Shimon Tiresia is deployed to hunt the Doppelganger down

The Inquisitor’s Fall: A Slow Corruption

Torino's streets were quiet at dawn, the first pale light of morning creeping over the rooftops like a hesitant intruder.

"What a beautiful city... Yet so much danger lurks in the shadows."

In a small, dimly lit café near Piazza San Carlo, two figures sat at a corner table—one hunched over a steaming cup of espresso, the other standing tall, her habit barely concealing the voluptuous curves beneath.

"Just focus on your coffee, master. Is it to your taste?"

Shimon Tiresia looked far older than his thirty years. The Abyss Hunter's face was lined with premature wrinkles, his dark hair streaked with silver, the old man's fingers trembling slightly as they curled around the porcelain cup. His low tenor was exceptionally youthful.

"Perfect, my dear. Did you add more sugar or something? Maybe it's the milkers, I-I mean! N-Nevermind, just keep it up..."

The witch’s curse had stolen his vitality, but not his resolve.

Across from him, Sister Serabelle smiled softly, the voluptuous beauty's hazel eyes glowing faintly in the shadows.

"You’re pushing yourself too hard, Inquisitor," she murmured, the pale brunette's smoky contralto like honeyed poison.

Shimon grunted, rubbing his temples.

"The disappearances… the reports of demonic activity in the museum…" He trailed off, his sharp gaze flicking up to hers. "Something is wrong here, Serabelle. Deeply wrong."

She tilted her head, her full lips curving into a knowing smirk.

"Then let me help you," she said, sliding a fresh cup toward him.

The coffee was black, bitter, yet laced with something far sweeter.

Shimon didn’t notice.

He never did.

The Poisoned Chalice: A Slow Descent

Celestial Bliss was a subtle predator.

In its purest form, it didn’t overwhelm—it seduced.

A drop in his coffee.

A trace in his wine.

A whisper in his dreams.

Serabelle had been dosing him for weeks, the corrupt nun's nephilim blood masking the scent, her demonic pregnancies granting her milk the same potency as Nero's incubus cum.

Shimon’s body was already changing.

His nightmares had become lucid, erotic.

The Abyss Hunter's prayers had become murmurs, moans.

And his thoughts?

They circled back, again and again, to her.

To Serabelle.

"What the fuck is wrong with me?"

To the way her wide childbearing hips swayed beneath her habit.

"Maybe it's just the witch's curse... Yeah, it's just acting up."

How everyday he would pop a throbbing boner straining against his pants, the way her massive breasts strained against the rough fabric of nun apparel.

"O-Ohmygod, why am I overreacting so fucking much!?"

To the way her fingers lingered just a second too long when she handed him his cup.

He told himself it was temptation.

He whispered between ragged breath how an Abyss Hunter couldn't be fazed by the red dust of the mortal world.

But the truth was far simpler—

"Shitshitshit..."

He was already lost.

The First Breaking Point

That night, in the old church where they had set up their investigation, Shimon awoke in a cold sweat, his cock throbbing, the inquisitor's sheets soaked.

He had dreamed of her.

Of Serabelle, naked, kneeling at an altar—not in prayer, but in worship, her mouth wrapped around a demon’s cock, the voluptuous nun's pregnant belly swaying as she was taken from behind.

And worst of all?

He had been there.

Not stopping her.

Joining her.

"God forgive me…" he whispered, his low baritone breaking.

A soft knock at his door.

"Inquisitor?"

Serabelle’s voice.

Sweet. Concerned. Lying.

Shimon’s hands shook as he pulled the sheets over his stiff length.

"I—I’m fine," he rasped.

The door opened anyway.

She stood there, backlit by the hallway’s dim light, the seductive brunette's curvy frame a sinful outline against the darkness.

"You’re not fine," she murmured, stepping inside. "You’re burning."

Her lithe hand pressed against his forehead.

"W-Wait, I'm not proper..."

The young woman's fingers were cool, soothing.

"Don't worry, it's just me... Master."

Her scent was jasmine and something darker.

Shimon’s breath hitched.

"Serabelle…"

"Shhh," she whispered, her other hand sliding beneath the sheets, her fingers brushing his throbbing cock.

"Let me help you."

The Telepathic Web: Nero’s Puppeteering

As Serabelle’s fingers wrapped around Shimon’s length, her mind was elsewhere.

Connected.

"Good pet."

To Nero.

Her true master.

"He’s ready," she thought, her mental echo dripping with dark amusement.

In the Breeding Crypt, Nero lounged on a throne of bound flesh, his fingers idly stroking the swollen belly of one of his latest conquests.

"Keep going," he purred back. "Make him beg."

Serabelle’s lips curled.

The voluptuous brunette's hand tightened.

Shimon arched off the bed, his hips thrusting into her grip, the Abyss Hunter's resistance crumbling.

"S-Serabelle—!"

"It’s alright," she murmured, her free hand pulling her habit open, revealing the heavy, milk-swollen tits beneath.

"Let go."

Shimon’s last coherent thought was a prayer.

Then—

"F-FUCK!!"

He came.

Not in repentance.

In worship.

The Point of No Return

Days blurred.

Shimon’s investigation became a farce. Serabelle's kneeling form had become a common sight around him.

"O-Ohmy, so lively today..."

*Shluck*

He still took notes. However his mind was too busy resisting the urge to paint the voluptuous vixen's pretty face white,

"Is this ok, master?"

*Shluck!*

Still followed leads. The sinful nun's erotic contralto was full of flirty teasing,

"Wow, you must have been so backed up..."

*Shluck*

His corruption was deepening, the paladin's soul—trapped in a haze of lust and devotion, his body rewired to crave Serabelle’s touch, his sanity drowning in Celestial Bliss.

He didn’t notice when she led him to the museum.

"I think this may be it, master."

Didn’t question when she guided him underground, her steps sure, too familiar with the underground crypt.

"Be careful, the shadows are alive..."

Didn’t resist when the Breeding Crypt’s doors swung open, revealing Nero, seated on his throne of broken women.

"Welcome, Inquisitor," Nero drawled, the Doppelganger's golden eyes gleaming.

Shimon’s knees buckled.

Not from fear.

From recognition.

This was where he belonged.

Serabelle’s hands pushed him down, her lips brushing his ear.

"Kneel," she whispered.

And he did.

The Final Corruption

Nero rose, the incubus' fat cock already hard, his shadow stretching across the stone floor like a living thing.

"You came here to hunt demons," he mused, circling Shimon.

"Instead, you became one."

Shimon’s breath came in shallow gasps, the Abyss Hunter's body thrumming with need.

Serabelle stripped off her habit, the sinful nun's nephilim body glowing in the torchlight, her pregnant belly proof of her true allegiance.

"You’ve been drinking me for weeks," she purred, her lithe fingers tracing his lips.

"Now," Nero growled, grabbing Shimon’s hair, pushing his face into Serabelle’s cunt.

"Feast."

And Shimon—

The holy man.

The cursed Inquisitor.

The last bastion of light.

—obeyed.