God of Death: Rise of the NPC Overlord
Chapter 63 - 64: Feast of the Broken Throne (Mature Scene)

Chapter 63: Chapter 64: Feast of the Broken Throne (Mature Scene)

The throne room of the God-King was reborn that night—not as a place of judgment, but as a cathedral of dominance and submission.

Gone were the fractured pillars and flickering banners of code. In their place: silk-draped obsidian spires, molten runes pulsing like veins across the floor, and a scent in the air thick with blood-oil and divine lust.

Darius stood alone in the center of the sanctum, shirtless, his chest etched with void-sigils and marks of divine conquest. His power no longer simply radiated—it commanded. With every breath, the room trembled, as though reality itself held its tongue in reverence.

The feast had begun.

Celestia entered first.

She wore no armor. Only translucent silver veils, adorned with glyphs that shimmered with memories of old rituals. Her eyes never left Darius’s. Even voiceless, her presence sang. She knelt not as a victim of law, but as its breaker—offering herself not in weakness, but with knowing power. Her fingers glided along his chest, stopping above his heart, where the newest void-mark pulsed. A silent question.

He answered her with a hand on her throat, gently raising her head. "Tonight," he said, "you will remember who owns the stars in your soul."

Nyx came next, emerging from the shadow-wells beneath the dais. Her body was clad in nothing but black silk ribbons, each blade sheathed in her skin with reverent precision. She strode forward without hesitation, eyes half-lidded, her mouth curved in dark amusement. When she reached him, she pressed herself against Celestia from behind—lips brushing her neck, fingers tracing her waist.

"Let her feel it," Nyx whispered to Darius, "so she remembers what the silence costs her."

And then came the Voidborne consort.

Kaela.

She moved with chaos trailing behind her. Her body shimmered in hues that didn’t exist in normal color—a fusion of flesh and code, reality and unreality. Her grin was crooked, unbalanced, beautiful. "I felt your ache," she purred. "I came to fill it."

The three of them encircled him like stars to a black hole.

Darius lifted his hand.

With a gesture, chains of crimson data unraveled from the void, wrapping around his consorts—not to restrain, but to bind their souls to him for what was to come.

He spoke the Rite of the Crimson Pact.

"By lust made holy, by blood unclean,

By stars unspoken and gods unseen,

I take you as mine—not in name,

But in power, in pain, in flame."

And then—

The world melted into a storm of motion.

Celestia, stripped and glowing with divine heat, straddled his lap on the obsidian throne, her eyes rolling back as Darius’s hand gripped her hips, pulling her down onto him with a force that made the throne sing. Her moans, though voiceless, echoed like thunder through the blood-coded walls.

Nyx knelt at his feet, mouth and fingers worshiping both of them at once, her movements precise and cruelly tender—marking Celestia with kisses and bites, offering herself to Darius’s every whim. Her orgasm came silently and violently, eyes locked with his, begging for more even as her body trembled.

Kaela watched, slowly pleasuring herself beside the throne, her body melting between forms—every climax causing reality around her to shudder and ripple.

But this was more than pleasure.

With each orgasm, each cry, each surrender, Darius fed. He drew their loyalty, their souls, their belief. Not as victims, but as equals offering all they were—trusting him to wield it without mercy.

By the end, the throne was glowing with ancient glyphs.

Darius stood among them, power dripping from his skin, eyes burning with a new hue—neither mortal nor divine. His identity, once fragile, was being overwritten.

He had become something else.

Something terrible.

Something worshiped.

And deep in the shadows beyond the feast, a distant voice whispered:

"The trial begins soon, Heretic King. Will you burn the code... or be consumed by it?"

Even as the warmth of climax still clung to their bodies and the dark sacral energy of the ritual pulsed through the throne room, a strange silence fell. Not from weariness—but from something deeper.

A quiet... hollowness.

Darius stood at the edge of the chamber now, looking down at his own reflection in the blackened pool beneath the throne. What stared back at him wasn’t quite him. The lines of his face were sharper. The shadows behind his eyes stretched too far. There was no humanity in the gaze—only dominion.

Behind him, the women stirred.

Celestia knelt beside the throne, arms wrapped around herself. Her body bore his marks—sigils glowing faintly beneath the surface of her skin. But her eyes were distant, watching him not with adoration... but concern.

Nyx sat on the steps, sharpening a knife that wasn’t really there. Her naked skin shimmered with sweat, blood, and satisfaction. Yet she too watched him—not like a lover satisfied, but like a predator evaluating whether her king still bled.

Kaela, sprawled on the void-laced velvet sheets, exhaled a soft sigh. "Still hungry, aren’t you?" she said lazily, resting her head in one hand. "You took us. Broke us. Bound us. And you’re still empty inside."

Darius said nothing.

Because she was right.

Power surged in his veins—more than ever before. But it wasn’t rooted. It didn’t belong to him. Not completely. The echo of the visions from Origin still haunted his mind... that other self, the version of him that might not have ever been real.

What if everything he’d become... was scripted?

What if he was still playing out the Prime Coder’s plan?

A voice—soft and uncertain—rose inside him. It wasn’t his. Not entirely. It sounded like a child version of himself, one he hadn’t heard since his human days.

"Is this who you wanted to be?"

He clenched his fists, the throne behind him cracking from the surge of divine pressure.

Celestia rose, approaching him slowly. She touched his arm. Still voiceless—her silence now eternal because of Origin’s divine law—she simply pressed her forehead to his.

Her thoughts bled into his mind through the bond.

"You are more than what they wrote. But if you forget what your heart was... they win."

Darius exhaled, his aura dimming slightly.

He wrapped his arms around her, burying his face in her neck, holding her tighter than he had in weeks. Not as a god holding a consort—but as a man needing his anchor.

"I can’t afford to feel weakness," he whispered. "Not now. Not here."

Nyx stood beside them. "Then don’t call it weakness," she said coolly. "Call it proof that you’re not their puppet."

Kaela grinned, floating toward them. "And if you are... so what? Tear the strings yourself. Become the puppeteer."

Their unity in that moment was imperfect—cracked by their scars and silences—but it was real. And for Darius, that sliver of realness mattered more than all the dominion he’d carved.

Suddenly, the air shifted.

A cold wind blew through the chamber—though no door had opened. The void responded, reacting with a low hum like a beast rousing from slumber.

From the far edge of the hall, a mirror flickered to life—one they hadn’t noticed before. It wasn’t part of the throne room’s architecture. It looked older than this world.

The surface rippled once.

Then a face appeared.

Kaela’s.

Bleeding. Dying. Screaming.

And the mirror shattered.

Darius’s eyes widened.

The mirror realm had fractured.

And something... something terrible had been let loose.