In the holy city, the rain ceased, and warm sunlight bathed the streets, as if divine grace ensured its eternal glory.
"The time has come," the Pope declared, his voice calm yet overpowering the chants and hymns, as if it were the only sound in existence. "Today, we end sin and witness a miracle."
"Finally, the day to wash away decades of shame!" a battle-scarred knight exclaimed, his blood still hot with fervor.
"I wish our predecessors could see this…" a tearful choir nun murmured, overcome with emotion.
The Pope paid no heed to their sentiments. His mind brimmed with bliss and anticipation, a feeling he hadn't known since ascending to the legendary realm.
No one faulted his excitement. They all understood the ritual's weight—the culmination of decades of struggle and the reason they'd humbled themselves to preach to commoners across nations.
They aimed to recreate a myth, to draw their Lord's gaze and summon an angel to His side once more.
Decades ago, when the chief angel and the Sin Demon of Wrath perished together, the Church suffered a grievous blow. Mythical beings were rare, their bloodlines and status so exalted they could carve out eternal domains.
After the fall of the Wrath Demon and the angel, the abyss birthed another Sin Demon, but the Cross Church lacked such supreme power. They lost ground steadily, their reclaimed lands falling back into demonic hands.
Today, as the rain cleared, hope dawned.
With the toll of the bell, the sacred ritual began its prelude.
The cold wind howled, and the rain persisted as Truman sat with his legs dangling, munching on a dry bun and sipping plain porridge, utterly content.
The crude array gleamed on the rough floor, traced with powder.
"What'll I summon this time?"
Truman wasn't worried. By setting conditions, he could ensure a seductive female fantasy creature, not too precise but safe from summoning a monster.
"Some goat nails first… a bit short on them, but it should be fine. These are hard to come by." He hesitated but pressed on with the ritual.
In the holy city's square, a demon's horn was peeled apart, floating at the center, dissolving into flecks of white light.
"Next, lizard saliva. Doesn't say it has to be red lizard, right?" After several summons, Truman knew the ritual's demands were flexible—meet the general requirements, and it'd work.
Amid sacred hymns, gallons of ancient dragon blood poured into the ritual's grooves, turning into a thin crimson mist.
"Now the important part—my blood." Truman gritted his teeth, pricked his finger, and smeared a drop at the array's center.
The saint's relics were gently placed, glowing like jade under boundless faith, as if alive. Church leaders and devout followers watched, unblinking, unwilling to miss the miracle.
"Last but not least, the main catalyst." Truman tossed the small cross into the air. It spun, and the array flared with white light, the space before him warping. He grinned, eager to see what weak yet "capable" creature would appear.
In the holy city, sacred light and sunlight intertwined on the holiest cross. Decades of amassed faith ignited into beams, surging toward the ritual, as if to restore the Church's former glory.
This was the final material needed. The Lord had cast His merciful gaze, ready to save humanity from ruin and unleash His wrath upon the abyss.
All joined the sacred hymns, each note vying to prove their devotion. The songs swelled, encircling the city like musical runes.
Auroras danced in the sky—a true miracle. At the world's edge, atop the high tower, even the mightiest cardinals and knights wept, witnessing divine glory.
As the ritual faded, the Pope dared not look at the blinding light at its center, fearing judgment from glimpsing a mythical angel.
But minutes passed in silence. Humbled, the Pope spoke, "Honored Arbiter, you are boundless light. Welcome to the mortal realm."
More silence followed. No one else dared meet the divine radiance.
Finally, the Pope looked up. Despite his refined composure, he couldn't help but cry out, "This can't be! The divine revelation can't fail!"
The sacred square was empty—everything gone, but nothing had appeared.
Soon, the holy city drowned in a cacophony of voices.
"What's this one?"
Truman frowned, peering at the distorted void before him. A figure slowly emerged from the blur, its form gradually sharpening. Though its features remained unclear, it radiated an immaculate purity, like a deity fallen to earth.
The manifestation took far longer than his previous summons, making Truman wait over ten minutes before the figure fully appeared. His reaction could be summed up in two words.
"Holy shit!"
The creature's exquisite beauty left him speechless, a perfection beyond simple description—a culmination of all that was beautiful.
What kind of being was this?
On the floor lay a transcendent young woman, around eighteen or nineteen. Her golden hair, as if spun from molten metal, cascaded over her shoulders, slightly tousled yet harmoniously so. Her flawless face bore an otherworldly detachment, draped in a flowing platinum robe that veiled a body of divine proportions, though it couldn't hide her captivating form.
A pair of pristine wings sprouted from her waist, long and sacred, as if capable of carrying souls to heaven.
A faint, glassy halo shimmered above her head, casting a holy glow that quelled any profane thoughts. She was God's perfect creation, a masterpiece beyond mortal craft.
Her delicate eyelashes rested gently, her eyes still closed, serene and elegant like a sleeping beauty from a fairy tale.
His previous summons—already far surpassing mortal women—had seemed the pinnacle of beauty, but this slumbering figure transcended them, standing at the very edge of perfection.
An SSR pull? From lousy lizard spit? Truman couldn't fathom the absurdity of this summon, like a beggar stumbling upon a gold mine.
Shock gave way to confusion. In a world teeming with fantasy creatures, angels remained exceedingly rare. Having spent time in the church, Truman knew the Cross Church's lore. The eternal God was flanked by twelve archangels, each wielding distinct authority as His deputies.
The so-called Kingdom of Heaven housed other angels, the ultimate form for the most devout, though the few who had descended to earth perished fifty years ago in the Federation's great war, buried in the horrific abyss from which even God's favored couldn't escape.
No tales of angels had surfaced since. The Church would've trumpeted any sighting as a miracle.
"So, this might be the only angel left in the world? Even a minor one's a jackpot!"
Truman's breath quickened. The thought of this divine beauty becoming his obedient servant, her peerless face serving his desires daily, sent every cell in his body into a frenzy.
Mesmerized by her beauty, he hadn't forgotten the critical step: sealing the master-servant contract.
Letting this holy angel slip away would haunt him forever.
The contract was simple—recite the binding incantation and anoint the summoned creature with bodily fluid while it remained unconscious. This window had allowed him to tame the wild or volatile creatures before.
He'd lingered too long admiring her. Time for action. After hastily mumbling the incantation, Truman yanked off his pants, revealing his erect manhood.
Sure, blood or saliva could work as the "fluid," but he preferred marking his new slave with a thick load—a release of pent-up desire and a bold assertion of her place.
As Truman prepared to stroke himself, an awkward realization hit—his "brother" wasn't rising to the occasion.
A peerless beauty lay before him, untouchable for now, but his failure to get hard was entirely his own problem.
"Fuck, am I impotent?" A chill ran through him, terrified that his one source of joy was slipping away.
Soon, he pinpointed the issue: the angel's aura.
Even with her eyes closed, lying quietly on the floor, she exuded an indescribable presence—majestic yet holy, mysterious yet elegant. She seemed a sovereign meant to wield a crown, not a lowly slave. Paired with her criminally perfect face, she stifled any urge to defile her.
In short, faced with his goddess, he couldn't even muster the thought of getting hard.
"No way I'm letting this slide," Truman spat. "Can't get it up for a beauty? That's like admitting I'm defective!"
He grabbed a bottle of liquor and chugged until he was half-drunk. With alcohol fueling his courage, the angel's untouchable aura morphed into a lethal allure.
His breathing grew heavy, a strange thrill pooling in his lower half. Gripping his manhood, he felt ready to conquer the world.
"Time to fight side by side again, old friend," he said, glancing down with a cheesy declaration. "This time, I'll fuck even a god for you!"
His eyes locked onto the stunning girl, from her glassy halo to her slender wings, from her delicate toes to her flawless face. If looks could violate, she'd already be drenched in his essence.
Handwork paled compared to thrusting into a tight core, but stroking while gazing at her divine face had its own thrill. Truman panted, eyes unblinking, as if burning her image into his mind, his right hand working furiously, imagining he was already ravaging her angelic body.
In his mind, he kneaded her perfectly proportioned breasts, teasing her nipples until she moaned, then slapped her lush hips before gripping her slender waist and slamming into her, merging their bodies into one.
He wanted to seize her halo like a handle, pounding her mouth with savage thrusts, marking her exquisite face with his shape, then flooding it with his release, forcing her to acknowledge him as her eternal master.
Slap, slap! His fantasies felt almost real.
"Fuck, looking this good—trying to seduce me?" His eyes reddened, yearning to pierce her white robe and explore her divine form.
A tidal wave of pleasure surged through him. Sensing the moment, Truman didn't hold back. His restraint gave way, and thick, white streams erupted, threatening to paint everything before him.
Splurt, splurt, splurt!
As Elaviel, newly descended from the ethereal Kingdom of Heaven, opened her noble golden eyes, she was greeted by this absurd scene.