Chapter 372- A Rage buried deep Within

Chapter 372: Chapter 372- A Rage buried deep Within

The voice was the same. Deep. Controlled. But carried a different weight. The weight of the original. The weight of the man who sat in the shadows and watched his duplicates work while he attended to other matters.

The scout turned.

The corner of the chamber was dark. The candles didn’t reach it. The lamps were aimed away. It was a deliberate pocket of shadow, a space carved from the light, and within it, a figure sat.

A chair. Carved stone. Draped in fur.

The master sat in it.

His body was the same as the duplicates. Broad. Muscular. The scar on the left temple. But his posture was different. The duplicates were active, moving, thrusting, performing. The original was still. His eyes were narrowed. His chin rested on his fist. His expression carried the patient, calculating focus of a man who was watching a game he had played many times and was interested in the new move.

Between his legs, a woman knelt.

She was petite. Small. Her body was slender, her breasts barely there, her nipples small and dark. Her skin was covered in tattoos. Slave marks. The intricate, geometric patterns of a binding contract, the lines running from her collarbones down her chest, across her ribs, over her belly, down her thighs. Each mark was a link in a chain that tied her to the man whose cock she was sucking.

Her neck wore a collar. Metal. Thin. Inscribed with the same geometric patterns as her tattoos. A slave collar. The kind that couldn’t be removed without the master’s direct command.

Her head moved. Slowly. Her mouth around his cock, her lips stretched around a shaft that was smaller than the duplicates’ beaded versions but still substantial. Her eyes were closed. Her tongue worked the underside with the practiced, devoted attention of a woman who had been doing this for years.

The scout’s blood went cold.

He recognized her.

Everyone in the citadel recognized her.

She was the master’s favorite. The walking enigma. The woman whose powers were whispered about in corridors and never spoken of aloud. Telepathy. Memory extraction. Image projection. The ability to reach into a person’s mind, pull out their memories, and reconstruct them as visible projections. She was the reason the citadel’s intelligence network functioned. She was the reason the master always knew everything.

She loved him.

That was the part no one understood. She was the most powerful telepath in the arena. She could crack minds like eggs. She could project images, extract secrets, manipulate thought. She was, by any objective measure, the most dangerous person in the citadel.

And she loved him.

She loved the man who had collared her, tattooed her, bound her, and used her. She loved the man whose duplicates were currently destroying a thick woman on the bed ten feet away. She loved him with the absolute, irrational, immovable devotion of a woman whose heart had been claimed before her powers had matured, before she had understood what she was, before she had the capacity to choose otherwise.

The scout dropped to his knee.

"Greetings, master," he said, bowing his head.

He realized, with the sharp clarity of a man who had just walked into the wrong room, that the duplicates on the bed were not the master. They were extensions. Tools. The real master was here. In the dark. With her.

The master’s eyes moved from the scout to the woman between his legs. His hand came down, resting on her head, his fingers threading through her hair.

"Are you able to create the image of the guy through the memories of that man?" he said.

His voice was directed at her. Casual. The tone of a man asking for a glass of water.

The scout blinked. Confused. He hadn’t described anyone yet. He had barely started his report.

The woman’s eyes opened.

She looked up at the master. Then at the scout. Her eyes were gray. Pale, luminous, the color of fog. They locked onto the scout’s face with a focus that felt physical.

The scout felt it. The intrusion. A presence in his mind, light and fast, like fingers flipping through pages. Not painful. Not violent. Just thorough. She moved through his memories of the last twelve hours with the efficiency of a librarian cataloging new acquisitions. The street. The portal. the spider woman. The man.

She found him.

The man. Cruxius. The dark hair, the sharp jaw, the hands in the pockets, the violet-white portals, the kinetic control. The moment he had killed the zombie lord with two fingers. The four women behind him.

An image materialized in the air.

It appeared between the master and the scout, a floating projection of light and color, sharp and detailed as a photograph. The man’s face. His body. His coat. His posture. The mild, cataloging expression.

The scout trembled.

He bowed deeper.

"Exactly," he whispered. "His memories have been taken out by that woman."

The woman gestured toward him with one hand. A small, dismissive motion. The equivalent of a nod.

The master studied the image.

His narrowed eyes moved over the projection. The face. The build. The posture. The portals in the background, the violet-white energy, the halved zombie on the asphalt.

He said nothing for ten seconds.

Then:

"Oh my."

His voice was soft. The softness of a man who had recognized something he had not expected to recognize.

"Are you seeing it?" he said.

He pointed. Not at the man. Past him. At the figure behind him. The blonde woman. The golden horns. The enormous pale tits. The wings folded tight. The tail.

The seer’s eyes followed his finger.

She saw the blonde.

The gray eyes sparked.

Not with curiosity. Not with surprise. With recognition. Deep, visceral, the kind of recognition that comes from memory, from history, from a wound that has never healed.

Her jaw clenched.

The room shook.

The tapestries on the walls fluttered. The candles flickered. The stone floor cracked, a line splitting from the seer’s kneeling position to the bed, the fracture running deep, the sound like a gunshot. The two duplicates on the bed froze, their cocks still buried in the thick woman, their bodies going rigid.

Then they vanished.

Both duplicates dissolved. Not gradually. Instantly. Like figures made of smoke hit by a wind. The beaded cocks pulled from the woman’s pussy and mouth in a wet, simultaneous withdrawal, the thick woman’s body falling forward onto the bed, her enormous tits hitting the silk, her arms still tied above her head, her pussy gaping and leaking, her mouth open and gasping.

The floor tiles cracked further. A section near the wall lifted, tilting, the stone grinding against stone. The lamps rattled on their mounts. The curtains blew inward from a wind that had no source.

The telepathic power was running havoc.

The master watched.

His expression didn’t change. The same narrowed eyes, the same calculating focus, the same chin on his fist. He watched the room shake around him with the mild interest of a man who had seen this before and knew it would pass.

He reached down.

His hand found the seer’s hair. He grabbed it. His fingers closing around the silver-gray strands, gripping tight, pulling her head back. Her gray eyes, sparking with rage, met his.

He slapped her.

’!?!’