The throne room of the God-King was reborn that night—not as a place of judgment, but as a cathedral of dominance and submission.
Gone were the fractured pillars and flickering banners of code. In their place: silk-draped obsidian spires, molten runes pulsing like veins across the floor, and a scent in the air thick with blood-oil and divine lust.
Darius stood alone in the center of the sanctum, shirtless, his chest etched with void-sigils and marks of divine conquest. His power no longer simply radiated—it commanded. With every breath, the room trembled, as though reality itself held its tongue in reverence.
The feast had begun.
Celestia entered first.
