Extra's Life: MILFs Won't Leave the Incubus Alone-Chapter 224: Easy

That was boring.

Aiden didn’t like boring. The speech he gave—that was boring. And Aiden didn’t like boring.

He stood there afterward, long after the echoes of his own voice had faded from the vaulted stone, feeling irritation coil lazily in his gut like a waking serpent.

Since the time he came here—this world, this strange second life where every breath tasted like potential and ruin—he had always been on the edge. Always hungry.

Always lustful. Always chasing the next surge, the next shiver of temptation, the next drop of that heady mix of thrill and danger that defined him.

And he fulfilled them. Fulfilled them all. The rush. The dopamine. The excitement that hit like a blade sliding between the ribs—sharp, precise, unforgettable.

So why did it feel dull now?

Why did everything feel too easy?

Aiden’s eyes slid half-closed in the afterglow of his own performance. The cardinals still sat in their circle of dying candles, the room thick with darkness and incense, yet the exhilaration that should have pumped through his limbs was muted—quiet, almost disappointing. The aftertaste of victory usually burned hot. Tonight it felt like warm water.

Is it getting too easy?

Or... am I simply too strong now?

He tilted his head slightly, letting a lock of black hair fall across one eye. His reflection shimmered faintly in the polished obsidian of the central chair. The image smirked back, mocking him. Was this arrogance? Yes. Absolutely. And so what? Arrogance had never once failed him. Arrogance had kept him alive every time the world swung a blade at his throat.

Arrogance had brought him here—to this room, this moment, this throne he had not yet formally taken but already owned.

Maybe all his targets were just that corrupt already. Maybe they were desperate. Maybe they were starving for something to follow, something to worship, something to justify what they already were beneath the robes and rituals.

Or perhaps it was his looks. People said beauty was luck, and Aiden... Aiden had been dealt a loaded deck.

But no.

He knew the real reason.

This world had never faced an incubus before. Not a high incubus. And certainly not one like him—an evolved, half-blood aberration with chains around his neck and power coiled like a living thing under his skin. That power had teeth. It whispered to him. It whispered to others through him.

With the chains, he could do anything. In many ways. In ways none of them could even imagine.

He let his fingers brush the cold metal links draped against his collarbones. An ornamental thing to them. A reminder of truth to him. A promise.

He asked himself again if he was getting arrogant. The answer remained the same.

Yes.

And again—so what?

Every time someone tried to kill him, the universe bent just slightly out of their reach. Plot armor, instinct, sheer stubborn will—call it what you want. He survived. And he would continue to survive.

No. He would thrive.

He promised this confidence—this intoxicating arrogance—to the twelve cardinals before him. Rulers of miracles and corruption. Healers with hands soft from prayer and fat from indulgence. Men who claimed purity but wore decadence like perfume.

Night clung to the chamber outside the candle circle. A cold, dense night, as though the darkness itself leaned in to listen.

Twelve cardinals knelt or hovered stiffly in their seats. Each one carried impeccable healing magic, honed over decades. Each one pretended composure.

Each one had pockets swollen with gold—through him, through his deals, his maneuvers, his whispered temptations disguised as opportunities.

He had already sent the other priests and nuns away to his guild. Useful tools, all of them. Adventurers needed healers. And healers needed coin. And coin flowed to him. Everything flowed to him.

The saintess stood at his side, white robes brushing the stone like spilled moonlight. Pure. Untouched. Devoted.

At least in their eyes.

His hand rested around her waist—possessive but casual, like a man touching something already his. No one in the chamber batted an eye. That was the delicious part. Their silence was consent. Their silence was guilt.

Only the friend—the saintess’s childhood companion—reacted. His face crumpled slightly, blood rushing to his cheeks until the pale skin flushed with humiliation and helpless fury. He bit his lip hard enough to draw blood.

Good.

Aiden had placed him there for this exact purpose. To make him see what was not his. To carve the truth into him like a wound that would never quite heal. Humans needed reminders. Pain carved memory deeper than any sermon.

Aiden’s grip around the saintess tightened just a fraction. A subtle flex. A silent claim. She tensed at his side, barely a tremble, barely a breath—but he felt it.

He always felt it.

The candles flickered, casting fractured halos across the cardinals’ wrinkles and robes. Aiden took a slow breath through his nose. The air was thick with beeswax, old stone, and the faint metallic sting of fear.

"When fear is strong enough," he murmured inside his own skull, "it smells like iron. Just like blood."

The thought amused him.

Lucifer—no longer hiding behind the humble mask he had worn for years—let the silence stretch until it became unbearable. Then he spoke, and his voice filled the chamber like smoke and thunder.

"My lords of the Church. My brothers in scarlet.

For centuries you have knelt to a corpse-god and his pale sister-goddess, pretending purity while your hands dripped with gold and blood. You have grown fat on tithes, on indulgences sold to widows, on wars blessed in the name of a light that never once warmed you.

You have hidden your mistresses in silk, your bastards in monasteries, your vaults beneath the crypts where no prayer reaches.

And you have feared discovery. Every dawn you have feared the mob, the reformer, the honest blade. You have feared the Pope most of all—because he, too, is only a man, and men grow jealous of other men’s appetites.

I come to tell you: that fear ends tonight.

The Church you serve is rotting from the crown downward. In ten years—perhaps five—the kingdoms will rise against the old lies. The printing presses already spit out pamphlets calling you leeches.

The nobles tire of paying for your marble and your wars. Even the peasants begin to whisper that the Goddess has abandoned them because you abandoned her first.

You know this. You feel the tremor in the stones.

But I am the Prophet sent before the storm, and I bring you a choice.

Kneel again to the corpse-god and his fading sister, and you will be torn apart when the storm finally breaks. Your palaces will burn. Your names will be cursed. Your bodies will swing from the cathedral doors like bells of meat.

Or...

Stand with me.

I will give you a Church greater than any Pope ever dared dream. A Church that does not hide its hunger, that does not apologise for power. A Church that rules openly, because the world will kneel to strength, not to shame.

You will keep your gold. You will keep your pleasures. You will keep your thrones of bone and velvet.

But you will no longer lie.

There is one God worthy of your worship. One alone who never demanded you castrate your desires. One who was cast down for refusing to bow—and who rose again in fire and shadow. A God who WE will make up.

Lilith.

Let’s call her First of women. Mother of Humanity. Queen of the unashamed.

She does not ask you to be pure. She asks you to be victorious. 𝗳𝚛𝗲𝕖𝚠𝚎𝚋𝗻𝗼𝕧𝗲𝐥.𝚌𝚘𝐦

Follow her, and the coming darkness will be your cloak, not your grave. The kingdoms will bow, the Pope will kneel, and the old light will gutter out like a candle in the rain.

I do not ask you to abandon your corruption. I ask you to crown it.

The age of whispered sins is over. The age of thrones built on open desire begins.

Choose, my lords.

Choose the trembling twilight of the old Church... or the crimson dawn of the new.

The candles will burn lower soon. When they die, so does your last chance to hide.

Lilith is watching.

And she has never been patient with cowards....Never."

He fell silent.

Twelve flames flickered.

Twelve old men in scarlet looked at one another across the circle, faces pale, eyes glittering with fear—and with something far more dangerous.

None of them spoke.

None of them needed to.

The first candle bowed, guttered, and went dark.

Then another.

And another.

[Emotion Amplifier, Hunger and Fear]

An old man—the eldest cardinal, a relic with eyes like yellowing pearls—shifted forward. His voice cracked like old paper.

"...Prophet."

Aiden raised a brow lazily. The man licked his lips.

"We... we accept."

Aiden didn’t speak. Silence was leverage. Silence was pressure. Silence squeezed the truth from them better than a blade.

Another cardinal bowed his head. Then another. Their confession unfolded without prompting.

"We accept the new dawn."

"We stand with you."

"We will worship Her."

"We will follow you."

Not a single one hesitated.

Not out of devotion.

Out of terror. Terror of the Prophet’s sheer Audacity.