. Creak.
Tarta’s wings, stained black with dried blood, moved strangely. As if broken somewhere. Or as if laughing alone.
“Now I am your god.”
As the red eyes tainted with madness whispered softly, goosebumps rose from toes to scalp. Tarta, facing the greatly dilated pupils of blue eyes in the darkness, grasped a handful of Arsena’s black hair and kissed her.
“He’s dead. The one you called god. I killed him. So now you’re mine. Completely. No one can take you away.”
Tarta, saying this, seemed genuinely pleased. Stretching his mouth into a long grin to his chin, he forcefully twisted Arsena’s hair upwards.
“You are mine.”
Words repeated endlessly like an incantation. At the desperate plea filled with madness, Arsena’s blue eyes widened.
The god had died. It meant the birth of a new god. Tarta before her had become the new god of this world. The sword of the god once fallen and erased from records had become the new ruler. All for one woman. All for me. Arsena shuddered once again.
Revere.
Soon the scripture will be rewritten. Under Tarta’s hand, devoid of mercy. Endless terror and destruction. The world will scream forever, stained in darkness. Everyone is miserable. Disgustingly fair.
“Thank you. For saving me.”
Arsena cupped Tarta’s face with her thin hands, caressing it. The trembling had stopped without notice.
“I am yours.”
Tarta, finally obtaining the answer he wanted, embraced Arsena as if to break her.
And you are mine too.
Arsena, nestled in Tarta’s arms, twisted her hidden lips into a smile. At last, the dream everyone had mocked had come true. Celebrating alone becoming the ruler of the new god, Arsena smiled like that.
Darkness shall swallow the light. Darkness shall rule the world.
The first page of the new scripture was being written.
Main Story END
Extra. Lucy’s Misfortune
The noble god’s wh*re. Her name was Lucy. Raised in an orphanage since her unremembered childhood, Lucy was an offering to the temple. Thus, when she was dragged by the high priest to the barren land, she didn’t resist. Everything was the will of god.
People offered Lucy to build a new temple. When nobles visited for sponsorship, Lucy would undress and sway her hips. For more donations. To grasp more weaknesses. Lucy was a sacrifice offered for the revival of god.
Lucy was satisfied with her life. It was different from the boring life at the orphanage. Unlike her past squalid days, she wore luxurious clothes daily and adorned unimaginably precious things. Her innate beauty and figure were gifts from god. For this very life.
Lucy was very capable. The rapidly acc*mulating donations and nobles volunteering as sponsors with greedy expressions were proof.
It was none other than Lucy who built a town where there was nothing. She was the creator and ruler. Sprouts grew at her touch, and flowers bloomed at her smile. As she moaned ecstatically and swayed her hips, gold coins showered like starlight. Even arrogant nobles bowed their heads before her, desperate to burrow between her legs. Lucy trembled at that abundant joy. Unaware of her fate to soon burn white-hot into ashes.
That day, she was in an exceptionally good mood. It was a man with blue eyes. The man who trembled saying he had a pregnant wife, that this wasn’t right, swallowed hard when Lucy revealed her voluptuous b*****s. After gulping down contraceptive tea repeatedly and endlessly confirming there would be no side effects, the man downed a whole bottle of Felita prepared by the temple. And then he fainted on the spot.
Stupid bastard.
