CHAPTER 161: PURGE THE PURE

Allen stood in the center of the chaos, his cock still slick with the lioness’s submission, the scent of sweat, fear, and arousal blooming like a storm around him. The glow from the crystals above pulsed with every breath, and the air was so thick with heat it felt like the whole underground pit had started to breathe—through him.

Dozens of beastkin surged forward, no longer begging for help. Now they begged for him. His touch, his cock, his mark. Allen didn’t hesitate. He grabbed the nearest girl—a foxkin with snow-white ears and a body made for sin. Her fur was streaked with grime, but her eyes burned with hunger.

She dropped to her knees before he even said a word, licking the length of his shaft, lapping up every trace of the lioness’s cum-soaked surrender. Her tail wagged uncontrollably behind her, brushing against other beastkin desperate to take her place.

He tangled his fingers in her hair and shoved himself into her throat, hard and deep, until she gagged and choked, drool spilling down her chin as her eyes rolled back. But she didn’t pull away. She pushed deeper, worshipping his cock with a reverence that had nothing to do with prayer—and everything to do with power.

Behind her, two other girls—one with tiger stripes across her toned arms and another trembling, tiny bunnykin with bruises on her thighs—began touching each other, eyes glued to Allen’s shaft sliding in and out of the foxgirl’s mouth.

The pit, once filled with cries of agony, now pulsed with moans, slaps, and the thick, wet squelch of beastkin fingers slipping into soaked, desperate holes.

Allen grunted and pulled out just before he came, grabbing the foxgirl’s head and jerking himself off all over her face, streaking her fur with hot ropes that clung to her cheeks and eyelashes. She whimpered, tongue out, licking at the air like a starving dog.

"Next," Allen growled.

The tiger-striped girl came forward, but didn’t kneel. She turned around, dropped to all fours, and lifted her ass—striped tail curling around his thigh as if begging to be yanked.

He grabbed it and yanked hard.

She yelped.

Then he plunged inside her, and the entire pit shuddered again.

With every thrust, chains snapped. Locks broke. Runes flickered out of existence. Every time Allen filled one of them, something changed. The prison wasn’t just losing control—it was transforming under him. The sacred energy twisted with each orgasm, every scream of pleasure echoing louder than centuries of torture ever did.

The tiger girl came hard, scratching at the ground as Allen pounded her into the dirt, her body convulsing around him. When he finished inside her and pulled out, she collapsed in a dazed, drooling mess.

More beastkin were crowding in now—young, fertile, eager. A goat-horned girl climbed onto his lap, grinding her soaked folds against his cock as she moaned into his neck. He didn’t even have to move—she fucked herself on him, hips bouncing with raw hunger. Two wolfkin girls kissed beside them, fingering each other while watching Allen fuck the goat girl into blissful oblivion.

He let them use him.

Let them claim him, even as he branded each of them in return with his seed.

It wasn’t just about domination anymore. It was about transformation.

In the back, others began dragging broken cages into a pile and lighting torches from fallen crystal shards. They were building something. A throne. A shrine. A breeding altar, sculpted from the wreckage of their prison.

Allen watched through the haze of sex and sweat as the lioness from earlier stood atop it, legs still shaking, cum drying down her thighs. She raised her voice—not to scream, but to lead.

"No more chains. No more masters. We breed for him now!"

A roar echoed from the pit—dozens of voices, beastly and raw, rising in approval.

And Allen?

He didn’t speak.

He grabbed the trembling bunnykin, threw her down, and mounted her.

He fucked her while the crowd chanted. Fucked her while the altar was raised. Fucked her until she passed out from the pleasure, eyes fluttering and toes curling.

By the time the orgy had slowed—hours later—Allen stood atop the altar with beastkin bodies sprawled around him, twitching, marked, pregnant with his power.

He looked down at the branding carved into the bone wall that once mocked them.

"All else, excrement."

With a casual motion, he thrust his hand forward, magic rippling outward—and the bones shattered.

He turned to the lioness.

"Get them ready. We’re going topside."

She nodded, lips curled in a savage grin. "To fuck the angels next?"

"No," Allen said. "To burn this holy place to the ground."

The ruined prison groaned like a wounded animal as Allen stepped off the breeding altar, his bare feet splashing in puddles of sweat, seed, and blood. The torches cast flickering shadows on the walls—walls that once held screams and shackles, now trembling with the footsteps of rebellion. Beastkin crawled, limped, and marched behind him. Every girl who had cried out in pain beneath holy whips now cried out in pleasure under him. Every cage that had bound them now sat twisted and blackened, thrown into the central fire pit where a new symbol burned on the stone floor: a mark carved by Allen’s own hand—no crest, no sigil, just a rough image of a wide-open mouth with a tongue outstretched, a symbol of want, need, and raw, dripping surrender.

The lioness walked at his side, bruised and marked with white, still trembling from being filled. Her voice was hoarse but proud. "They’ll sense us soon. The temple above won’t ignore the silence down here."

Allen smirked. "Then let them come."

He didn’t need armor. He wore nothing but blood streaks and dried cum, his cock heavy, semi-hard, and already twitching as the foxkin girls kissed and licked it as they walked. The air was thick with arousal, and yet it carried something else now—fear. But not from the beastkin. From above.

Word had spread. The upper priestesses, dressed in golden silks and layered veils, had sent scouts to the pit, expecting to retrieve broken bodies for the purification ceremony. None had returned. And now, the high halls of the Temple of Purity were in panic.

For centuries, they’d ruled in the name of the Five: human, elf, dwarf, demon, and angel—what they called the "Superior Lineages." The rest were seen as errors. Beastkin were allowed to exist only for labor and breeding, their bodies controlled, their clothing regulated, their children stripped of any identity once they aged into adulthood. Only loincloths. No names. No rights. No future.

But Allen was rewriting that future with every brutal, messy thrust.

As he climbed the spiral path upward, his beastkin behind him, some limping, some stroking themselves, a priestess finally dared appear—pure white robes, silver embroidery, and a staff inlaid with blessed crystal. Her eyes were wide as she stared at the army of naked, seed-slick bodies. She opened her mouth to cast a ward, but Allen didn’t give her the chance. He surged forward and grabbed her by the throat, slammed her into the wall hard enough to crack the stone, and whispered against her lips.

"You call this purity?"

Her ward fizzled. She whimpered.

His fingers yanked her robes down. Her body was untouched, unscarred, pampered by temple servants. She gasped as Allen pulled her hips to the edge of the stair and shoved his cock between her legs, pressing hard against her slickening folds. Her defiance melted the second she felt the heat of him. Her staff clattered to the ground.

Behind them, the beastkin cheered.

Allen didn’t just fuck her—he shattered her. Bent her backward, legs shaking, hair falling from its tight bun, moaning his name and begging for more. He used her like a throne cushion, pounding into her while still climbing the stairs, until she was a sobbing mess with legs twitching and mouth drooling.

He left her there, twitching and wet.

More priestesses appeared as they reached the upper temple. They came with guards—dwarven holy knights, elven duelists, angelic emissaries with white wings and flaming swords. But Allen didn’t slow down. He didn’t need spells or armor—he had momentum, and a hunger that could swallow gods.

He punched one angel in the chest so hard his ribs cracked. Fucked a priestess over the altar of purification as beastkin toppled statues and set the curtains ablaze. He dragged another high-ranking elf by the hair, bent her over the prayer table, and made her scream louder than the bells ever did.

The lioness led a chant in the background. "We are the stain! We are the filth! We are the flesh that breaks your chains!"

Allen slammed into the elf’s pussy with a wet squelch, her pride gone, her ears twitching with every thrust. "Say it," he growled into her ear.

"I—I am filth—!" she cried.

Louder.

"I am F-FILTH! USE ME!"

And he did. Over and over.

The temple floor was soaked. Guards stopped fighting. Some dropped their weapons and watched, mesmerized. Some joined—a demon priest throwing aside his flamebrand and falling to his knees to eat out a sobbing wolfkin girl who moaned "Master Allen" between gasps.

By the time the final bell tolled, the sacred halls were ruined.

Candles snuffed. Statues shattered. Every priestess either broken or moaning. Allen stood atop the altar, a bunnykin kneeling between his legs, sloppily sucking him while foxgirls fingered themselves beside her.

He looked up at the stained-glass image of the Five and smirked.

"We’re the new divine now," he said.

Then he came down her throat.

And the glass shattered.