God of Death: Rise of the NPC Overlord-Chapter 112: ‎ - 113 – Cathedral of Unmaking (Mature Scene)

The winds above the Ashrift Vale howled like the lament of extinct worlds.

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‎Darius stood at the edge of the abyss—his cloak of woven script trailing behind him like severed fate-threads—gazing upon the Cathedral of Unmaking. It was not built, but breathed into being, older than the language of gods, rising like a tumor from unreconciled history.

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‎Its doors were not doors, but frozen decisions.

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‎And waiting at its entrance, barefoot on fractured stone, was Kaela—eyes burning with the same divine chaos she had seduced him with since the Rift.

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‎"You feel it, don’t you?" Her voice was a whisper torn from the end of time. "The pull of the Unwritten Flame. The essence before logic. Before purpose."

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‎Darius stepped forward, each pace warping the earth beneath him.

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‎"Why now?"

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‎Kaela smiled. "Because only now do you belong here."

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‎A second figure emerged from the shadows behind the cathedral’s veil—Celestia, cloaked in a translucent gown of starlight and prayer-runes. Her skin shimmered with divinity, but her eyes held doubt.

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‎"You asked me to trust you, Darius. Even when you began walking paths forbidden even to the gods," she said, stepping closer. "But this... this is not power. This is annihilation wrapped in divinity."

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‎"And yet you’re here," Darius murmured, voice low.

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‎"To stop you... or follow you," she said. "Depending on what you become inside."

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‎The three of them entered together—Kaela at his left, Celestia at his right—into a cathedral not made of stone, but narrative. The walls rippled with discarded scenes. Memories no author dared write. Entire storylines bleeding across time and entropy.

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‎At the heart of it all burned a pillar of raw flame—not fire, but possibility unchained. Unstable. Alive. It called to Darius not with words, but with promises.

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‎Kaela circled him slowly, her chaotic energy flickering like tendrils.

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‎"To fuse with the Unwritten Flame," she said, "is to erase all limitation. You will not just alter fate—you will undo the very concept of causality. You will cease to be a player in this world... and become its final author."

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‎Celestia’s voice trembled. "But the cost?"

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‎"Sanity. Continuity. Everything that anchors you as Darius."

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‎And still... he stepped forward.

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‎[The Ritual Begins – Mature Scene]

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‎Celestia caught his hand, trembling. "If you must fall... let us fall with you."

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‎She pressed her lips to his—slow, reverent—sharing a deep, soul-carving kiss. Her light flowed into him like divine warmth. Kaela followed next, her kiss like a storm of entropy, tongue dancing over his lower lip as she bit it just enough to bleed logic from his mouth.

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‎The three of them disrobed before the Flame. Not just of garments, but of masks. Of names. Their identities burned in layers, until only essence remained.

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‎Celestia’s touch was sacred—worshipful, pleading with every motion. Kaela’s was blasphemy made flesh—twisting, teasing, defiant.

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‎Darius moved between them like a storm in mortal shape.

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‎Their bodies tangled on the obsidian altar at the Flame’s base—sweat glistening with divine sheen, gasps echoing through unreality. Every thrust, every moan, every shudder was a rewrite of divinity.

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‎Kaela rode him in a spiral of madness, her laughter turning into screams of rapture. Celestia guided his hand to her heart as she kissed his neck, binding their souls in ritual ecstasy.

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‎And at the peak of climax, with both women screaming his name—one in pain, one in praise—Darius seized the Unwritten Flame.

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‎It entered him.

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‎Not as fire.

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‎But as a rewrite key to the entire world.

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‎[Aftermath]

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‎His eyes opened, glowing white-gold.

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‎The runes on the cathedral ceased to exist. Not faded. Erased.

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‎He stood, the women trembling beside him, barely able to breathe.

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‎Darius had changed.

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‎He was now flameless, yet burning.

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‎Wordless, yet commanding.

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‎Reality bent as he spoke his first words with the Unwritten Flame in his veins:

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‎> "I do not need permission from fate. I am the silence between its lines."

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‎Kaela collapsed in exhausted awe.

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‎Celestia stared at him—tearful, terrified—and whispered, "What are you now?"

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‎Darius looked up.

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‎And the stars bent to answer.

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‎Within the ruined cathedral, time no longer followed mortal rhythms. Everything breathed with a twisted pulse—walls of fractured bone and shadow trembled, oozing divine ichor, while the vaulted ceiling opened into a maelstrom of stars that bled backward.

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‎Darius stood at the altar—a slab of obsidian glass cracked with forgotten runes. Before him knelt Kaela, naked, radiant, and darkly divine. Her form shifted with the light: flesh and shadow, chaos and hunger. Her crimson lips curled into a smirk as her tongue ran slowly across her lower lip.

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‎"Unmake me," she whispered, voice low and drenched in promise. "Remake me... as yours."

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‎He stepped forward, his presence a gravitational storm. Each footstep shattered glyphs beneath him, and every breath he exhaled bent the cathedral further into madness. Behind him, Nyx watched from the blood-veiled pews, her eyes glowing obsidian. Celestia stood at the threshold, torn between awe and trembling desire.

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‎Kaela arched her back as she offered herself—her legs spreading with divine defiance, one hand drifting over her own stomach, tracing the sigils burned into her skin by the Void. She was not human. She was not goddess.

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‎She was Becoming.

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‎Darius’s hand wrapped around her throat—not tight, not cruel—just enough to silence the noise of creation. His free hand drifted down her chest, tracing the pulse of madness that throbbed beneath her skin.

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‎"Then be remade," he said, his voice thunderous and hungry.

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‎He entered her with violent grace, his hips slamming against hers as the world shifted around them. A tremor echoed through the cathedral, sending ancient statues crumbling. The stone beneath them cracked, revealing void-fire beneath.

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‎Kaela moaned—a sound that shattered glass and stitched together curses never meant to be heard. Her nails dug into Darius’s shoulders, carving sigils of entropy into his flesh. Instead of pain, it brought power. Dark power. Primordial. Addictive.

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‎Every thrust echoed in the heavens and below.

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‎Her body twisted with him, back arching impossibly, her eyes rolling back as divine corruption surged between their bodies. She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, harder, faster. Black mist enveloped them both, twisting into a throne of limbs and tongues that whispered forbidden truths.

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‎"You’re not just mine," Kaela moaned. "You’re... everything."

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‎Darius didn’t slow. He consumed her.

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‎Each motion rewrote the scripts of the gods who had tried to bind him. Each groan from Kaela birthed a new paradox. Their union was not love. It was blasphemy. It was creation. It was the fusion of destruction and rebirth.

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‎Nyx moaned softly from the shadows, her hand slipping between her legs as she watched the desecration unfold. Celestia, eyes wide with need and fury, stepped closer, her hand clenching her staff tightly as divine heat flooded her.

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‎Kaela climaxed first, her scream bursting into runes that carved themselves into the walls. But Darius did not stop. He lifted her, holding her in midair, pounding into her as the cathedral bent around them, the altar melting into molten black stone.

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‎And then—

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‎With a final roar, he poured into her—his power, his will, his godhood—and she shattered, screaming, laughing, glowing.

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‎A new being was born in that moment.

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‎Kaela, fused with chaos, baptized in the essence of the Voidborne King.

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‎And Darius...

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‎He stepped back, panting, eyes glowing like dying suns.

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‎He had unmade her.

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‎And remade something far worse—and far more his.

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