Chapter 71
Written by Bayzo Albion
"On a white horse—Pestilence.
On a red horse—War.
On a black horse—Famine.
On a pale horse—Death."
Her voice carried the weight of prophecy, spoken in the middle of our shared intensity. The contrast was almost unreal — as if the end of days brushed against us, the cosmos choosing this moment to shift its axis.
Speaking during such a charged moment felt strange, yet the strangeness only deepened the trance. What bound us wasn't desire but something far older — a ritual heartbeat that echoed beyond the physical, as though invisible forces pulled us into a dance neither of us could stop.
*Is paradise slowly morphing into my old world?* I wondered. *What if that previous realm wasn't hell, but merely its shadow? Perhaps true hell is where love is supplanted by fear.*
"Why now? Why so suddenly?" I asked, my hands tightening on her waist, as if the answer might surface through the tension between us.
"Everything in this world is cyclical," she said, her gaze locking onto mine, her pupils reflecting an endless abyss. "Light yields to darkness, day to night. Only through suffering do we learn to value joy. Without evil, good loses meaning. Without fear, courage fades."
I leaned closer, brushing a gentle kiss against her neck, feeling the faint tremor of her breath. Her silhouette moved with quiet grace before me—soft lines, steady rhythm, a presence that felt both grounding and otherworldly. I held her, traced her form with reverence, rediscovering a pulse of life I thought I'd lost long ago. All the disappointments and buried fears of my past seemed to dissolve in that moment.
A serene bliss settled over everything: her quiet sighs, the whisper of the sea breeze, the salty tang drifting through the air, the warm sunlight filtering through the translucent silk around us—casting the illusion that, for an instant, the world's turmoil could not reach us.
Here, fear had no place.
No dread of consequences, no weight of judgment, nothing to fracture the purity of the moment.
In this realm, being a man meant freedom—clarity instead of anxiety, presence instead of hesitation.
"I could fall in love with you," she whispered, her cheek brushing mine. "But what I cherish most is that you let me simply… exist. No masks. No pretense."
I didn't answer with words. I held her closer, drawing her into an embrace that resonated deeper than speech. She responded in kind, her arms circling me, her presence warm and steady, as if claiming a place that had always belonged to her.
A surge of emotion washed through us—sudden, overwhelming, like thunder breaking across a clear sky. But unlike the old world, where intense moments faded as quickly as they came, here they ignited something new. The Forest Queen didn't dim; she shone brighter, her essence unfurling like hidden light finally allowed to breathe.
We lay side by side in our silken haven, gazing at the silver horizon where sea met sky. The ocean's roar hummed like a lullaby, the wind threading through her hair and carrying her scent in soft waves. She nestled closer.
And in that quiet aftermath, I understood: everything had aligned exactly as it should.
It was… sublime.
– – –
I didn't need to be separated from the Main Self. Yet he did it anyway. That thought clings to me like a splinter buried deep under the skin, impossible to ignore. The bond between us has faded to a dull whisper, like an ancient spell that's lost its potency—still there, but only faintly, echoing like the distant toll of a bell on the edge of hearing. I feel abandoned, like an angel cast out from paradise, wings clipped and left to wander the mortal coil.
I promised the Forest Queen I'd accelerate my plans, and now I'm making good on that vow—scouting for people, building an army, forging my own nation. But the further I push forward, the more absurd my situation becomes. I'm a divine being, reduced to this?
"I'm nothing but a slave to a woman's... foot," I mutter under my breath, the words tasting bitter on my tongue. "No, worse. I'm henpecked. A god under her heel. The irony is exquisite..."
My first instinct was to confront the Main Self—the one who severed me from our core, our essence. I needed to understand his scheme, the twisted logic behind this betrayal.
I entered the village. The gates swung open silently, as if the very quietude of the place was conspiring to bear witness to what lay ahead. And there, in the central square, a scene unfolded that twisted something deep in my chest. Dozens of women—slaves—stood chained together, their eyes hollow voids, bodies battered and broken. Collars gleamed around their necks like cruel jewelry, turning their throats into displays of someone else's possession. Magnetic restraints clamped their wrists and ankles, heavy and unforgiving, etching bloody welts into their skin. The air hung thick with the metallic tang of blood and the acrid scent of fear-sweat.
"What in the hells is going on here?!" My voice cracked out sharper than I intended, and a few of the captives flinched, as if expecting a blow from me as well. I whirled on the nearest guard, a knight standing impassive in his armor.
"The village chief bought a batch of cheap slaves," he replied flatly, as if discussing sacks of grain rather than living, breathing souls.
"Why so many?" I demanded, my stomach churning with rising fury.
"War and devastation have driven prices down," he shrugged, unconcerned. "No idea what he's planning with them. Maybe building a harem... or an army. Who can say what's in that skirt-chaser's head?"
His casual dismissal grated like nails on stone. I scanned the women again, and a vise tightened around my heart. I'd come seeking answers from the Main Self, but instead, I'd stumbled into a marketplace of human flesh—a grotesque auction of despair.
I peered closer. Every single slave was a woman. Young, diverse in appearance: dark-haired and fair, skins ranging from porcelain pale to deep ebony, as if plucked from every corner of the world. But their eyes... all shared the same extinguished spark, as if some infernal fire had scorched the life from within.
"Listen," I lowered my voice, turning back to the knight, "are men fetching high prices on the market right now?"
"Oh, absolutely," he smirked. "In tough times like these, men are worth more than gold. Any fool knows that."
"Got it. Thanks."
I pushed toward the heart of the square. Under a canopy of crimson silk that billowed like a bloodstained sail, the Main Self lounged in regal indifference, as if the entire spectacle was a scripted performance he'd authored himself. He inspected each slave personally, appraising them like a connoisseur evaluating rare artifacts. His touches were shameless, clinical: sniffing their scent, probing their forms, commanding them into provocative poses.
Occasionally, he'd step closer, adjusting a strand of hair or brushing a fingertip against a collarbone—small gestures, clinical and detached, as if checking reactions rather than seeking intimacy. Then, with a brief motion, he would sort them: into the white camp or the black.
The white camp—reserved for those deemed promising.
The black—for the rest, those he considered insignificant.
I drew nearer, and he spotted me instantly, but no surprise flickered in his eyes.
"What are you doing?" My words came out choked, laced with revulsion. "Have you lost your mind to power?"
He met my gaze steadily, the corners of his mouth curling into a faint, knowing smile.
"I'm collecting women," he said evenly, as if discussing stamps or minerals.
"Why? This is... depraved. We weren't like this. We were better."
"We?" He chuckled softly. "Have you forgotten how we used to hide… let's call them forbidden folders? Renaming files, tucking things away on flash drives, dodging curious eyes? We've always been collectors.
Back then, it was digital secrets.
Now, it's people."
"But this is different!" I exploded. "These aren't images—they're people! With wills, emotions, fears..."
"Wills?" He cut me off. "Not here. I created this world. Here, I'm god. You're just a shadow, forced to play by my rules. I'm simply manifesting what we've always dreamed of but were too afraid to admit—even to ourselves."
He turned to the next slave in line. She trembled, naked and vulnerable, arms clutched to her chest in a futile bid for modesty, her whole body radiating a desperate wish to vanish into thin air. The sight twisted my insides further.
"Admit it," he said without looking at me, "you're intrigued too. Don't play the saint."
Something boiled up inside me—rage, or perhaps a darker pull, a forbidden curiosity. I couldn't tell where one ended and the other began, the line blurring like ink in water.
The next in queue was a voluptuous elf with eyes like polished emeralds. Unlike the others, she wasn't broken; her stance held a playful defiance, lips parted just so, gaze bold and challenging. Seduction seemed to emanate from her like a living thing, circling hungrily, ready to pounce and sink its teeth into your throat. Her skin shimmered faintly with an otherworldly glow, and the air around her carried a subtle, intoxicating floral musk that stirred unwanted memories.
"What happened to you?" I breathed, my eyes darting between her and the Main Self. "You've let go of the reins. Given in to greed? Or just stopped pretending to be human?"