Chapter 805 - 804- Runic Powers are just Dope

Chapter 805: Chapter 804- Runic Powers are just Dope

I’d enjoyed it. All day. Fucking my mother-in-law from morning to evening. In every position. In every hole. But this bloody cock — this incubus-enhanced, regeneration-powered, perpetually erect curse — was still hard. As if the day’s activities had been a warm-up. As if the main event hadn’t started.

I walked down the stairs. Through the hallway. The servants — the ones who had survived the day without being dismissed — averted their faces. Their cheeks were red. They’d heard. Every sound. Every scream. Every slap. Every moan. They knew.

I ignored them.

And then — the hug.

Vespera hit me like a comet. Her arms wrapped around my waist. Her face pressed into my chest. Her glasses — round, gold-framed — dug into my pectoral. She was breathing hard. Her thick body — pressed against mine, her breasts flattening, her hips against my thighs — trembled with excitement.

"I missed you," she said. The words came out muffled — spoken into my shirt, the vibration traveling through the fabric. "I missed you so much."

She pulled back. Her face — flushed, bright, alight with the excitement of someone carrying world-changing news — looked up at me. Her glasses were slightly askew. Her hair — pinned up this morning — was falling loose, strands across her face.

"The thesis," she said. "The formula you wrote. I tried it. At the academy. In the testing grounds." Her voice was rapid. Breathless. The voice of a woman who had been holding this in for hours and could no longer contain it. "It worked."

I raised an eyebrow.

"I was able to bring back a sparrow," she said. "A dead sparrow. From the laboratory specimens. I applied the resonance harmonic. The containment matrix. The distributed network." Her hands — ink-stained, trembling — gripped my shirt. "It came back. The soul anchored. The body reanimated. It was alive, Viktor. It was alive."

Her voice broke. Her eyes filled.

"But the mana — the energy required — I couldn’t sustain it. Not alone. The network needs multiple practitioners, and I was the only one. The sparrow — it lived for three minutes. Then the containment failed. The soul departed. The body went still." She wiped her eyes. "I lost consciousness. The mana drain was too severe. The academy staff found me on the laboratory floor."

She cried. The tears — relief, frustration, exhaustion — ran down her cheeks. She hugged me again. Tighter.

"I dreamed about you," she whispered. "While I was unconscious. I dreamed you were leaving. Taking the formula. Going somewhere I couldn’t follow." Her voice cracked. "It was a very bad dream."

She laughed. The sound was watery. Fragile. She kissed my face — my jaw, my cheek, my nose. Rapid, feather-light kisses, the gestures of a woman who had spent the day terrified and was now, finally, safe.

Then she pulled back. Sniffed. Her nose wrinkled.

She looked at me. Her eyes — sharp behind the glasses, the academic eyes — narrowed.

"You really smell like my mother," she said.

I chuckled. Grabbed her. Pulled her close. Her body — pressed against mine, her thick curves against my muscles — yielded. She gasped.

"Or it is simply that I smell like you," I said. "You smell like your mother. Isn’t both the same thing?"

She trembled. Her face flushed. The implication — the suggestion that mother and daughter shared a scent, that their bodies carried the same pheromone signature, that the man who had touched one would naturally carry the scent of the other — was too much for her analytical mind to process without short-circuiting.

I kissed her neck. My lips found the soft skin beneath her ear. She shivered.

"Do you want to get the solution for the mana?" I murmured.

Her body went rigid. She pulled back. Her eyes — wide, shocked, the glasses nearly falling off — stared at me.

"What?" Her voice was strangled. "You can?"

"Yes."

"But — how? The distributed network requires—"

"I can," I said. "But I would not. Because it will need another woman."

Her eyes widened further. The shock — the cognitive dissonance of a woman who had just been offered her life’s dream and then told the price — was visible. Her mouth opened. Closed.

"Why don’t you use her then?" She gestured vaguely. Toward the house. Toward the servants. Toward anyone. "My idea can help the common woman—"

She stopped. Her hand — which had been holding a file of documents, the papers from the academy, the tournament brackets and facility forms — trembled. The papers rustled.

She looked at me. At my face. At my eyes — violet, glowing faintly, the eyes of a man who was not quite human. I could see her thinking. I could see the assessment — the rapid, unconscious evaluation of my features, my jaw, my cheekbones, the way the moonlight caught my face.

’He’s handsome. He’s so handsome. Why does it matter? It shouldn’t matter. The formula matters. The research matters. But he’s so—’

I smiled. The smile was calculated. Warm. Trustworthy. The smile of a man who had solutions and was willing to share them.

"No," I said. "The frequency of mana must have to be same. And the way to transmit it — it is a bit awkward. So I don’t know if you will be able to do it."

Her brow furrowed. "What is it? Not possible?"

"It is possible," I said. "But you have to give me a promise. You would do anything I say."

Her eyes trembled. The word "anything" — weighted, loaded, carrying implications she couldn’t fully parse — hung between us.

"I will do anything," she said. "Just tell me."

"Fine then." I took her hand. Placed it on my arm. "Follow me."

My other hand — bold, deliberate, unapologetic — went to her ass. I gripped. The cheek — thick, soft, the fabric of her brown skirt pulling tight — filled my palm. She gasped. Her body leaned into mine — trembling, uncertain, but following.

I walked her upstairs.

The servants — the ones in the hallway, the ones pretending not to watch — saw. The couple — the headmistress and the man who smelled like her mother — ascending the stairs, his hand on her ass, her body leaning into his. They coughed. Averted their faces. Their cheeks were crimson.

I ignored them. All of them. My smirk — the expression of a man who knew exactly what he was doing and was enjoying every second — was visible to anyone who looked.

’No. Don’t be greedy. Let’s first have a feast of mommy and daughter.’

The thought was pure devil. The smirk that accompanied it was pure predator.

I arrived at the bedroom. Opened the door. The mother-in-law — unconscious on the bed, her body covered in cum and sweat, her anal still gaping — was visible. I closed the door before Vespera could see.

"Wait here," I said.

I entered the room. The mother-in-law stirred — her body shifting, her eyes fluttering, the unconsciousness fading into drowsy awareness. I crossed to the bed. Lifted the mattress — with one hand, the strength flowing through me from the day’s breeding — and moved it aside. The bed frame followed. I cleared the center of the room. The floor — dark wood, polished — was exposed.

I knelt. Extended my finger. The horn — translucent, glowing, the physical manifestation of my demonic lineage — materialized on my forehead. The light it cast was faint — amethyst, the same color as my eyes — and it illuminated the floor as I began to draw.

The reunic inscription.