My Wives Are A Divine Hive Mind

The violet beams lanced through the air with merciless precision, each branching arc carving through the horde like a scythe through wheat, erasing duplicates in bursts of incandescent entropy.

The leader's mind raced, a storm of instinct and calculation clashing against the madness that defined her existence.

Every fiber of her being screamed retreat, survival, anything but this slaughter, but the weight of command pinned her in place, her claws digging into the cracked earth as she watched her sisters dissolve into nothingness.

The Renenutet's Judgment—though she knew it only as some unseen and unrelenting force—fired relentlessly, its hyper-concentrated balls forming faster now, the intervals shrinking from the initial ten seconds to mere heartbeats, grating the army like cheese under a blade.

More thanfFive thousand of the duplicates gone already, conjurations unraveling into wisps, their fifteen-thousand-strong combined with conjured monsters was nothing but a joke against this invisible reaper.

The Lust Tier hovered above, its armored form a silhouette of infernal grace, blindfold radiating psychic mockery that clawed at their minds. "Oh, come on, bunnies," it cooed, its voice a velvet whip, laced with flirtatious venom. "Is that all you've got? Run faster, scream louder—make it entertaining! Or are you done playing?"

The leader's breath came in ragged gasps, cold sweat beading on her skin, trickling down her temple as the beams claimed another wave—two hundred more, their giggles silenced mid-cackle.

Her red eyes darted to the mage beside her, pale and trembling despite her snark, runes flickering weakly on her talisman.

It was no illusion that the horde faltered, some duplicates hesitating at the fractured land's edge. Whispers rippled through the remnants.

But others, their madness unyielding, snarled and lunged forward, conjurations surging with them in a desperate bid for the watchtower's empty shadow.

No. This wasn't conquest, it was suicide.

The leader's knife trembled in her grip, her instincts overriding the bloodlust that had birthed her from the relic's curse.

She dropped to her knees, the earth biting into her flesh, and slammed her forehead to the ground in full prostration, her cloak pooling like spilled blood.

"Mercy!" she screamed, her voice raw, cracking through the chaos, louder than the beams' silent fury. "We surrender! Spare us—your will is absolute! We yield, we beg, we break!"

Cold sweat poured even denser, soaking her cloak, her body shaking as if the ground itself rejected her presence. Her bones trembled as it had been grated with sharp steel.

The words tore from her throat, a plea stripped of pride, her red eyes squeezed shut against the halo's distant glow she imagined piercing the sky.

The horde stuttered, a ripple of confusion spreading.

Some duplicates froze, claws slackening, their giggles dying into whimpers as they glanced between the leader and the relentless violet apocalypse.

"Leader… what do we do?" one whispered, her voice small, the madness flickering like a dying flame. "You're the leader, tell us what to do, dammit!'

"Can't you see what I'm doing, you absolute moron!" The leader hissed. "We can't do anything but yield!"

But not all bent—a rogue duplicate, her eyes wild with unquenched fury, snarled and charged the Lust Tier, claws extended, a conjured shadow beast lunging beside her.

"I'll rip your blindfold off, you mocking whore!"

Panic surged through the leader like ice in her veins.

No—no, that would doom them all.

With a guttural roar, she lunged, her knife plunging into the rogue's back, twisting through flesh and bone in a spray of crimson.

The duplicate gasped, staggering, her shadow beast dissipating as the leader yanked the blade free and smashed the rogue's head to the ground with a sickening crack, pinning it there in forced submission.

"Stupid bitch!" the leader snarled, her voice a venomous wrath, face inches from the rogue's twitching form. "You think charging a divine envoy will save us? You think that we will somehow come up miraculously with victory? You'll drag us all to oblivion! Kneel, grovel, now! Or I'll carve your heart out myself!"

The rogue whimpered, her regeneration knitting the wound but not her will, her body slumping in defeat as the leader ground her face into the dirt, blood mixing with soil.

The Lust Tier clapped slowly, its needle-like legs tapping the air, its grin widening behind the blindfold's psychic veil. "Oh, bravo! Stabbing your own kin—now that's commitment. What stopped you from doing that to us sooner, hmm? Too busy playing gods yourselves?" Its voice dripped with delight, the psychic hum intensifying, coiling around their minds like silken chains, tempting despair. "How about those who had done the same prayers and begging, but to you instead of us. What did you do? Did you spare and agree to the wishes, hmm?"

Another beam barrage lanced out, claiming fifty more, their forms winking out in violet flashes, the horde's remnants—barely a thousand now—shuddering as one.

The act broke them. The leader's desperation rippled outward, a chain reaction of survival overriding madness.

Duplicates dropped to their knees, cloaks pooling, claws scraping the earth as they prostrated, foreheads to the ground in a sea of groveling forms.

"We yield! Spare your unworthy servants—your light blinds us, your power humbles us!"

"Mercy! Please give us mercy"

"We are nothing but ants, we beg you to spare us!"

They chorused, voices a fractured wail, pleas tumbling over one another.

The conjurations, bereft of command, dissipated into shadows, the air thick with their fading snarls.

The mage collapsed beside the leader, her pale face ashen, runes dim, whispering frantic prayers amid the cacophony.

The sky cracked open then, a rift of pure radiance splitting the crimson veil, golden light cascading like a waterfall of judgment.

From its heart descended a holy being, her form ethereal against the chaos, stepping down on invisible stairs that shimmered into existence with each graceful footfall.

The Living Deity of Harvest, her silver-yellow hair flowing like liquid sunlight, her white dress billowing in an unfelt wind, her halo a blazing corona that bathed the plains in divine warmth.

She moved with serene authority, each step echoing faintly, the air humming with her presence, the fractured land seeming to bloom faintly beneath her glow—grass stirring, and so did the hell or heaven she was about to cast upon these sinners.

The divine being halted before the groveling leader, towering not in height but in essence, a goddess standing in judgment over sinners in a chamber of reckoning.

The leader dared not lift her gaze, her body pressed flat, cold sweat mingling with the dirt, her knife forgotten in the soil.

The halo's light was an enormous weight, pressing down, illuminating every flaw, every sin etched into their forms.

Yet the deity smile was gentle, a soft curve of lips that belied the power radiating from her, her eyes—warm gold flecked with prism—gazing upon the horde with what seemed like compassion.

"I am Kivas Chariot," she said, her voice a melody of harvest winds and fertile earth, carrying across the plains like a blessing and a curse intertwined. "Living Deity of Harvest—as in, not fully divine, half-mortal still, tethered to the fears and frailties of flesh and unsung madness of survival.

"This mortality… it is my gift and my chain. It reminds me of the future's shadows, the inevitability of defeat that lurks in every dawn. Like a beautiful sorrow waiting to claim me in my bed, I stayed awake in the deepest chasm of despair, waiting for death to arrive.

"And in that fear, I find motivation—to rise, to prepare, to weave protections against the cruelty that defines this world." Her words flowed like a sermon, each syllable blooming with intent, the air growing heavy with the scent of fresh soil and blooming fields, a stark contrast to the blood and ash. "I sought nothing but the happiness and safety of myself and of my people, to build heaven where they don't need to hold a weapon in their sleeps, free as the wind and gentle prodding of the morning dew~"

The horde trembled, their prostrations deepening, whispers of awe and terror mingling with their pleas.

The leader's heart hammered, her mind a whirlwind of dread, the gentle tone twisting like a blade in her gut.

Kivas stepped closer, her bare feet touching the earth without a sound, the ground seeming to cradle her, faint vines stirring at her hem.

She loomed over the leader, a figure of serene judgment, her halo casting long shadows that danced like accusing fingers.

"Pray," Kivas commanded, her voice soft yet unyielding, a decree wrapped in velvet. "Pray as hard as your souls can bear. Let your pleas rise to me, the deity of plenty and peril."

The command ignited them. A cacophony erupted, rising in a crescendo of desperation—voices overlapping in frantic harmony, pleas tumbling like overripe fruit from a shaken tree.

"Mercy, Living Deity! Spare us your wrath—we are but shadows of sin!" one wailed, her claws scraping furrows in the dirt.

"We yield our blades, so don't yield our lives as well!" another begged, her body shaking with sobs.

The leader joined, her voice cracking, words spilling in a torrent, "Harvest Mother, forgive our harvest of blood. Here, we grovel, we break—your light consumes us, but let it spare our forms, for we are nothing but sinners of untold curses from beyond…"

"Is this related to the relic you mentioned?" Kivas spoke to Samael through telepathy.

"We are currently analyzing the relic alongside with the original," Samael replied, watching over Naryashui and Oizys, together with Fymnhendyr trying to decrypt and uncover the secret of the relic on the spot, inside the moving fortress. "Although the corruption might lead to their madness, the fact that they are so scared to the point that the corruption barely even matter, it must mean that they still commit all of their atrocities with clear intention."

"Right," Kivas answered in the telepathy channel. "Even when the sinner reforms and asks for forgiveness, the fact that the deed has been done, can't be changed in the end."

The prayers swelled, a symphony of sinners' supplications, echoing across the plains, raw and unfiltered, each duplicate pouring their essence into the plea for life, for breath, for anything but oblivion.

The leader, amid the din, felt a compulsion stir—curiosity born of terror, a need to see the face of their judge.

She lifted her gaze, peering through the dazzling halo's light, the golden radiance parting like mist.

And there it was.

Kivas's smile, gentle no longer, twisted into a sadistic curve, her eyes gleaming with dark delight, a predator savoring the hunt's end.

The deity's expression before her was one of wicked joy, her lips parted in a grin that promised torments beyond death, her halo flaring brighter as if feeding on their despair.

Their prayers faltered, the crescendo peaking into silence as realization dawned.

Kivas's voice cut through, playful yet laced with steel. "Your prayers have been heard, my wayward children. But so have the prayers of those you've reaped~

"Their voices rise from the earth you stained, cursing your names, begging for justice upon your forms. The tortured, the devoured, the broken in hopeless agony… they pray for your suffering, for the worst of the worst of the worst of the worst of the worst—" She tilted her head, her smile widening, a goddess of harvest turned reaper. "You prayed to live, to be spared—nothing more. And I am kind, benevolent in my plenty. I shall abide by your wishes~

"However, retribution remains to be upholded."

The leader's world went black, consciousness slipping like sand through claws, the halo's light the last thing she saw—a blinding promise of twisted mercy.

Awareness returned in fragments, a haze of confinement and muffled voices.

The duplicate leader stirred, her mind sluggish, body heavy as if encased in iron.

She was in a pod, its curved walls of smooth metal humming with latent energy, cramped and unyielding, pressing against her like a coffin.

Panic surged—she willed her claws to slash, her voice to scream for release—but nothing responded.

Her limbs lay inert, her mouth sealed in silence, a prisoner in her own flesh.

Voices filtered through, distant at first, then sharpening: "The conversion's stable. Their core has been synced."

"Good. Let's try testing one of them."

The pod hissed, seals releasing with a pneumatic sigh, cool air rushing in.

The leader's body moved without her command, unfolding from the confines, her form rising on legs that weren't hers.

She emerged into a chamber of gleaming Eulanite and glowing runes, the air thick with the scent of ozone and blooming fields—a sterile sanctum beneath Vaingall's heart.

Before her stood Kivas, halo dimmed to a soft glow, her white dress pristine, flanked by four figures.

Samael, wings folded, eyes sharp. Fymnhendyr, antlers glinting, smile enigmatic. Oizys, arms crossed, expression analytical—and Karen, notepad in hand, gaze curious yet detached.

Kivas's voice, gentle once more, carried the weight of command. "RABU-1, emerge. Report readiness."

The leader's body complied, her voice emerging not as her own but a robotic feminine timbre, smooth and devoid of inflection. "RABU-1 online. Systems nominal. Ready for generic activity."

The words hung in the air, a hollow echo of submission, as the leader's mind screamed within the cage of her new form.

The sadistic goddess's benevolent cruelty complete.