Humans only become complicated when they start thinking that their race, their identity as a "human," is who they truly are.
Think about it—if you believe you are just this body, this name, this skin tone, this gender, this religion, or this label… then everything you do becomes tangled in those ideas. That's when love turns into attachment, help becomes control, ego becomes pride, and pain becomes personal.
We love, we get angry, we drown in emotions. And that's normal. It's not that we are being irrational—it's just that we are trying to understand ourselves in a world that constantly offers us something. But what does it offer, really?
A mirror.
This world doesn't give us gold or wisdom or peace directly—it gives us a mirror. A mirror in the form of people, in experiences, in moments. A mirror to fall in love with.
A mirror that acts like a doorway—sometimes to love, sometimes to pain, and often... to lust.
And lust isn't just about craving sex. It's deeper.
Lust is a pull, a force that opens something hidden inside us. It exposes a very raw realization—one that only a few souls ever truly see or feel. Something not spoken of in day-to-day talks.
See, a man is like presence. Stillness. Grounding.
He's supposed to be the one standing tall when everything falls. In simple words, people say—"men are more physical." And they are. But not just because of their body—it's their nature. They're rooted.
A woman, though, is like chaos. Power. Movement. Emotion.
She is always changing form. Like water—sometimes calm, sometimes a storm. People say "women are more emotional." And that's not an insult—it's the highest compliment. It means she feels deeper, moves energy, shifts reality.
You can even see this difference in how they desire things.
A man might want riches—cars, money, status—because it makes him feel stable, grounded, in control.
A woman might accept those same riches—not because she wants the object—but because of the meaning tied to it. That diamond ring? She treasures the emotion behind the gift. The fact that he gave it. Not the price tag.
But when both these energies—man and woman—come together in the same space...
Lust enters.
Why do men and women crave sex?
Is it just to feel pleasure? For a few seconds of satisfaction?
Is it because a man enjoys entering the very place he was born from? Or because a woman enjoys being filled by something that, in the end, is just flesh?
No.
Sex is divine.
Because in that moment, the man—who represents stillness—holds chaos in his arms. He holds emotion in physical form.
He proves, for a second, that he can touch the untouchable. That he can possess something beyond money, beyond power, beyond ambition.
He cannot defeat emotions like love or pain or longing through power or force. But when he's inside a woman, for that brief moment, he wins.
Not over her—but over the chaos that rules him in the form of his uncontrollable desire for money, his need to be ahead of others that he can't suppress, and all the emotions are there in their raw form for him to ravage.
That's why masturbation never satisfies fully. Because that act lacks the divine paradox. It's only sensation. No surrender, no chaos, no mirror.
And for the woman? It's not just about being entered.
It's about her storm being seen, touched, held—and still not broken.
Her body melts into his, her emotions—once a storm—slow down.
Her heart, confused and chaotic, finally finds silence. And in that silence, she feels possessed—but not as property.
Possessed like meaningfully claimed—as if her being is now understood without needing to speak.
Her emotions, which were chaotic, were now pressed down by something far stronger, as if emotions that even she couldn't understand were understood by the man under whom she was right now.
But here's the catch...
Humans live with an illusion.
They know they'll die someday—but they still live like they'll be here forever.
They learn, grow, hustle, love, betray—all while lying to themselves that it matters forever. They make excuses like, "I'm doing it for my future," or "for my kids," or "for society," without realizing... they're just playing roles.
They don't realize: this isn't their only life.
They forget to question why they were born where they were born; they don't question why they are even doing all this, even being aware that death is inevitable.
But if you take beings like Vampires or Werewolves—the idea changes completely.
They don't die like humans do.
They live so long that the human attachment to sex being "divine" fades.
For them, sex becomes just a way to reproduce. Nothing else.
The magic vanishes.
The fire dies—not because they're cold, but because they've seen too much. Too many lovers, too many moons. They outlive emotion. Outlive the illusion.
So when humans cry during love, or feel holy after sex, it's not because they're dramatic.
It's because for them, it really is divine.
And now, in this very contrast, Lécan was feeling something strange, realizing that these memories he had gained about a deeper understanding of humans from that villain were at play.
Agatha, flustered and panicked, covered his eyes.
"Agatha?" he asked softly, brushing her hand away.
But she pushed him against the wall, not wanting him to see something—something she felt might shatter the version of him she had in her mind.
Because that's how humans are.
They say they want to protect others. But deep down? They don't want to be disappointed by seeing someone suffer, someone change... for themselves.
We help others... because we're afraid of seeing ourselves fail through them.
A rich man helps the poor not because he feels pity, but somewhere he feels that if he does not help the person, he will be disappointed in himself.
Agatha saw herself in him. A version of herself she wanted to be, pure, innocent, and still strong as he was.
And funnily enough, with the new memories, Lécan just understood that.
"No! Close your eyes, Lécan!" she shouted, her hands trembling. She tried to push him again and given her body he let himself retreat back to have her stumble and remove her hands, causing her head to fall against his chest.
Even through his apron, she felt it—the hardness, the strength in his chest.
Her soft cheek pressed into his toned body, and the difference between them screamed into her like vibrations.
Her breast molded against his abs, each breath from him like a signal... telling her how real he was. How solid. How grounded.
Just then—
"Hey, human. Stay away from him."
Velmira's voice cut through, sharp like a blade.
In that room, only Agatha was bothered by the fact that Velmira was naked.
"Kyah—!" Agatha screamed as she was pulled back. Her eyes widened.
In front of her bounced two large, shameless breasts—Velmira's—jiggling as she stepped between them.
The world tilted.
Not because of her falling as Lécan had already made the move to catch her... but because she saw a hand imprint of groping on Velmira's right boob.
Deep and red.
'Is... that his hand's...?''