The maid squad is too strong, what use is there for me, the Demon King?

The air was stagnant, like aged honey, so thick you could almost rub it between your fingertips.

This upside-down church, buried deep underground, has its dome as its bottomless foundation. The broken icons, heads pointing downwards, are frozen in an eternal state of falling, and the hanging chains gleam with a cold, gloomy light in the darkness.

The air was filled with the scent of overripe fruit, mixed with rust and another indescribable, ear-burning sweet and fishy smell—the profane fragrance unique to the temple of the "Lust and Pleasure" faction.

The peach-pink and dark purple candle flames flickered uneasily on the twisted candlesticks, casting dappled shadows onto the walls covered in eerie damp stains. The shadows writhed, like the feeble struggles of some living creature bound there.

The altar was carved from a single, massive, smooth, dark-colored piece of jade. Its surface was not cold and hard; rather, under the candlelight, it shimmered with an oily, vibrant luster. At this moment, it was being permeated with an even more startling crimson.

Hundreds of translucent crystal skulls were arranged around the altar, each filled with a viscous liquid that shimmered with a faint dark gold luster—the purest life essence of a virgin, each drop solidifying the ultimate fear and despair of the Immaculate being taken.

Blood-red light flowed between the eye sockets and teeth of the skull, illuminating the entire altar as if it were a blooming flower of flesh and blood.

Four bishops stood at the four corners of the altar.

Each faction of cultists incorporates elements of faction-related characteristics into their attire, which is what distinguishes the clothing of different factions of cultists.

The distinctive feature of this school of dress is its sloppiness, giving it a sense of decadence.

The fabric that tightly wrapped her body was as thin as a cicada's wing, a burning peach pink and an aphrodisiac deep purple, revealing the faint outline of skin underneath, which was coated with some kind of fluorescent oil, as she walked.

The masks covered their entire faces—not metal or leather, but some kind of flexible, translucent biofilm carefully shaped to fit the curves of their faces, leaving only empty eye sockets and gaps for breathing.

The mask features twisted ram horns or coiled serpentine bone spikes extending from its top, inlaid with tiny, ever-changing phosphorescent gemstones.

Their movements were no longer human dance, but a frenzied, completely dislocated writhing.

Each reverse bend of the joint, each extreme backward tilt of the spine, each spasmodic brush of the fingertips against the body beneath the thin veil of their own or their companion's body, was accompanied by an uncontrollable, sticky groan from the throat, neither male nor female, as if pain and ecstasy had been fused into a boiling molten metal within them.

The thin veil tore apart under the intense movements, revealing more skin smeared with eerie symbols, and the aphrodisiac sweet and pungent smell in the air grew even stronger.

At the center of the altar, the archbishop stood at the very core of the ceremony.

One side of his robe was made of heavy, deep purple velvet embroidered with gold thread and dark gemstones, while the other side consisted of only a few wisps of light peach-colored gauze.

His mask was even more ferocious and majestic, covering his entire head like a fossilized head of some deep-sea crustacean. The eyes were made of two extremely thin, deep red crystals, and his gaze was like congealed blood.

He raised his hands high above his head.

"The hour has come!" The archbishop's voice was not a roar, but a sharp, grating sound, like rusty metal scraping against glass, piercing the stagnant air and striking the depths of the soul. "Lord of Pleasure, hear me! With the sweetness of Immaculate Blood, with the thirst of our flesh, knock on the gates of the dark prison!"

As the eulogy ended, the archbishop suddenly grabbed one half of his magnificent, heavy robe.

Rip! The expensive fabric was torn and ripped off like rotten tree bark, revealing an extraordinary sight beneath the robe.

It was not an aging, loose body, but rather a body covered with layers upon layers of runes deeply etched into the flesh.

The runes seemed to come alive, writhing and flowing in the pink candlelight, emitting a foul stench of sulfur mixed with rotten nectar.

Most horrifying of all was the large, bowl-sized brand on the center of his chest, with charred and curled edges.

The archbishop's arms, which were tearing his robes, did not fall down; instead, they were raised even higher, his ten fingers spread wide, his sharp nails seemingly about to pierce the inverted dome.

The charred door mark on his chest suddenly burst forth with a blinding, filthy pinkish-purple light.

Om-!

It wasn't the sound of a living being, but rather the painful groans emanating from the entire space itself.

On the altar, the dark golden essence blood in hundreds of crystal skulls boiled and evaporated violently, rising into a thick, almost tangible, pinkish-purple blood mist.

The ceremony proceeded smoothly, as it should have been in previous years.

The altar's smooth, mirror-like surface reflects the distorted image of the entire upside-down church, and also clearly shows the changes in the cracks in the dome.

Boiling essence formed a viscous liquid film on the surface of the altar, constantly fluctuating and shimmering with a dark golden halo. On this film, a slender, eerie reflection slowly "emerged" from the reflection within the cracks.

It was a silhouette of a female figure, yet it possessed an inhuman perfection and a deadly allure.

The undulating curves in the reflection are breathtaking, like the most exquisite bottle of poison.

A pair of huge, curved ram horns extended from the top of the reflection's head on either side, their tips shimmering with a dark gold luster similar to the essence blood in the crystal skull.

Beneath the ram's horns, the reflection of long, thick hair reaching to the waist and hips can be faintly seen, swaying gently in the invisible wind.

Even more striking is the reflection of those wings—not bat wings, but rather wings resembling giant butterflies or the remnants of some fallen angel, with sharp, knife-like edges. The translucent wing membranes flow with ever-changing halos of peach, deep purple, and sulfur yellow, as if absorbing all the blasphemous colors of the entire ritual.

A slender tail, its tip shaped like a sharp heart, swayed lazily behind him, each movement seemingly creating a ripple on the surface of the blood-soaked altar.

Succubi are the faithful servants of Rast, the demon of lust and pleasure, who is worshipped as the "Lord of Pleasure" by cultists of the Lust and Pleasure faction.

Succubi are creatures whose very existence is driven by lust and pleasure, and thus their physical attributes and other attributes are extremely exaggerated.

Succubi enhance their magical power by engaging in sexual intercourse with humanoid males and absorbing their vital essence.

How efficient is this absorption?

Under the same conditions, it can drain a professional dry in half an hour.

Engaging in sexual activity with succubi is generally not something that can last long. These creatures are naturally gifted in eroticism. If you were to ask them to fight, they could at most assist in the battle by using their allure.

Succubi, perhaps in order to continuously absorb vital energy, possess maximum sexual prowess.

The succubus's constitution—getting more excited the more she does it—shows absolutely no signs of fatigue. No amount of discipline, no matter how harsh, will work...