The room was a cathedral of sin, unapologetic degeneracy.
No candles or hymns here—just the soft glow of LED strips bathing posters of busty anime demonesses in pinkish light.
Their laminated curves glistened on every wall, each frame aligned with obsessive precision.
To the left, a shelf sagged under the weight of limited-edition dakimakuras, their pillowcase heroines signed in silver by voice actresses whose moans had fueled Takuya's nights for years.
To the right. The Shrine.
A glass case, locked and dustless, hummed with reverence.
Inside, first-edition hentai manga stood like sacred texts, their spines uncreased.
Uncensored DVD box sets gleamed beside a still-sealed SuccuSchool: Forbidden Afternoon Edition—number 69 of 69, a collector's holy grail.
Pink LEDs pulsed faintly, as if the case itself knew it housed divinity.
And in the center, sprawled on a creaking gaming chair, sat Takuya Kazama, 22, self-proclaimed scholar of smut and king of his own perverted empire.
His tank top clung to his scrawny frame, a ketchup stain blooming near the hem.
His boxers, emblazoned with chibi succubi, bore a suspicious damp patch he'd never admit to.
One hand clutched a can of lukewarm milk tea; the other hovered over his mouse, trembling with anticipation.
"Perfection," he murmured, eyes gleaming behind smudged glasses.
His monitor paused on a masterpiece.
Two elf MILFs, their robes half-torn, trapped in an elevator with a tentacle spirit.
The voice acting was orgasmic, each moan a symphony of depravity.
Takuya's heart raced—not from the scene, but from the package on his desk.
Thrust Arcadia: Mama's Edition.
Collector's box, foil-wrapped, numbered 0008.
Pre-order bonuses included a nude alternate sleeve and a disc holder scented with "milky peach."
He'd sold half his Steam library to afford it.
"Time to ascend," he whispered, voice reverent.
He slid a hobby knife under the tape, his hands steady as a surgeon's.
The foil parted, revealing the box's glossy art—a busty sorceress-mom winking at him.
His breath hitched.
His cock twitched, already half-hard from sheer proximity to greatness.
Then—squish.
His bare foot landed in something slick.
He glanced down.
A puddle of lotion, half-spilled from a bottle labeled Lusty Lavender.
"Shit," he muttered, shifting his weight.
The chair skidded.
Takuya flailed, his knife clattering.
His elbow caught a stack of Buxom Witches XL figurines, sending them tumbling.
The shelf above groaned, then buckled.
Dakimakuras slid like silk avalanches.
The glass case wobbled, and—
CRASH.
The SuccuSchool box, his sacred relic, plummeted.
It struck his temple with the force of divine judgment.
Pain flared, then faded to black. The air reeked of melting plastic and cheap body spray.
His last thought, as consciousness slipped away.
This is the dumbest, horniest way to die.
And I'm okay with that.
.
.
.
Weightlessness.
Not the kind from too much energy drink, but true, disorienting nothingness.
Takuya drifted, naked and untethered, in a void that felt like the pause between hentai scenes.
No pain. No shame.
Just… him.
"Huh," he mumbled. "So this is the afterlife? Kinda underwhelming."
Memories flickered like a pirated stream.
Thighs rendered in 4K.
Mosaics that teased more than they hid.
That one doujin where he'd sobbed because the succubus got her happy ending.
His life, distilled into a montage of glorious, unrepentant filth.
"I regret nothing," he declared to the void.
And he meant it.
No girlfriend, no kisses, no real-world lays since that awkward middle-school fumble.
But his collection?
That was his legacy.
His art. His love.
Still, he sighed. "Should've mopped up that lotion."
The darkness rippled.
Space folded, soft as silk sheets.
A scent bloomed—rose oil, sweat, and something dangerously intimate, like a boudoir after hours.
Colors swirled. Crimson, gold, violet.
Takuya's skin prickled, his nerves humming with a heat that settled low and heavy.
He landed, knees sinking into plush rugs. Silk pillows cushioned his fall.
The air thrummed with erotic promise, thick with perfume that made his head swim and his cock stir.
His eyes lifted.
A throne floated before him, carved from writhing, moaning shapes—flesh made art, draped in gossamer veils. And atop it lounged her.
Lyseria, Goddess of Lust.
Beauty didn't cover it—she was desire incarnate, sculpted from every fantasy Takuya had ever jacked off to.
Her hair cascaded like violet-tinged gold, shifting in the light.
Her skin glowed, golden and flawless, her breasts spilling over crossed arms with a weight that defied physics.
A translucent veil clung to her curves, teasing without concealing.
Her eyes, red as sin, sparkled with amusement.
"You died like a true degenerate," she purred, voice like honey poured over coals.
It hit Takuya like a physical touch, hardening him instantly.
"Crushed by your own porn shrine. Exquisite."
He blinked, mouth dry. "Uh… thanks?"
Lyseria laughed, a sound that vibrated through his bones.
"You're a rare one, Takuya Kazama. Shameless. Devoted. Utterly broken by lust." She rose, her bare feet glowing with divine aura, each step a deliberate tease.
The air pulsed with her presence, and Takuya's breath caught as her scent—roses and forbidden spice—enveloped him.
"I'm bored," she said, circling him.
Her fingers brushed his shoulder, sending sparks down his spine.
"This world drowns in chastity. Repressed queens, lonely mothers, nuns choking on their own vows. You'll fix that. As my Envoy."
Takuya's grin was crooked but eager.
"So… I get to bang hot MILFs for a goddess? Sign me up."
Her smile sharpened.
"Oh, it's not that simple." She leaned close, her breath warm against his ear.
"Fail me, and your soul becomes a monk's—celibate, impotent, forever."
Her nails grazed his chest, drawing a shudder. "Succeed… and you'll taste power no mortal can dream of."
He swallowed, arousal warring with fear. "Deal."
Lyseria snapped her fingers.
The air ignited with crimson symbols, spinning like gears around him.
A translucent panel materialized, glowing with text.
LUSTBOUND CODE: ENGAGED