An Unfamiliar Ceiling
I come to in a daze, like I've got a hangover from hell. My vision's blurry, but I stare up at the pitch-black stone ceiling. Is this even a ceiling? Slowly, I push myself up.
"You fucking idiot!!"
"...Huh?"
That voice hits me like a brick—way too familiar. I rub my throbbing head and look up. Beyond the iron bars, a demon-faced Siron is screaming her lungs out at me.
Oh. Not a demon. Just Siron. Her face is splattered with blood, so I almost bought it.
"You okay? No, fuck!! Why the hell are you locked up in here?! I told you to stay put in the city, didn't I?!"
"Siron... my head's pounding. Can you keep it down?"
I'm not kidding—this feels exactly like waking up after chugging my old man's makgeolli on my first vacation back home. My guts are a total wreck.
"Y-You okay?"
Ahem. See? Instant worry-mode. She's just too damn cute. I nod, thumping my ringing skull.
"Hang on. Head's killing me."
"Yeah..."
Siron calms down and steps back from the bars. Looks like we're in cells across a long corridor from each other. Mine's solo, but hers is packed—not just her, but other women too. Probably the mercenaries escorting the caravan.
"Ahh, finally breathing easier. So, Siron—any injuries? That blood on your face isn't yours, right?"
"Huh? Oh... fuck...!! Hey!! I'm fine, so why the hell are you here?! D-Don't tell me you came to rescue me...?"
"Nah, I was just at the guild, and next thing I know, boom—here."
"...You're such a fucking moron."
Her mutter carries real 'fucking moron' weight this time. I scratch my head.
"You fucking idiot. What about you—any weird pains?"
"Head's buzzing a bit, but otherwise good. Glad you're safe."
"...You call this safe?"
"Fair point."
Siron's got shackles on her wrists and ankles, same as the other mercs. Lucky for me, no restraints—guess they figured the weak little man wasn't a threat.
"Hey, Siron...? What's with the nightie?"
"What the fuck's with the nightie talk all of a sudden?"
"No, I mean..."
I squint at the girl in the tattered negligee huddled behind her. Memory's jogging now: I took her to the well, turned to grab fresh clothes, and... blackout.
I give Siron the quick rundown—from the girl showing up at the guild to my last memory.
"Fuck no. What the hell are those priest bitches doing? Useless cunts."
"Whoa, why drag the priestesses into this?"
"Why? This airhead's been stuck with me the whole time. Where else would she go? Gotta be one of those crazy Heretic bitches in disguise."
"Oh shit."
I'm genuinely shocked. A perfect disguise into someone else? Heretics are no joke—scary as fuck. Makes sense why even the laid-back temple folks go ballistic and label 'em for extermination.
Suddenly, I really gotta piss.
"But seriously, why drag me along?"
"Beats me. Attracted to my good looks?"
"...You're insane."
It was a joke, but her reaction stings a little.
"Siron, where's your pants? Just rocking the Night Fairy?"
"...You fucking idiot. That's not the priority right now."
Speak for yourself—it bugs me. But me, Smith, master of reading the room. Push it, and she'll blow. I nod quietly.
"So what's the priority?"
"...You goddamn prick."
What? Why the abuse? Women are a mystery. Siron pouts like a duck-billed platypus, radiating sulk. I just sit there, dumbfounded.
Our awkward silence drags until footsteps echo down the creepy corridor. They get closer; I tense up, same as Siron and the mercs across from me.
The steps stop. A robed figure appears, flanked by massive, built women.
"Take the prospective believers to the altar."
The robed woman—Robe Girl—commands. The tanky sisters open Siron's cell, yank chains, and drag them out one by one. Siron goes quietly, shooting me a 'shut up and stay quiet' glare before vanishing.
Alone now, Robe Girl turns to my cell. She stares down at me on the floor. Unfair—she's shrouded in shadow, face invisible. Like those light beams censoring naughty bits in old manga.
"......"
"......"
She looms forever. Per Siron's warning, I zip it.
Clank. She pushes the door—swings open easy. Fuck, it was unlocked? Mood killer.
"Follow quietly if you value your limbs."
"......"
Voice sounds young, girly—but the threat's ice-cold. I'm a coward at heart, so I creep out obediently.
She heads down the hall after the others. I stick close, fearing a backstab.
Surveying with eyeballs only: corridor's endless, cells lining both sides. Hits an entrance with stairs—tight spiral, corkscrewing down.
She goes down; I follow. Past second, third passages—fourth one ends the stairs. Deep—underground five floors at least. Medieval psychos digging this far?
She opens a door. Inside: another robed woman on a bed.
"Fifth Apostle. You've rested enough—surely you can spare grace to peek at this man's memories."
"......"
Robe Girl 2—Fifth Apostle—sits up, stares.
"Fourth Apostle. I told you—I'd never touch a living man's body."
"Fifth Apostle. You said dead men's memories are fragmented. This one's not like the trash—can't kill him easy."
"Fourth Apostle. Faster to kill me and appoint a new Apostle."
"......I expected nothing, but you are troublesome."
"We know each other too well—why waste energy? I'm tired; take your stinking man and fuck off."
"......Fifth Apostle. To spread His will, self-sacrifice is needed. You're sorely lacking. How you got grace is beyond me."
Fifth Apostle flips her off and flops back. Fourth Apostle—Woman 4—sighs, turns.
"Move."
I sidestep. "Follow."
Backtrack. I glance at the open door—nah, tail her.
—Close the damn door!! Her roar echoes; Woman 4 ignores, keeps walking.
Up a few stairs, into another passage.
"Oh shit."
Dozens of naked women. They part like the Red Sea for Woman 4. I gawk at the jiggling tits but stay on her heels.
A classic altar appears—movie-style. Siron's crew kneels there.
Woman 4 drags me to the opposite altar; I climb up.
Nude horde circles us. I glance nervously at Siron—she's smirking at me.
What? Is she the traitor? Heavy vibe—no room to ask.
"The ritual begins."
Woman 4 sheds her robe. Pale grayish hair cascades to her waist. Stoic features like young Ardella—girlhood version.
Hotter than expected. She eyes Siron's group.
"Those truly satisfied by a man—stand."
"“......”"
Dead silence. I glare at Siron—why not stand? She bites her lip, head down.
What? Hidden cam prank?
"As expected. No man on this continent can satisfy us. Scrawny, weak, dumping labor on women—how could they?"
Fuck, harsh but true. Can't argue. Are the guys here onto something?
"Where to find true love? How to quench endless lust? Look beside you. Who understands you best, hits the spot without words?"
Correction: total nutjobs. Earth equivalent—dicks out, preaching girl-love circle-jerk. Nausea incoming.
"Behold!!"
She pulls something, holds it high. My eyes lock—pure shock.
"Our god's ultimate holy artifact! Towering, firm—beyond any puny male tool!!"
Holy fuck. Wooden dildo carved like a dick. Mind reels.
Gulp. Swallows from Siron's side. They've seen real ones.
"Some doubt, lost in male fantasy. I'll prove it here: how pathetic men are."
She pockets the wood cock, turns to me.
"Strip."
"......"
I flinch, meet smirking Siron's eyes over her shoulder.
Damn—that's why. For doubting her even a second—Smith, add an hour of self-reflection, dick in hand.
"Hurry."
I strip slow. Shirt first.
Gulp— Swallows from Siron and the nudes.
Peek at Woman 4—no change. But I'm chill.
"So slow?"
Grab pants and undies, yank 'em down.
—Gasp...?
—Th-That...?
—Impossible...
Chaos erupts. I cross arms, stare her down coolly.
Stoic still. But I catch it—her gray eyes quiver on my cock!!
Heh. Holy artifact? Worshipping a puny wood knockoff over my humble beast? Time to school 'em on the real deal.