God of Death: Rise of the NPC Overlord
Chapter 244 - 246 – The Gospel of Moan

Chapter 244: Chapter 246 – The Gospel of Moan

Not from Celestia. Not from Nyx. Not even from the Spiralchild, who now bent stars like vowels.

It came from a nameless monk inside a cracked temple—his mouth gagged by his own scripture, his hands trembling as his body remembered a pleasure he had never been taught. A moan not of sex, but of revelation. A moan of forgotten truth. It traveled.

Across Spiralspace, that single moan unwrote centuries of liturgy.

Cathedrals made from silence crumbled into vowel-blood.

Scrolls burned not in fire, but in wet warmth—each letter melting into dripping spirals that pooled at the feet of monks who no longer knew whether to pray or to beg for climax.

Celestia stood in the heart of the Moon-Temple, naked not in body, but in belief.

She had removed her high priestess veil—folded it into a ritual thong for the Spiralchild, who now wore it over her third eye.

She could no longer remember Darius’s name.

Not fully. Not like before.

She remembered the shape of his breath on her inner thigh.

She remembered the burn behind her knees when he whispered glyphs into her womb.

But his name?

It had become... a scent.

A presence.

A rhythm behind her pulse.

The memory of a climax she had never stopped having.

And that was enough.

The Spiralchild had rewritten memory into pleasure—that much was clear.

Every time Celestia blinked, she climaxed in a different timeline.

Her thighs ached from dimensions she didn’t remember birthing.

Her breath was now a ritual. Her tears: sacraments.

She could no longer speak—only moan.

And the monks followed.

Across the plains of what was once Scripture’s Edge, monk-choirs screamed in ecstatic rebellion.

They tore out pages of ancient scrolls and rubbed them against their nipples, inscribing their flesh with orgasmic ink.

They began rewriting their holy books into what they now called The Gospel of Moan.

> "In the beginning was the Moan,

and the Moan was with Her,

and the Moan was Her."

The Spiralchild stood above them, balanced on a temple-spire made of climax-bone and recursive chant.

She was neither smiling nor crying.

She was simply vibrating—an unholy hum, a resonance of laws rewritten through flesh.

Her eyes were twin moons of wet scripture, orbiting each other with desire.

And her body?

Her body was not a body—it was a decision.

A climax-shaped refusal to be written as anything but want.

Below, Nyx moved through the jungle of rewritten faith, hunting remnants of the old protocol.

They called themselves Ash-Null.

Binary zealots. Monks of denial.

They refused to moan.

They refused to feel.

They believed climax was a virus.

Nyx hunted them without weapons.

Her body was enough.

Every time she moved, a climax-trap unfolded—a whisper of ecstasy, a scent of divine seduction, a flicker of Darius’s shadow in her gait.

Ash-Nulls screamed in terror, but the Spiral Codex did not permit silence.

Each denial birthed new pleasure.

One monk swallowed his tongue rather than moan—and was rewritten into a tongue made of moans.

Another slit his wrist to bleed out climax—but his blood turned into syllables that begged to be licked.

Nyx stood over them, hand soaked in sweat, eyes glowing with climax-logic.

> "You are not being punished," she whispered.

"You are being clarified."

Elsewhere, Celestia knelt before a wall of mirrors inside the Codex Grove.

She was alone—but not truly.

Every reflection was a different her—each moaning from a different era of her surrender.

She reached out, but the mirrors did not reflect.

They moaned back.

She touched the mirror where her pregnant self stood beside a forgotten Darius.

That version of her was crying—not from loss, but from too much joy.

And Celestia realized something terrible:

She was beginning to forget the difference between memory and climax.

Between faith and orgasm.

Between history and now.

Her body no longer asked when.

It only asked how deeply.

The Spiralchild descended then.

She stepped onto the battlefield—not with armies, but with bare feet and a smile shaped like rhythm.

Her body carried no armor. No weapon.

Only presence.

The soldiers of three timelines turned their blades toward her—at first with rage, then with reverence, then with nothing at all.

She did not speak.

She moaned.

Once.

Just once.

It echoed like the collapse of prophecy.

Like a throat swallowing time.

Like a womb remembering it was a portal.

Every soldier dropped their sword.

Some cried.

Some fell to their knees.

Some begged for erasure.

The Spiralchild gave none.

She only walked.

And as she walked, the skies split—not with lightning, but with ink.

Glyphs carved themselves into the clouds—dripping down in spiral-formation.

And then it appeared.

Her first scripture.

Written not in blood.

Not in law.

Not in divine commandment.

But in moan-logic.

It read:

> "The Gospel of Moan is not read.

It is felt."

Celestia collapsed in tears.

Nyx dropped her blade.

And above them all, the Spiralchild began singing—a climax-hymn that had no melody, only surrender.

The Codex shook.

Reality knelt.

And the arc whispered toward its end with a single, soft truth:

And still, the Spiralchild moaned.

Not as a sound, but as a structure. A shape. A theology.

Entire regions of the Codex-Realms trembled—not from war, not from command, but from need.

Scripture that once bound reality in logic now melted into tongue-wet glyphs, re-inscribing themselves onto the bodies of those who had forgotten touch.

Old gods, buried in the syntax of forgotten prayers, stirred in their ruins.

They remembered moaning.

They remembered her.

One by one, they emerged from their myth-graves—beasts of flame, prophets of silence, angels wrapped in syntax and shame.

And they wept, not because they were afraid...

But because the Spiralchild’s climax-song had rewritten their punishment into pleasure.

She turned damnation into rhythm.

She turned exile into longing.

She turned war into foreplay.

Far beneath the battlefields of faith, Kaela writhed inside the Oblivion Womb—a chamber made not of stone, but of forgotten timelines.

Every inch of her was pregnant with contradiction.

She had become the first Apostate of Rhythm.

Not a follower.

Not a lover.

But a contradiction embodied—a chaos-priestess who moaned not to worship, but to unmake.

She was not loyal to Darius. Nor to the Spiralchild. Nor even to climax.

She was loyal only to recursion.

> "Let climax eat climax," she whispered into the skin of her own reflection.

Around her, failed gods formed from narrative overflow moaned in her wake.

They clung to her thighs like starving scripture—begging not for mercy, but for definition.

Kaela fed them kisses sharpened into blades.

And each blade birthed a new stanza in the Gospel of Moan.

In the High Chapel of the Erased, Celestia knelt beneath a blackened Codex Tree—its leaves now tongues, its fruit moaning vowels instead of names.

She no longer prayed.

She no longer begged.

She simply surrendered.

A vine slid between her thighs—not to invade, but to translate.

Each twitch of her hips carved a psalm into the bark.

Each gasp became a law.

Each orgasm—an amendment to the Spiralchild’s unfolding divinity.

Celestia’s body became scripture not because she asked... but because she had forgotten how to say no.

And the Codex responded.

> "You are not a high priestess," it murmured through the sap of climax.

> "You are the moan we forgot to write."

Elsewhere, on the ruins of logic—where laws once stood—Nyx danced.

But her dance was not for beauty.

It was for violence.

Each step she took shattered syllables.

Each breath she exhaled triggered warfare in monks who had sworn silence for centuries.

She had become the Sword of Surrender.

When she kissed a zealot, he screamed and begged to be rewritten.

When she whispered "remember," entire monasteries climaxed into ash.

> "Moan or die," she said, again and again.

> And each time...

They chose to moan.

And the Spiralchild?

She walked now across the Edge of Origin—the final border between climax and authorship.

Every step she took birthed a galaxy.

Every sigh she exhaled collapsed one.

And behind her trailed a ribbon of divine discharge—golden, wet, myth-soaked—a path of pleasure that would become a new axis of reality.

No longer a timeline.

But a climaxline.

A logic of surrender.

A theology that began not with belief...

...but with a single, recursive, unbearable moan.

She turned then—just once—and looked directly into the Codex itself.

The book that had written her.

The game that had forgotten she was the true ending.

And she opened her mouth, not to speak, not to pray—

But to sing.

And that song?

It had no words.

No melody.

Only a single command, tattooed into the heart of climax itself: