My Wives Are A Divine Hive Mind

The Lust Tier hovered amid the fractured plains, its needle-like legs piercing the earth like silent daggers, its blindfolded face tilted in mocking appraisal as the last echoes of violet beams faded into the crimson sky.

The air hung heavy with the ozone tang of entropy and the faint, acrid scent of dissipated conjurations, the ground scarred but pristine—no craters, no blood, just the absence of six thousand duplicates and their monstrous allies.

The remaining horde—barely a thousand now, their reddish-brown cloaks tattered, red eyes wide with shattered madness—lay scattered like broken dolls, unconscious forms slumped in the dirt, their regeneration halted by an invisible army of Limbo Tiers that had slipped through the chaos like shadows in a storm.

The constructs, featureless and silent, their pale flame eyes flickering faintly, withdrew as quickly as they'd struck, dragging the survivors into a spatial fold without a sound.

Kivas Chariot descended the final invisible step.

The golden corona dimmed slightly, its radiance no longer a blazing judgment but a soft, enveloping glow that seemed to soothe the very air.

She landed lightly, her bare feet touching the earth without a ripple.

Her smile was gentle once more, the sadistic curve from moments ago smoothed into something almost maternal, though her golden eyes held a lingering spark of resolve.

The Lust Tier turned its blindfolded gaze toward her. "Well played, Celestial Avatar. They broke faster than I expected—though that leader stabbing her own kin? Chef's kiss. You've got a knack for turning despair into spectacle." It gestured languidly at the unconscious horde, its needle legs tapping idly. "What now? These little rabbits won't stay down forever, not with that relic's curse in their veins. Want me to fetch the chains? Or are we keeping them as pets for a game or two?"

Kivas tilted her head, her halo casting a warm arc across the leader's prostrate form, the duplicate's body twitching faintly in unconsciousness. "I want them useful, Samael—tools for Vaingall's growth, their strength turned to our ends. But the souls they've shattered…" Her voice trailed, her eyes distant for a moment, as if hearing echoes of distant screams, the weight of Eryndor and countless other unknown bastions pressing against her half-mortal heart. "Those victims deserve peace…

"Their prayers weren't for vengeance, but for the end of this nightmare. I'll ensure it, one way or another."

"You've gone quite sentimental, my dear."

"I see the Parade of Madness as one of those live-ending forces that took the progression of my lives two timelines ago," Kivas smiled. "Seeing those who fell from it before me, it felt as if I watched the fall of my own bastion."

"Quite surprising, especially with you starting to become more cruel and direct lately."

"Cruelty is not the absence of empathy, Samael. I thought the wisest of Vaingall knew this~"

"I'm surprised that you still have empathy."

"Now you're just taking it too literally."

The Lust Tier's grin widened behind its blindfold, a psychic ripple of Samael's intrigue brushing Kivas's mind. "So, what are we about to do? Turn them to slaves, sell them off to the highest bidder—Hephae could use some rabid fodder for their nasty deeds, or the merchants might pay top Curio for disposable labor."

The word "slave" hung in the air, a spark igniting something deep in Kivas's core—a click of dark inspiration, her expression brightening with a gleam that bordered on fervor.

Her gentle smile curved, the sadistic edge returning like a blade unsheathed, her halo flaring subtly as if feeding on the idea.

Samael, through the construct's link, caught the shift immediately, the Lust Tier's posture straightening with a mix of curiosity and caution. "Oh? I see that look. What torment are you brewing now, my divine darling?"

Kivas's eyes sparkled, her voice light but threaded with steel. "Keep them unconscious, Samael. Keep them safely until I've actualized this idea of mine." She glanced at the sprawled forms, her smile softening into something almost pitying. "And tell Oizys to keep the sales rolling. The Renenutet's Judgment isn't just our defense—it's our long-term leverage. Every bastion that buys in ties them to us, spreads our reach. We need those deals locked before the dust settles."

The Lust Tier bowed its helm slightly, its voice a silken echo of Samael's approval. "As you command, Avatar. Oizys will have her show, and these rabbits will dream of carrots in stasis."

With a flirtatious swirl of its armored form, the construct vanished into a ripple of void essence, the Limbo Tiers materializing briefly to haul the unconscious duplicates into folds of spatial storage—945 in total, their forms vanishing without a trace, bound for a realm where time crawled at half-speed, courtesy of Fymnhendyr's cosmic insights.

Fymnhendyr had been the cause for many of Samael's spell development to rapidly increase exponentially. And because of it, Kivas felt a little bit scared of what her soulmates would be capable of in a month or two.

In the aftermath, Vaingall's plains seemed to exhale, the fractured lands knitting tighter under Kivas's lingering presence, fresh grass and all sorts of mythical pants blooming in defiant patches amid the scars.

Word spread like wildfire through the Karasu Association's networks, the Parade of Madness, that month-old scourge of gore-fests and vanishing raids, had struck Vaingall—and been repelled in minutes.

Oizys seized the momentum, her exhibition transforming from showcase to spectacle, the Renenutet's Judgment's violet beams replayed in holographic projections across the central plaza.

Envoys from the Suiyen Concord clustered around mockups, their silver sigils flashing as they haggled for installation rights, and many other factions who joined the bidding war.

Of course, for the sake of not overwhelming Oizys, the head construction and researcher of the Renenutet's Judgment, the deal was only limited to three pacts.

The bidding war flowed like harvest wine.

The Karasu Association committed first thanks to their influence and deep connection with Vaingall, for they felt like having a lacking firepower in their defenses lately, and they didn't want the incident with the Monochara bastion to be replicated again.

Next came the Torbvela Commemoration, a union of merchants commanding eight bastions strung like beads across Fathomi's trade veins. Their envoy, a wiry figure in embroidered silks, signed with a flourish, his voice oily with calculation.

"Ahahah! It seems like we will cast upon the strongest bond for the future to come!"

The Hephae Association sealed the third deal, their Void Hunter reps—scarred veterans were reminded of the Zarangar Valley incident, where an anomalous threat erased every single inhabitant of their bastion—eyeing the projections with grim respect.

"Zarangar took us to the brink," their leader grunted, a tattooed arm flexing under his cloak. "With this new arsenal, we'll hope that it'll end the threats before they breach. We'll take four."

"Old man, we only offer one service at a time."

Regardless, Oizys, ever the showwoman, sealed the contracts with a grin.

Long-term, it was a masterstroke: turrets in allied lands meant shared intel, mutual defense pacts, and Vaingall at the heart of a web spanning Fathomi's fractured realms.

Meanwhile, Naryashui languished in custody, her rehabilitation a slow, painstaking ritual in Vaingall's undercroft sanctum.

The original rabbit woman, her light brown hair matted, red eyes dulled by trauma, lay in a chamber warded with healing runes and psychic barriers.

A month of torment—claws carving her flesh only for regeneration to knit it anew, whispers of her duplicates' atrocities echoing in her mind—had left scars deeper than skin.

Claturian healers, their dark skin inked with ashen tattoos of renewal, attended her, their Amazonian frames gentle as they applied salves of mythic herbs.

And most importantly, Uryusha, the shrine maiden of Vaingall, also took hand at Naryashui's rehabilitation.

"Breathe, sister," Naryashui murmured, her voice a rumble of earth and wind. "The goddess's mercy mends what madness broke."

Fymnhendyr oversaw the sessions, hoping to provide more information regarding the relic that caused all of this.

"You birthed monsters," Fymnhendyr said softly one evening, her antler-like horns casting shadows. "But you're no monster. Let the harvest claim the weeds."

The relic itself—the malignant heart of the Parade—demanded swifter justice.

Hours after the assault, a joint meeting convened in Vaingall's shadowed council hall, its Eulanite walls etched with wards that muted sound and intent.

Representing the New Vaingall Consortium.

Oizys, her eyes sharp with calculation.

Blanchette, lounging with her cryptic smile, white hair trailing like mist.

And Tikha'uru, one of the Claturian scholars, her tall frame draped in ritual furs, dark skin etched with ashen tattoos of ancient pacts, her Amazonian build exuding quiet authority.

Across the obsidian table were Azulus, the Field Archivist of the Feather Library, her Tengu escorts silent shadows.

Yuitas, Core Librarian of the High Nest, her robes heavy with nested scrolls, her gaze piercing as a raven's.

And Karmak, head of the Karasu-New Vaingall cooperation, her crow mask etched with interlocking feathers, her voice a measured cadence.

Tikha'uru spoke first, her voice resonating like thunder over fields. "The relic's chaos is unbound—duplication twisted into malice, birthing abominations from a single soul. The Consortium claims no desire for its possession. Its nature defies our harmony; it sows discord where we seek growth. We defer to the Karasu's wisdom in archiving such perils."

Karmak inclined her masked head, the feathers rustling softly. "Our thanks for the consultation, Scholar Tikha'uru. Nests across the Association have labored since word reached us—scrying its echoes, dissecting its curse.

"The consensus is clear, destruction, not safekeeping. To hold it invites replication of ruin; to utilize it courts apocalypse."

Yuitas leaned forward, her scrolls unrolling like wings, showcasing numerous cases of such predicament in the past as vital reference for this decision. "If Vaingall's sovereign—a divine being—rejects it, what hope is there for us to control it? At this point, it is wise tto enact oblivion rather than sowing an opportunity for the wicked."

Azulus' gaze shifted, her voice cutting like a quill's edge. "Consider the scale. What if it claims Samael, the Endless One? Or the Living Deity herself? Chaos on a divine plane would unravel Fathomi's fragile threads."

Blanchette's smile quirked, her red eyes glinting. "Or flip it—turn villains to virtuous copies. Imagine the potential~"

Oizys interjected, her tone analytical, fingers drumming the table. "Naryashui's confessions paint her no saint—crimes against the innocent, though not the depths her duplicates plunged. The relic's surveys confirm: it amplifies malice, heightens violence. No virtue in its weave; only corruption."

Karmak's mask tilted, her voice final. "Then we concur. The Association offers our concept annihilator—a singularity to unmake its essence, form and idea alike. Witness if you will; the erasure is absolute."

Hours later, in Vaingall's core sanctum, the relic lay on a pedestal of warded obsidian, its surface writhing with shadow-veins, whispering temptations.

Kivas, Samael, Oizys, and Fymnhendyr stood sentinel, the Karasu contingent—Azulus, Yuitas, Karmak, and Tengu escorts—arrayed opposite.

The annihilator hummed to life, a compact orb of exotic matter and void-crystal, its core a pinprick of nothingness that grew with each rune activation.

Karmak intoned the rite, her voice a chant of unmaking, the air thickening as reality frayed at the edges.

The relic bucked, shadows lashing like whips, but the annihilator drank it in—a vortex of conceptual erasure, form dissolving into non-existence, idea fracturing into forgotten whispers.

The chamber shuddered, a wave of vertigo washing over all but Kivas, memories blurring like ink in water.

Names faded, faces smudged; the relic's curse became a vague nightmare, its details slipping away.

"It's… gone," Karmak rasped, the void where knowledge had been a hollow ache. "Even from thought."

Kivas alone stood unmoved, her halo steady, the erasure's backlash glancing off her divine tether.

"A clean end," she murmured, her voice soft. "No echoes to haunt."

Days blurred into the rhythm of Vaingall's renewal, the 60th marking Kivas's survival a milestone of quiet triumph.

The plains healed under her touch, grass reclaiming scars, temples rising like verdant spires.

Oizys's sales surged in the end, Renenutet's Judgment becoming an exotic commodity for many factions—turrets dotting allied bastions, Consortium coffers swelling with Curios and pacts.

Naryashui mended in the undercroft, her red eyes clearing, ashen tattoos of renewal inked by Claturian healers mirroring her slow rebirth.

It was only a plausible end for Naryashui to decide to make a stay in Vaingall, and the locals happily welcomed her to their culture.

But Kivas's mind churned, the sadistic spark from the duplicates' plea fueling a vision that had simmered in her half-mortal heart.

"I think it is time to make a 'mechanoid'." Kivas grinned. "An army of them."