Chapter Four: Echoes from the Depths of the Skin

The air in the cave seemed to have solidified into viscous honey, each breath carrying a cloying sweetness and the salty tang of sweat. The eerie green firelight flickered, stretching and shrinking the intertwined shadows on the stone walls, like twisted, living things.

Grush—the skin of Cecilia—was heaving violently. Fine beads of sweat glistened on his pale forehead, dampening a few strands of platinum-blonde hair that clung to his unnaturally flushed cheeks. His once azure, lake-like eyes were now murky, filled with a raging possessiveness and a strange clarity, not belonging to a goblin, that was gradually growing within them. He gripped the buttocks of the skin of Arya beneath him tightly, his fingertips almost digging into the supple flesh through the thick, dark green stockings. Each fierce thrust sent the heels of his deerskin boots screeching against the ground, and caused his own feet, clad in white indoor shoes and encased in black stockings, to slip slightly.

"Scream! Scream harder!" he growled, his voice still that distorted hybrid, but Cecilia's ethereal tone seemed to emerge more clearly, carrying the goblin's command and creating a chilling sense of dislocation.

Skullcrusher—the being occupying Arya's body—was **** to tilt his head back, the delicate lines of his elven jaw taut, intermittent sobs escaping his throat. The sound was clear, yet filled with the pain of being forcibly filled and violently ravaged. He felt as if his body was being repeatedly pierced by a red-hot iron, the burning pain intertwined with a strange, conquered tremor originating from the depths of his body's memories. Fragments of Arya's memories surged uncontrollably—leaping nimbly through the forest, the tension in his arm muscles as he drew his longbow, the coolness of the water flowing over his skin while bathing in a moonlit stream… These images collided violently with the humiliation of being brutally possessed, almost tearing his simple goblin consciousness apart.

Amidst this **** pain and chaos, a strange sensation quietly arose. Grush suddenly felt a faint but pure energy flowing upwards from the most defiled place where the two were connected, quietly merging into his limbs and bones. The feeling was cool yet warm, contradictory yet harmonious, like parched, cracked earth suddenly seeping into a spring. At the same time, a clear image exploded in his mind: young Cecilia, kneeling in a silent prayer room, her hands clasped over her chest, her fingertips radiating a faint, milky-white glow, softly chanting a prayer to heal minor abrasions. The syllables of that prayer, the way the energy flowed, were branded into his soul like a mark.

Subconsciously, he mimicked the feeling from his memory, guiding that newly generated, faint power to his hand that was tightly gripping the other person's buttocks. A barely perceptible white light shimmered at the point where his palm touched the dark green stockings.

"Uh..." Shattered Skull let out a muffled groan, not from pleasure, but from the strangely slight relief of the burning pain in his buttocks where it had been pinched. This subtle change made his already muddled consciousness even more confused.

A flicker of surprise and ecstasy flashed in Grush's eyes, but were quickly overwhelmed by a deeper desire. He increased the speed and **** of his thrusts, as if trying to extract more and deeper "nutrients" through this primal connection. His other hand roughly tore open the already taut hunting leather armor on the other's chest, kneading the taut, elf-like contours stretched distorted. The sensation from his fingertips mingled with the pride Arya remembered about her own physical strength, and the strange feeling of pain and vitality she occasionally felt when touching her wounds after battle.

Just then, Crackbone, who was standing nearby, finally couldn't hold back any longer. Watching the leader's actions, the secret craving for sensory stimulation that originated from Flora's memories burned within him like wildfire. He stumbled closer and pressed himself against Grush's back from the side.

The body of Flora was mature and voluptuous, the deep purple mage's robe completely torn open, revealing fair skin and a tight black lace bra. The sheer black stockings were snagged and torn in several places, clinging tightly to the legs that no longer belonged to a mage. He reached out Flora's long, slender hand, with nails painted with nail polish, and tremblingly stroked Grush (Cecilia)'s back, his fingertips tracing the fabric of the tattered monastic robe, feeling the tension of the muscles below and the dampness of sweat.

“Leader…let me…I want some too…” he gasped, uttering the goblin’s humble plea in Flora’s languid, magnetic voice. He clumsily tried to get closer, tripping in his purple high heels, and almost ended up lying on Grush’s back.

Grush was at a strange juncture, his body being washed over by Cecilia's sensory memories and newborn energy, yet his soul remained firmly entrenched in the goblin's tyrannical core. Annoyed by Crackbone's intrusion, he first elbowed him backward, striking the other's soft abdomen and eliciting a cry of pain. But then, another fragment of Cecilia's memory flashed through his mind—during a group prayer, the gentle hand of an older nun softly patted her back, bringing comfort and tranquility.

The memory flashed by, yet subtly altered his reaction. He didn't continue his attack, but instead, panting, slowed his movements slightly and growled, "Get to the front!"

Riftbone, as if granted a pardon, quickly went around to the front, knelt down by the stone platform, and faced the ravaged Skullbreaker (Arya). He looked up at Grush (Cecilia)'s face, a mixture of holiness and ****, and then impatiently opened his mouth, taking into his mouth Grush (Cecilia)'s black-stockinged calf, which was so close to him.

The delicate fibers of the stockings rubbed against his mouth, carrying the smells of sweat, oil, and a faint, almost imperceptible, scent of a saintly woman. Crackbon greedily sucked and licked, gently nibbling at the slender ankles encased in the stockings. His actions were rough and possessive, a horrifying contrast to Flora's intellectual beauty at that moment.

Grush groaned, the wet, slippery sensation and slight stinging on his calves overlapping and distorting with the image of Cecilia in his memory of being kissed on the toes by devotees as a sign of piety. A more complex, more decadent pleasure coiled around him like vines. His movements below became violent again, each thrust seeming to pierce the very soul of this elven body.

Under the combined **** from both sides, Skullcutter's consciousness grew increasingly blurred. Pain intertwined with a faint, forcibly developed pleasure stemming from Arya's primal instincts, causing him to emit intermittent, incomprehensible moans. He felt as if he were sinking into a vortex of green forests, moonlight, the sound of arrows piercing the air, and the endless impact and oppression of the moment. Suddenly, his taut left arm, the sleek, elven arm, unconsciously made a motion as if drawing a bow and arrow, a faint, almost invisible green glow even gathering at his fingertips, but it vanished in an instant.

The licking of the fractured bone grew wilder. No longer content with the calves, his hands reached upwards, kneading Grush (Cecilia)'s thighs forcefully through her tattered monastic robes, then he tried to bury his face in the more hidden area between her legs. His breath was hot and rapid.

Just then, Grush let out a long, twisted growl, his body convulsing violently as he forcefully poured the burning seed of life into the deepest part of his physical body. Simultaneously, the memory of the rudimentary healing incantation in his mind became incredibly clear; he could even sense the faint flow of light elements in the air. Skullshatter, too, jolted violently in the final impact, the dissipating green light at the tip of his left finger flashing and disappearing again, like a dying struggle of muscle memory. Meanwhile, Bonecutter, in this chaotic climax, greedily devoured, as if trying to absorb more of the "Saintess's" power through this method.

A brief silence fell over the cave, broken only by heavy, disordered breathing.

Grush was the first to recover. He slowly withdrew, watching Arya's body slump onto the stone platform, her legs, encased in dark green stockings, spread limply, her deerskin boots askew, and the area beneath her a mess. But he didn't feel merely satisfied as before. A deeper, more subtle unease about "cleanliness" and "order," stemming from Cecilia's memories, began to wriggle in the depths of his consciousness like tiny insects.

He looked down at his hands, the saint's hands, fair and slender. He tried to concentrate, to recall the healing prayer. At first, only a faint white light flickered in his palm, extremely unstable. But he could feel the warm specks of light in the air slowly and awkwardly responding to his call. After several failures, a small, stable ball of energy, radiating a soft white light, finally condensed in his palm, weak yet undeniably real.

He placed his hand on his wrist, which was slightly chafed from the vigorous movements, and a cool sensation spread, quickly dissipating the slight pain.

"Hehehe...hehehe..." He laughed, his voice still carrying a mixed male and female quality, but in that laughter, besides the goblin's smugness, there was also a cold excitement of...mastering new power.

Crackbone got up and wiped his mouth. He tried to imitate Flora's way of playing with the crystal ball in his memory, his hands loosely clenched. At first, nothing happened. But he was unwilling to give up, trying hard to recall those fragmented memories of the flow of arcane energy, concentrating his mind on his fingertips. After a while, a very faint, almost invisible purple spark of electricity crackled and flashed on his nail-painted fingertips, then went out. Although he failed, a greedy light ignited in his eyes.

Skullcutter struggled to sit up, feeling an unusual soreness in his left arm, as if it had been overstretched. He subconsciously moved his arm, mimicking the motion Arya used to draw her bow in his memory. The muscles in his arm tensed at a certain angle as if by memory, and although there was nothing there, he seemed to feel the tension of an invisible "bowstring."

Three monsters, clad in three beautiful shells, stood amidst the filth, each experiencing the faint yet real power they had plundered. They had gained fragments of memories and touched the edge of ability. The holy light of healing, the unpredictable arcane sparks, the instinctive precision of shooting… these were once the pride of the three women, but now, within the most filthy vessel, they began to take root and sprout.

Grush—that is, Cecilia's skin—straightened his tattered monastic robes, trying to smooth out the wrinkles. His movements carried a newly learned elegance befitting a saint, yet were strangely stiff due to the savagery of his soul. He looked toward the exit of the crypt, his murky blue eyes gleaming with ambition and desire.

“It’s time to go out…” he whispered in his distorted voice, “Let those… ‘believers’ outside witness… the new power of their ‘saintess,’ ‘mage,’ and ‘elf princess.’”

The shadows of the crypt seemed to spread to a wider world along with his words. The evil beneath the skin had already armed the victims with sharp blades.