Chapter 17 - - 17 - The Serpent’s Union [R18]

Chapter 17: Chapter - 17 - The Serpent’s Union [R18]

Lucien opened his eyes to rubble.

Stones and broken masonry pressed against his back, each jagged edge digging into muscle and bone. Dust filled the air, thick and choking, catching the green torchlight like suspended gold. He lay there for a moment, lungs burning, ears ringing with the aftershock of collapse. The world swam in and out of focus.

He pushed himself up, shaking debris from his hair, and saw the smoke clearing.

The serpent was massive.

Twenty-five meters of coiled crimson muscle, its scales gleaming like wet blood in the torchlight. Its eyes glowed white with ancient malice—not the mindless fury of a beast, but something older. Something that had waited in the dark for centuries and remembered every slight, every trespass. Four red crystals were embedded in its body—two along its spine, pulsing in rhythm with its slow, deliberate heartbeat, one on its skull, and one just below its throat. The light within them throbbed like a second heart, synchronized with the first.

Lucien’s breath caught. Four stones. Four points to destroy.

He walked to Delian’s side. She was already on her feet, her blade drawn, her golden hair streaked with dust. A thin cut ran along her cheekbone—she must have caught a piece of flying stone during the collapse—but she didn’t seem to notice. Her eyes were fixed on the serpent, calculating, measuring.

"We need to remove those stones," he said.

Delian’s lips curved. "That will be difficult." She tilted her head, her eyes tracing the serpent’s length from tail to fanged maw. "So what’s the plan, my little prince?"

Lucien’s smile was sharp. "Little? That’s the last word you’ll use to describe me. Just you wait."

He stepped forward, boots crunching on broken stone.

"But for now—simple. I fight it. You break the stones on its head. I’ll distract him. Or her. Whatever it is."

He ran.

Roots and vines exploded from the ground, twisting toward the serpent’s body with the speed of striking snakes—but its scales were like steel. The vines shattered against them, splintering into fragments of bark and sap. The serpent barely seemed to notice. Its white eyes tracked Lucien with the lazy attention of a predator who had never known prey to escape.

Stronger than I thought, Lucien admitted, his jaw tightening.

Delian climbed. Her fingers found holds in the stone walls—cracks, protrusions, the seams between ancient blocks—her body moving with practiced grace. She reached the ceiling and pressed herself against it, becoming shadow, becoming nothing. Waiting.

Lucien attacked with the World Root Spear.

Nature energy surged through the weapon as he drove it toward the serpent’s face. The creature reared back—fast, faster than something so large had any right to be—and Lucien vanished into shadow.

He reappeared on its snout, stabbed, and disappeared again before the serpent could snap its jaws shut. The spear bit into scale, drawing a thin line of black ichor that sizzled on the stone below.

Again. And again.

Each strike was a pinprick. Each disappearance an insult. He materialized on its spine, drove the spear home, vanished. Reappeared on its flank, struck, vanished. A ghost with a blade, a whisper of death that could not be caught.

The serpent grew angry.

Fire poured from its mouth—not orange, but white-hot, hot enough to melt stone. The air itself seemed to ignite, heat rolling off the flames in waves that stole the breath from Lucien’s lungs. He raised a wall of roots and vines. They blackened, crumbled, but held long enough for him to escape into shadow.

It breathes fire, he thought, his heart hammering against his ribs. Good to know.

He waited for its mouth to open again.

When it did—when the jaws gaped wide, preparing another torrent of flame—Lucien threw the World Root Spear.

The spear flew true. It struck the soft flesh inside the serpent’s cheek. The creature screamed—a sound like grinding metal, like the death cry of a mountain—and Lucien called the spear back to his hand. It slapped into his palm, slick with black blood.

Vines erupted from the walls, wrapping around the serpent’s jaws, forcing them shut. The creature thrashed, its massive body coiling and uncoiling with terrible strength, but the vines held.

"Now!" Lucien shouted.

Delian dropped from the ceiling.

She landed on the serpent’s skull, her blade flashing in the torchlight. The first crystal cracked—then shattered. Light poured from the wound, brilliant and blinding, and the serpent screamed again. It thrashed, breaking the vines like dry twigs, but Lucien was already there, the Blood Moon Katana in his hand.

He swung.

The second crystal broke.

The serpent wriggled free.

It coiled itself into a tight spiral, its body a fortress of muscle and scale, and began to breathe fire in every direction. The room became an inferno. The walls blackened. The air itself seemed to burn. Lucien felt the heat sear his skin, smelled the acrid stench of his own hair singeing.

Delian pressed herself against the ceiling, safe above the flames.

Lucien stepped into his shadow world.

The darkness welcomed him—cool, silent, endless. He waited there, counting heartbeats, until the fire stopped. Ten. Twenty. Thirty. The silence stretched, and he counted forty more before he dared to step back out.

The serpent was panting. Its white eyes were dimmer. Its movements were slower. Exhaustion weighed on its massive frame, each breath a labored rasp.

Lucien opened the Shop.

[Astral Bloom Elixir – 300 Soul Points]

[Restores all astral energy]

Purchase.

He drank. Power flooded through him—hot, bright, urgent. His eyes began to glow, golden and terrible. The wounds on his body knitted closed. The weariness in his bones evaporated like morning mist.

He rose into the air.

Not flying. Not quite. But suspended, floating, his body held aloft by the sheer force of his will. He looked down at the serpent like a god looking at an ant.

"You," he said, "have been a very bad boy."

He raised his hands.

The roots and vines that answered were different.

They were not the soft, grasping tendrils he had used before. These were weapons—thick as pythons, covered in thorns the length of daggers, black as the shadow world from which they came. They erupted from the walls, the floor, the ceiling—everywhere at once, a forest of darkness given form.

And they merged.

They twisted together, thorns interlocking, forming a shape in the air. A serpent. A serpent larger than the one below, made entirely of spiked black vines. Its eyes were pits of shadow. Its jaws dripped with venom that was not venom but pure darkness.

Lucien’s fingers moved like a puppeteer’s.

The vine-serpent struck.

It coiled around the crimson serpent, squeezing, crushing. The creature screamed—not in anger this time, but in pain. The thorns pierced its steel scales. Black blood dripped onto the stone floor, hissing and steaming where it fell.

"Now!" Lucien commanded.

Delian dropped.

She landed on the serpent’s thrashing head and shattered the third crystal with a single strike of her blade. The crystal exploded into fragments, and light poured from the wound like blood from an artery.

Lucien descended.

He drove the World Root Spear into the fourth crystal—and Delian’s blade followed, breaking it from the other side.

The crystals shattered.

Light poured from the serpent’s mouth, its eyes, the wounds in its flesh. Its thrashing slowed. Its white eyes dimmed. The massive body began to dissolve, scales flaking away like ash, muscle and bone unraveling into motes of golden light that drifted upward and faded.

And then it was gone.

Where the serpent had been, there was only an egg—white as snow, dotted with crimson spots. It sat on the scorched stone like a promise, like a beginning.

Lucien landed. He picked up the egg and held it behind his back as Delian approached.

"Finally," she said, exhaling. "I thought we were going to die."

Lucien stepped closer. "Then my dream of dying with you would have come true."

Delian’s eyebrows rose. "You can still flirt? I’m impressed. You must not be hurt at all."

Lucien clutched his chest dramatically. "Oh, the pain. The pain is coming."

He collapsed onto her lap.

She laughed—a genuine sound, warm and surprised—and began to caress his hair. Her fingers traced the lines of his scalp, the curve of his ear, the edge of his jaw. Her touch was gentle in a way he had never felt from her before.

"So," she said, "what are you going to do with that egg?"

Lucien held it up. "This? You can have it."

Delian’s hand stopped moving. "What?"

"It’s for you."

"Lucien." Her voice was serious now. "I know how much work you put into defeating that serpent. My Divine Eyes can see what that egg is—a SteelFang Serpent. You can’t just give something like that to anyone."

Lucien sat up and looked at her.

"Lady Delian, you are not anyone." He placed the egg in her hands. "I’m giving it to you. Only you."

He paused.

"As for me—I already have another egg. And in the future, I may need to travel to other countries. Other worlds. Other realms." His voice softened. "I want you to be strong enough to protect those who are close to me. And close to you. You told me yourself—the Alde and Vale families have a long history together."

He smiled.

"So do me a favor. Keep it."

Delian stared at the egg in her hands. Her fingers trembled slightly. The crimson spots seemed to pulse with a heartbeat of their own, warm against her palms.

"You’re full of surprises," she whispered.

She pulled the egg into her personal realm—a shimmer in the air, then gone.

"I’ll nurture it," she said. "But I won’t give it back. Even if you ask."

Lucien laughed.

Delian’s expression shifted. The playfulness faded, replaced by something raw. Honest.

"Lucien," she said, "I’ve been coming to the Ancient Breach for years. And I have never—never—achieved something like this. Even when I succeeded in finding something of equal value, I had to give it to the Academy. Or to the Royal Family." Her voice hardened. "To them, I’m just someone who will sacrifice herself for the country. Over and over. Until there’s nothing left."

She looked at him.

"I feel guilty now. Like I’m doing something wrong. But when I saw you in the Astral Academy arena—fighting for yourself, beating Sarric brutally, not caring what anyone thought—the crowd booed your name. But when you won, that booing turned to cheering." She shook her head. "You never heard the booing. You never heard the cheering. You just fought."

She stepped closer.

"That’s when I decided. I want to be like you."

Lucien met her gaze.

"I never feel guilty," he said. "You shouldn’t either. You can’t make everyone happy. It’s fine to be selfish. It’s fine to run away."

He reached out and touched her cheek.

"I decided I would just listen to myself. Be myself. Take whatever I want." His thumb traced her lower lip. "Relics. Power. Or someone I love."

Delian’s breath caught.

"So, my little prince," she whispered, "can you handle me?"

Lucien kissed her.

The room appeared as the serpent dissolved—a door of golden light, and beyond it, a chamber that should not exist underground. A bed draped in crimson silk. Cushions of dark maroon. Carpets woven with gold thread. Huge windows that showed a sky that was not real—a sunset of impossible colors, bleeding into twilight.

The tension between them snapped like a drawn bowstring.

He pulled her close. Her body pressed against his—warm, solid, real. She smelled of smoke and steel and something floral beneath it all. Her golden hair brushed his cheek.

His hands found the small of her back, fingers splaying against the fabric of her tunic. He could feel the heat of her skin through the cloth, the rapid flutter of her pulse beneath his palm. She was trembling—barely perceptible, a vibration that hummed through her entire body like a plucked string.

Her hands rose to his chest, pressing flat against the leather of his armor. She could feel his heartbeat beneath her fingers—steady, strong, unhurried. The contrast to her own racing pulse made her breath catch.

He kissed her again, deeper this time, and she tasted smoke and something sweet beneath it—the elixir he had drunk, perhaps, or something that was simply him. His tongue traced her lower lip, and she opened for him without hesitation, a small sound escaping her throat that she would have been embarrassed by if she had any room left for embarrassment.

He pulled back just enough to look at her. His eyes were still faintly golden, the residue of the elixir’s power lingering in his irises like embers in ash. They traced her face—the cut on her cheekbone, the flush spreading across her skin, the way her lips had parted and stayed parted.

"What?" she whispered.

He shook his head slowly. His thumb traced the line of her jaw, then down the column of her throat, feeling her swallow against his touch.

"Nothing," he said. "Everything."

She reached up and pulled the tie from her hair. It fell in a cascade of gold, spilling over her shoulders and down her back, and he watched it fall with an expression that made her stomach tighten. He reached out and buried his fingers in it, feeling the weight of it, the softness.

She immediately became excited. The feel of his hands in her hair, the look in his eyes—something primal and hungry and focused. She had been desired before. She had been wanted. But never like this. Never with such complete, undivided attention.

She removed her clothes and threw them on the floor as if there were no tomorrow and they didn’t care. The cool air of the chamber kissed her skin, raising goosebumps along her arms and thighs. She stood before him without shame, without hesitation, her chest rising and falling with quickened breath.

His eyes moved over her slowly, deliberately, tracing every curve and hollow. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. The weight of his gaze was enough—it felt like a physical touch, like fingers trailing over her skin.

She reached for him, tugging at his armor, and he let her undress him. Piece by piece, the leather and cloth fell away, revealing the body beneath—the scars, the lean muscle, the evidence of every battle he had fought and survived. She traced a scar along his ribs with her fingertip, and he shuddered.

Before she realized it, she was on the bed, Lucien on top of her. The silk of the sheets was cool against her back, a stark contrast to the heat of his body above her.

He didn’t wait. His clothes were on the floor, and his weapon was touching her core. She didn’t see what Lucien was planning—she couldn’t see, not with his body blocking out the light, not with her own need clouding her thoughts—but she was confident. She was a married woman. She had experience. She knew what to expect.

But she was wrong.

When Lucien entered her, she felt everything. Every vein. Every pulse of heat. Every ridge and contour of him pressing against walls that had never been stretched so completely. She was feeling full—impossibly, unbearably full—and a voice was coming out from her mouth, unbidden, raw, a sound she had never made before.

Her back arched. Her fingers dug into his shoulders. Her legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him deeper, and she gasped at the sensation—the sheer presence of him inside her.

"So what were you calling me, little prince?" said Lucien.

Delian immediately hugged him, wrapping her arms around his neck, pulling him so close that there was no space left between them. Her face was buried in the curve of his shoulder, her breath hot against his skin. She could feel every inch of him, every heartbeat, every tremor of restraint.

She was a married woman. But she had never felt like this in her entire life.

"Are you just going to feel my insides?" asked Delian with a smile and a face that no one had ever seen—a face of pure, unguarded need.

And then the night began.

The night was young, and no one was there to stop them.

Lucien and Delian indulged in their dual cultivation in a way that neither of them had ever experienced. Both of them were realm masters—beings of immense power and control—and sometimes Delian took control, rolling him onto his back and setting the pace herself, and sometimes Lucien took charge, pinning her wrists above her head and driving into her with a rhythm that made her see stars. But one thing was clear: no one wanted to stop.

Delian’s core was getting spread as if she were a young woman in her twenties. The energy within her, dormant for so long, awakened and expanded, making room for him in ways she had never imagined possible. Her mortal husband could never have made her feel like this. With her husband, she controlled everything—the pace, the position, the duration. She had never surrendered, never let herself go.

With Lucien, she didn’t mind bending over like a dog and taking him in. She didn’t mind using her mouth to take Lucien’s essence. There was no stopping—wall, floor, balcony, nothing was left untouched.

He took her against the wall, her back pressed to the cool stone, her legs wrapped around his waist. The stone scraped against her shoulders with every thrust, a sharp counterpoint to the pleasure building inside her. She didn’t care. She wanted more. She wanted everything.

He took her on the floor, the carpet rough against her knees as she knelt before him. The fibers burned her skin, but she barely noticed. Her world had narrowed to the weight of him on her tongue, the taste of him, the sounds he made when she took him deeper.

He took her on the balcony, the impossible sunset painting her skin in shades of gold and rose as he bent her over the railing. The air was cool against her heated skin, and below them stretched a landscape that didn’t exist—mountains that faded into mist, rivers that flowed upward, stars that burned in a sky that was also an ocean. She gripped the railing and let him take her, her cries swallowed by the vastness around them.

If anyone saw this, no one would recognize that this was the same Delian Alde who was the most dignified woman in the kingdom. Because right now she was using her mouth to suck Lucien’s weapon, every shred of dignity gone in their dual cultivation. She was taking his huge weapon in her mouth as deep as she could, her eyes watering, her throat working. She knew that she might never get this chance again, so she would take her fill and make sure that her core was filled with Lucien’s essence.

Her hands explored him as she worked—the ridges of muscle along his abdomen, the strong columns of his thighs, the place where his pulse beat fastest. She learned the rhythms of his body, the subtle cues that told her when he was close, when he was holding back, when he was about to lose control.

"Do it inside again," said Delian, kissing Lucien, her tongue hugging his tongue. "Every essence you give, it’ll be inside me."

Lucien was planning to do the same. He remembered all those times when she used to tease him from under the table using her leg—the slow, deliberate pressure of her foot against his calf, the way she would smile innocently while driving him mad. And now he was spreading her legs in a way that she never would have thought—or maybe she did. Maybe she had imagined this, dreamed of it, hoped for it.

Lucien bent her on the balcony, opening her legs and pushing his weapon in. She was taking it—all of it—and her core had been reshaped by Lucien as if it were made for him. There was no way that Delian’s husband would ever be enough for her. There was no way that she would give herself to her husband anymore after this night of dual cultivation.

He picked her up in his arms and took her in front of the mirror while still buried inside of her. She saw the sight—saw herself, saw him, saw the way they moved together—and forgot everything. She forgot that she was the head of the Alde family. She forgot the weight of duty and expectation. She felt relief, as if she had found a man she could always rely on.

Their love went on for the whole night. Hardly would Lucien leave Delian’s core empty. She was used to him now, her body adjusting to his presence, welcoming it. But she knew her core had spread in a way that made it almost loose because of Lucien. She didn’t mind. In fact, it was a sign that she was compatible with Lucien’s essence—that they were meant for this, meant for each other.

The hours blurred together. The impossible sky beyond the windows shifted through colors that had no names, and still they moved together. At some point, she lost count of how many times she had shattered around him. At some point, he stopped counting how many times he had filled her. 𝘧𝓇ℯℴ𝓂

She explored every part of him. The scars on his back—she traced each one with her lips, learning the stories written in his flesh. The calluses on his hands—she felt them against her skin, rough and real. The way his breath hitched when she touched a particular spot behind his ear—she filed that knowledge away for later, for the next time, for always.

He discovered the place on her neck that made her shiver. The way she liked to be held—firmly, possessively, as if she might disappear if he loosened his grip. The sounds she made when she was close, sounds that were nothing like the composed, dignified Lady Alde.

At some point, she stopped being the Lady of the Alde family. She stopped being a wife, a mother, a pillar of noble society. She became something simpler, something truer—just a woman, just flesh and breath and need.

At some point, he stopped being someone who watched her from across the table. He became something more—a man, a lover, a force that could not be denied.

They fell asleep tangled together, her head on his chest, his arms wrapped around her. The impossible sky outside the windows faded to a soft, pearlescent glow—neither day nor night, but something in between.

Delian woke first.

She lay on top of Lucien, her bare skin pressed against his, her golden hair spilling across his chest like spun sunlight. Her fingers traced the lines of his jaw—softly, wonderingly, as if seeing him for the first time.

"Good morning, my wicked prince."

Lucien’s eyes opened. He smiled—not the sharp, calculating smile he wore like armor. Something softer. Something real.

"Are you not going to call me little prince anymore?"

Delian leaned down, her lips brushing his ear.

"After last night?" She laughed softly. "Calling you little would be an insult. Perhaps I should call you my wicked beast instead." She kissed him. "I feel like it was my first time."

Lucien’s hand found her waist. "I would love to stay like this with you. But we have a dungeon to clear."

Delian sighed. "You’re right." She pulled back, her expression thoughtful. "You know, I don’t think I’ve ever been this happy in my entire life."

They dressed in comfortable silence.

When they were ready, a new door had appeared—massive, carved with serpent motifs, its surface gleaming gold and studded with gems.

Lucien placed his hand on it.

"So, Lady Delian," he said. "Are you ready?"

Delian folded her arms and pouted. Then she stepped close, her lips brushing his ear.

"After spending the whole night calling me Delian for twelve hours straight—just to change positions—you’re going to call me Lady Delian now?"

Lucien grinned. "What should I call you, then? My sneaky viper?"

Delian’s smile was sharp and warm. "That’s more like it."

"Now," Lucien said, "let’s go."

They touched the door together.

The door closed behind them and vanished.

They stood in infinite whiteness—no walls, no floor, no ceiling. Only light.

Two serpents appeared in the air, spiraling around each other. One was gold, radiant as the sun. The other was black, deep as the void between stars.

The golden serpent entered Delian.

The black serpent entered Lucien.

They closed their eyes.

And they felt.

Each other’s heartbeat. Each other’s breath. The warmth of blood beneath skin. The electric thrill of nerves connected across inches, across silence.

When they opened their eyes, they were embracing. And they were outside.

The cave mouth gaped behind them. The dark forest spread before them. The wrong-colored sky stretched overhead.

[Dungeon Complete: Ancient Temple Ruin]

Lucien looked down at Delian. She looked up at him.

"What was that feeling?" he asked.

"Serpent Union Sigil." Delian’s voice was steady, but her cheeks were flushed. "Our bodies are now... compatible. For dual cultivation." She cleared her throat. "By combining our bodies—passing astral energy, making love—our cultivation will advance faster than any normal method."

Lucien’s smile widened. "It seems we fulfilled a condition without knowing it."

"It seems we did." Delian’s lips twitched. "Now we have a reason to make love."

"Was six hours not enough?" Lucien stepped closer.

She laughed and blushed.

"One question," Lucien said, his tone shifting. "That beast—the one that emerged from the old man’s body after we killed him. Why?"

Delian considered. "I believe it was connected to the temple ruin. Killing almost fifty people as a sacrifice... that triggered something. The beast emerged to punish us. But when we fell into the well, it may have considered its job done."

She shook her head.

"In normal circumstances, figuring that out would have been nearly impossible."

Lucien smiled. "So we did everything by accident. Killing them as a sacrifice. Falling into the well. Killing the serpent."

"And accidentally sleeping together," Delian added.

"And accidentally gaining dual cultivation."

"Very lucky," Delian agreed. "But I’m glad you were with me."

Lucien looked around.

"Where are we?"

The landscape was unfamiliar. Mountains rose on either side, their peaks lost in cloud. The cave mouth was set into the base of a cliff, and above them—

Arrows.

A rain of arrows, falling from the mountain peaks.

Not toward them. Not yet. But close.

And from somewhere above, a voice:

"Kill them."