The Awakening of the Fourteen Goddesses.
The gold pouring from the doorway slowly started to ease. It did not disappear—it relaxed, the final streaks of sunset receding from a mountaintop. Not abrupt. Not cruel. Soft. As if something very old had chosen to give him leave.
Loret let his arm drop away from his eyes, each step guarded, breath stuck somewhere in his throat. He crossed the threshold—and halted cold.
The air moved around him, closing in tight. His ears were ringing. His chest felt constricted. He blinked, attempting to interpret what was before him, but his mind could not believe it.
For this—this was something a man should not be able to see.
The chamber lay huge and still, holy in a manner that was not religious. It was not a cave, nor abandoned ruin. It was living. The walls arced in perfect symmetry, smoothed to a mirror finish, their shining stone pulsating with a slow, barely perceivable breath. Unusual runes glowed softly upon their faces, each flash like the heartbeat of the mountain itself.
The ceiling stretched upwards into a gigantic dome, impossibly tall, like entering the heart of a god's cathedral. So far above, patches of softly glowing stones drifted torpidly in mid-air like drifting stars, casting a warm, ethereal glow over the world below.
In the center was a tiny, perfectly circular pond, its water so motionless it might have been glass. Silver-petaled lilies burst through its rim, their ethereal reflections quivering in the soft teal light of the vines that wrapped around them. The air was filled with a light floral fragrance—sweet, soothing, intoxicating. Lilac-leaved trees bloomed in flawless arcs against the walls, their branches swaying softly though no breeze stirred them.
Loret barely breathed. The building was more lovely than that—holy. The whole room seemed to be a poem chiseled out of silence, feminine and sacred.
Then he saw them.
His heart stumbled.
Far down the room, carved from an unbroken curve, stood fourteen gigantic statues. Each was well over twenty feet tall, worked out in impossible detail, their forms radiating a loveliness that no mortal artist could craft. They weren't lifeless stone—not really. He could swear he saw the slight up and down of their chests, the faint strain of breath held just below the surface. Their hair, though dense, appeared to shine as the golden light kissed each lock.
They were not statues. They were waiting.
Loret's heartbeat pounded in his ears. He shifted forward automatically, each step a gradual invasion, the soft crunch of his boots seeming impossibly loud in the hallowed quiet.
Below them, under their unrelenting stare, was a mounded circular dais—an altar.
Two things lay upon it: a knife and a bowl.
The knife was simple, even barbarous, but the edge shone with a candor that held out the threat of pain. The bowl, however, was cut from perfect black crystal, so highly polished that it reflected his image—his white skin, his empty eyes, his weariness stripped naked.
Loret's brow furrowed. "Why…?"
Then he saw it.
Words, carved into the stone next to the offerings:
O Fated One—
If you wish to alter your life,
And are willing to accept great responsibility…
Then slice your hand.
Allow your blood to drop into this bowl.
Only then will you get what you want:
A life.
He gazed, throat constricting.
"…How?" he breathed, the word shivering out of him. "How did they know? I want life… and who the hell wrote this guarantee?"
The weight of the etched words bore down on him like a mountain, every syllable burrowing deeper. A chill ran down his back. Who had written this? And how did they know?
Know he would come. Know he would want to alter his destiny. Know about the illness consuming him from the inside out.
His chest constricted until it was painful. Was this actually occurring?
He considered the ascent—the endless white hills, the thin air searing his lungs. He considered the doctor's diagnosis, the death sentence given with pitying eyes. Seven months, they'd said. Seven months of decaying from within, waiting for the end to take him.
His eyes came up to the statues—silent, unblemished, waiting. Then back to the altar, the knife flashing alongside the crystal bowl.
Seven months? No. He was not here to die softly.
"If this is a trick," he whispered, voice steady and low, "then let it be a lovely one."
He advanced. The weight of the knife was cold in his hand, its metal biting into his skin. For a moment he stood there, looking at the tired face of himself staring back from the curved, polished steel.
Then—shk.
A quick, intentional drag across his hand. Agony flashed white-hot. His jaw was set as blood bubbled thick and red, running down in heavy beads—one… two… three—into the crystal basin.
Nothing at first.
Then—click.
A soft humming mechanical noise vibrated beneath the altar. Loret's breath arrested as the blood started to change—not receding, but flowing. Delicate streams of crimson spread into hairline channels in the stone, branching out like veins. Fourteen immaculate lines ran from the basin toward each statue.
His pulse thundered in his ears, each beat resonating in the great stillness. The blood he had shed no longer rested—it stirred. It flowed like a living serpent along the chilly stone floor, wrapping around the pedestals of the statues, gliding over their marble legs, scaling their chiseled bodies, until it found the eyes.
Then—snap.
A crack thin carved across the chest of the first statue, creeping up its legs, across its torso, and reaching the forehead. Another cutting crack. And another. Before long the crack was everywhere, ringing out in a swelling chorus.
The earth bucked beneath him. Loret stumbled, clutching the altar for support as a low, primal tremor thundered through the chamber, shuddering in his own bones as if the mountain itself were wakening from an eternal slumber.
His eyes flicked upwards. All the statues—fourteen of them—were now etched with spiky cracks.
BOOM.
Stone shells shattered into pieces one by one, exploding in blinding light and choking dust. And not one piece touched him. As if an invisible hand protected his body. Automatically, he huddled behind his arm, wincing against the brilliance.
Then—silence.
Out of that silence spoke a voice. Gentle. Sultry. Laughing.
"Mmm~ Finally. Someone came."
Loret's breath caught. Gradually, he let his arm down—and his world changed.
The first goddess sported emerald silk-like hair that fell in rippling waves, and soft green eyes that seemed to exhale life itself. She stood tall and elegant, her porcelain skin softly aglow beneath the golden light, her lines draped to perfection.
She was flanked by another vision—a goddess of flowing, cotton-candy pink hair falling to the small of her back and eyes polished rose quartz. Voluptuous, poised, stunning, she exuded a beauty that caused his pulse to stumble.
The third had midnight-colored hair framing a face of subdued intensity, her obsidian eyes glinting with a darkness mysterious and magnetic. Every contour of her hourglass body seemed carved to beguile and command.
A fourth goddess wore straight black locks and radiant violet eyes, her dignified stance rivaled only by the beauty of her full, seductive body.
The wild one followed next—blonde hair spilling in messy waves, glinting green eyes showing the joy of a killer. Her sneer was a provocation, her movements fluid with the deadly elegance of a killer.
The sixth glowed with a light akin to honey sunshine, her golden hair aglow, her blue eyes calm with reserved strength. Each lush swell of her pale skin testified to godlike craftsmanship.
A next rose a merry beauty with blue tinsel in her hair and eyes of the same hue, their flash veiling a deadly point. Her smile was provocative, her hip sway studied.
Braided dark hair topped the head of a regal woman whose gold-flecked eyes blazed with command. Gold-flecked tattoos etched her muscular arms, her tall, heavy curves radiating power.
The ninth floated weightless above the ground, hair streaming like dark ink around her, red-rimmed eyes blazing with evil curiosity as her curvy body writhed in slow, fluid motions.
One stood quiet—raven-colored hair, jet-black eyes, her tranquil face hiding the seething tempest within. Her statuesque figure exuded a stillness both comforting and deadly.
The eleventh's warmth seemed to envelop the air around her. Black hair straggled about her face, contemplative black eyes, her firm, seductive body exuding a heat that seeped into his pores.
Then a fierce beauty with black hair and shining golden eyes, a sharp smirk of derisive mockery revealing a warrior's confidence. Her full curves glided with trained precision.
The thirteenth goddess possessed silver-white hair like shed snow, cold blue eyes as boundless and icy as frozen lakes. She was tall, lithe, and shrouded in an aura of mystery. Beauty was sculpted out of winter.
And finally… a vision in light. Sparkling golden hair, shining gold eyes, and the heavenly aura of a queen from heaven. Two wings of an angel spread from her back—the sole one to have them—yet her statuesque, curvaceous frame was no less decadently perfect than the others.
He stood rigid, breath ragged, his chest constricted with wonder and incredulity.
Slowly, in horror yet captivated, he raised his eyes completely.
The statues had vanished.
floating in front of him were fourteen goddesses—alive, divine, impossibly lovely. Their feet dangled inches from the stone, their very bodies radiating an untruthful beauty that seemed to cut through the weave of reality. Silken streams of hair framed faces that could unmake monarchs. Gowns hung fondly upon hourglass shapes. Eyes of gold, pink, emerald, and violet glimmered with a knowing light.
He couldn't move. He couldn't think.
"This… can't be real."
His eyes roved futilely over them—fourteen glorious forms standing like statues fashioned out of dreams. Words were inadequate; no words could describe them. But something within his breast moved, a tug that was greater than wonder, greater than longing. It was as though some long-vacant spot in his heart had awaited them, and now, finally, it was filled.
Heat bloomed in his cheeks as he continued to stare, unable to tear his eyes away. Fourteen pairs of eyes met his, each holding its own mystery, its own silent claim on him. His face grew warm, his breath uneven.
A soft sound broke the air—a giggle, light and musical, laced with seduction.
"Ha-ha-ha~ Oh my… you're really cute. Too cute for your own good, husband~."
The playful, melodic voice shook him out of his trance. His gaze shot to the source. The pink-haired goddess glided closer, her silk gown hugging her voluptuous curves, rose-colored eyes sparkling with mirth. Her hair cascaded like liquid silk over bare shoulders, whipping back and forth with her motions.
"Mm? What is the matter?" she whispered, cocking her head, a tumble of pink slipping down her skin. "Cat got your tongue, Husband?"
"H-H-H-Husband?" Loret stuttered, the word spilling awkwardly from his mouth. His voice cracked, and he winced at himself. His face burned, ears tingling hot.
She just laughed again, smoothing back a hank of hair behind her ear, never releasing her gaze from his. "Aww," she teased, "you're even more adorable when you blush."
He could do nothing—speak nothing. He was stilled, trapped like prey in her stare. Helplessly and hopelessly doomed.
Behind him, the massive stone door creaked loudly as it swung shut. The last echo of the sound rolled through the chamber… imprisoning him within.
With them.