Lust Sync: Every Woman Wants Me Now

The rain fell in thin, whispering sheets, a relentless shroud that veiled the city below in grief. Rooftops smoldered, their embers glowing like dying stars against the night. Sirens wailed, a chorus of despair, and the acrid scent of blood and ash hung heavy in the air. Yet within the obsidian throne room of the Citadel, where the Shadow Executioner's guttural roar still echoed in fading reverberations, an oppressive silence reigned.

Arin stood at the chamber's heart, his chest heaving, his sword dripping with corrupted ichor that hissed as it burned into the stone floor. His golden eyes flickered, caught between the radiant glow of Creation and the abyssal gleam of Destruction. The twin forces within him churned violently, a tempest threatening to tear his mortal frame apart. Every breath was a battle, every heartbeat a reminder of the divine war raging inside him.

Across the room, Lysara knelt, her breath ragged, her once-pristine robes torn to tatters. Her celestial wings, half-unfurled, trembled with exhaustion, their pearlescent feathers streaked with soot and blood. One eye was swollen shut, her lip split and bleeding, a testament to the ferocity of the battle they'd just endured. She had fought beside Arin against the Shadow Executioner, a godspawn of nightmare, and nearly paid with her life.

"Arin," she rasped, her voice barely above a whisper, "you… you stopped it. The Executioner… he's gone."

"No," Arin said, his voice low, haunted. "He's not."

He turned his gaze toward the throne at the far end of the chamber. It loomed, carved from obsidian and etched with runes that pulsed with latent malice. The throne was empty. The monstrous godspawn hadn't been slain—it had evaporated into a writhing mass of shadows, retreating through a rift Arin hadn't sensed until it was too late. The air still crackled with the residue of its escape, a mocking reminder of his failure.

Lysara tried to stand, but a sharp wince crumpled her, and she collapsed to one side. Arin moved without thought, catching her before she hit the ground. His arm wrapped around her, steadying her fragile form, and for a fleeting moment, they both stilled in the silence of shared exhaustion and disbelief. Her warmth against him was a stark contrast to the cold dread coiling in his chest.

"You shouldn't have pushed yourself," he murmured, his voice softer now, laced with concern.

"You always say that," Lysara whispered, a faint smile tugging at her bloodied lips. "And then you do worse."

Their eyes met, and a rueful smile passed between them, fragile and fleeting, a moment of humanity amidst the chaos. But the moment shattered as a tremor rippled through the floor, deep and resonant, like the heartbeat of something ancient awakening.

Arin tensed, his grip on Lysara tightening. "Get behind me."

The Citadel trembled again, not from the aftershocks of battle but from something far more sinister—a summoning. A black circle spread across the base of the throne, its edges etched with runes that shimmered with an ancient, ravenous hunger. Shadows pooled within the circle, stretching and rising, coalescing into the form of a woman cloaked in darkness. Her features were veiled, obscured by a shroud of writhing mist, but her eyes gleamed like dying stars—cold, ancient, and all-knowing.

"Who are you?" Arin demanded, his sword raised, its blade still slick with ichor.

Her voice was a whisper of silk laced with razors, cutting through the air with chilling precision. "I am the Emissary of the Deep Gate."

Lysara's breath caught, her wings twitching involuntarily. "The Deep Gate… it's real?"

The Emissary stepped forward, her movements fluid, unbothered by their shock or the weight of the moment. "You are closer than ever, Arin. The seals weaken. The gods fear you, and for good reason. You walk the edge of absolution and oblivion."

Arin's jaw tightened, the twin forces within him surging in protest. "I never asked to become this."

"No," the Emissary replied, her tone devoid of pity. "But you were chosen. And soon, the Gate will open—whether you will it or not."

She raised a hand, and a shard of glass floated toward him, glimmering with stardust and chaos, its surface alive with shifting images of worlds born and unmade. Arin caught it instinctively, his fingers closing around its cold, smooth surface. It didn't burn him. It *accepted* him.

Memories not his own flooded his mind—visions of the Deep Gate, a cosmic wound in reality, pulsing with forbidden power. He saw gods kneeling in fear, their divine forms crumbling to ash. He saw a world undone, its skies torn apart, its seas boiling, all in his name. And then, a voice—faint, familiar, and achingly tender.

"Arin… my son…"

He staggered back, the shard embedding itself in his palm like a living rune. Pain and memory intertwined, searing his soul. Lysara grabbed his arm, her eyes wide with alarm. "What's wrong?"

He blinked, his breath short, ragged. "I heard her. My mother."

The Emissary tilted her head, her veiled smile sharp and cruel. "You begin to remember. Good. You will need all your memories to face what's coming."

"What's coming?" Arin demanded, his voice raw with desperation.

Her smile widened, and behind her veil, it was a thing of malice. "The Reaping."

With that, she vanished, the shadows collapsing into nothingness, leaving only the echo of her words and a lingering chill. The air grew still, but something fundamental had shifted. Arin looked at the shard in his palm, now fused with his flesh, its faint pulse synchronized with his heartbeat.

A countdown had begun.

---

The days that followed were a descent into chaos. The world itself seemed to fracture. Storms raged without warning, their lightning splitting mountains and igniting forests. Beasts born from forgotten ages—scaled monstrosities and winged horrors—awakened across continents, their roars shaking the earth. Temples dedicated to the old gods burned in sacred cities, their statues weeping blood as priests screamed of betrayal. The people cried out for heroes, but the heroes were already bleeding, their strength stretched to the breaking point.

Arin gathered his allies at the Forge of Aeons, an ancient sanctuary hidden among the jagged spires of Mount Yyr. Its walls, carved from star-forged stone, hummed with latent power, but even this sacred place felt fragile under the weight of the coming storm. Lysara stood at his right, her wounds wrapped in healing bandages, her celestial wings tucked tightly against her back. Despite her injuries, her defiance burned brighter than ever, her gaze steady as she watched Arin.

Zeren the Bladeseer, once a rogue assassin who thrived in the shadows, now bound to Arin through shared visions of apocalyptic futures, paced the chamber like a caged predator. His twin daggers glinted in the dim light, his restlessness a mirror to the group's unease. The Oracle twins, Serin and Elira, sat cross-legged near the forge's central flame, their silver eyes unfocused as they whispered predictions even they couldn't fully decipher. Their voices overlapped in eerie harmony, a litany of fragmented warnings.

Kaelis, the last warlock of the Moonborn, knelt at the chamber's edge, burning incense that curled like spirits into the air. Her hands traced sigils to seal a breach between worlds, her brow furrowed with concentration. "We're losing time," she muttered, her voice taut. "The Veil between realms is thinning faster than predicted."

"Because the Deep Gate isn't sealed anymore," Serin said, her voice distant, as if speaking from another plane. "It's cracking."

Elira's gaze flicked to Arin, her expression unreadable. "You have to choose, Arin. Soon."

He knew what she meant. The power within him—Creation and Destruction—could no longer coexist peacefully. Every time he drew on one, the other rebelled, threatening to shatter his body and soul. It was like housing two warring titans in a vessel of flesh and bone, each vying for dominance. His hands trembled as he clenched them, the shard in his palm pulsing faintly.

"I don't get to choose," he said bitterly, his voice barely above a whisper. "Either I become the blade… or I become the storm."

Lysara stepped forward, her bandaged hand resting lightly on his arm. "Then let us help you forge that choice."

At her signal, Zeren approached with an obsidian chest, its surface etched with wards that glowed faintly in the firelight. "This was recovered from the ruins of Arkheros," Lysara said, her voice steady despite the pain in her eyes. "Your father's last vault."

Arin stared at the chest, his heart pounding. His father—a god who had walked as a man, whose memory was shrouded in fire and silence—had left behind only fragments, each more dangerous than the last. With a steadying breath, he unlatched the chest and lifted the lid.

Inside lay a crown, forged of midnight silver and lined with crystalline bone that shimmered like moonlight on a frozen sea. At its center pulsed a heartstone—an eye of twilight, blinking as if alive. Arin's hand hovered over it, hesitation warring with necessity. The air grew heavy, the forge's flames dimming as if in reverence—or fear.

He lifted the crown, and his body screamed. Power surged into him—raw, untamed, divine. It was as if the universe itself poured into his veins, threatening to unmake him. Visions flooded his mind: the end of the world, cities reduced to ash, skies torn asunder. He saw his friends—Lysara, Zeren, Kaelis, the twins—falling one by one, their blood staining the earth. He saw the gods laughing, their thrones built on the bones of mortals. And at the heart of it all, he saw himself, cloaked in silver fire, wielding a blade of Final Judgment, his eyes empty of mercy.

He dropped the crown, gasping, his knees buckling. Lysara caught him, her hands steady despite her own wounds. "What did you see?" she asked, her voice urgent.

"Me," he whispered, his voice breaking. "As a god. As a tyrant. As the end."

Zeren frowned, his daggers still in hand. "It's a vision. One of many."

"No," Arin said, his voice hollow. "It's the one the world fears."

And perhaps, he thought, the one it needs.

---

That night, as the moons split the sky in a jagged dance of light and shadow, Arin stood alone on the edge of the Forge, the wind howling through the spires. The stars above shimmered strangely, their patterns distorted, as if warning him of a truth he wasn't ready to face.

A voice slithered from the darkness behind him. "You think you're still mortal, boy?"

Arin turned, his hand on his sword. A man stood there, cloaked in living shadows that writhed like serpents. His face was familiar—too familiar. It was Arin, but older, colder, his hair darkened to pitch, his eyes burning with ruthless clarity. A scar ran across his cheek, one Arin didn't yet bear.

"Who—" Arin began, but the words caught in his throat.

"I'm what you become if you choose Destruction," the shadow Arin said, his voice a low growl. "I am your future. Your inevitability."

"You're a phantom," Arin spat, his grip tightening on his sword.

"I'm your truth."

They circled each other like wolves, the air crackling with tension. The shadow Arin's blade—black as the void—gleamed with a hunger that mirrored the Deep Gate's runes.

"You think you can save them all?" the shadow sneered. "You'll have to break them first. Every city, every god, every hope. Burn it to ash, and from the cinders—create the world you deserve."

"I won't become you," Arin growled, his golden eyes flaring.

"You already have."

The shadow lunged, and their blades clashed—silver against black, will against fate. The impact sent a shockwave through the Forge, the spires trembling. Arin fought with everything he had, but the shadow matched him blow for blow, its movements a dark mirror of his own. Each strike felt like a wound to his soul, each parry a step closer to the abyss.

And then, at the moment of their fiercest clash, a crack split the sky. The stars screamed, their light fracturing into jagged shards. The Deep Gate opened, a celestial tear that ripped reality apart, its edges pulsing with blood-red light.

Something descended—not a god, not a beast, but a child, cloaked in feathers the color of fresh blood, its eyes glowing white with an unnatural radiance. The Oracle twins, watching from the Forge's entrance, screamed in unison, their voices a haunting chorus:

"The Child of Undoing has arrived!"

Arin staggered back, his blade lowering as he stared at the child. It hovered above the ground, its tiny form radiating a power that dwarfed even the gods. Its eyes locked onto his, and it smiled—a smile that was both innocent and apocalyptic.

"Father," it said, its voice a melody of creation and ruin.

The shard in Arin's palm burned, the crown at his feet pulsed, and the shadow Arin laughed—a cold, triumphant sound that echoed into the void. The Deep Gate widened, and from its depths, a chorus of voices—ancient, wrathful, and hungry—began to chant his name.

The world held its breath, waiting for Arin to answer.