Extra's Life: MILFs Won't Leave the Incubus Alone-Chapter 196 - 197: Shame

The morning came shrouded in fog.

The kind that clung to marble and memory alike — soft, silent, almost holy.

The holy church stirred under it, its towers emerging from mist like the bones of a sleeping god.

Aiden stood at the highest balcony, watching. Below, the banners of the Church procession advanced through the winding road — black carriages, gold insignia, and the rhythmic clang of armored escorts.

The Bishop had come.

He looked smaller than Aiden had thought — a man inflated by titles, not spirit. Even from a distance, Aiden could sense the arrogance in his posture, the slow wave he offered the crowd as if to bless their ignorance.

"Amber," Aiden said quietly. She was beside him, veil drawn, eyes wary. "Has the hall been prepared?"

"Yes, ai....Lucifer, As you asked — the white banners replaced with blue. The old scripture scrolls positioned behind your seat. And... the wine poured."

"Good."

She hesitated. "You mean to unsettle him."

"I mean to remind him what faith looks like when it breathes," Aiden replied. "The Church embalmed it centuries ago."

By the time the Bishop entered the great hall, the torches had been lit to a subtle dusk glow.

No hymns played. No choir greeted him. Only silence — deliberate, heavy, sovereign.

Aiden sat at the head of the marble table. Not upon a throne — that would have been expected — but on a plain wooden chair, stripped of ornament. It was a throne that denied itself.

"Ohhhh, you are the one called Lucifer," the Bishop greeted, forcing warmth into his tone. "It seems you prefer modesty over ceremony."

He smiled faintly. "Ceremony is for men who need proof of their own holiness. I have no such need."

A muscle twitched in the Bishop’s jaw. "Bold with your words, Lucifer, like in the letters. I had hoped your... recent correspondence was merely passion, not blasphemy.....but."

Amber poured the wine, the deep red catching firelight like spilled blood.

"Blasphemy...?" Aiden repeated, tasting the word. "That depends on who claims to own the truth, just our misfits of faith.."

"The Church owns it," the Bishop said sharply. "As it always has."

"And yet it bleeds," Aiden murmured. "Tell me, your grace — how many burned last year under your holy fire?"

The man froze. "Many, all were deserving so, as they were all heretics."

"So were the prophets before your time," Aiden said calmly. "So was the Saintess, before the Council crowned her divine. You only name a thing heresy until it’s profitable to name it miracle.... aren’t I right?"

The hall grew still. Even the torches seemed to listen.

Amber felt her breath catch — this was not conversation. It was an execution masked in dialogue.

The Bishop rose, face darkening. "You tread dangerous ground...."

"All ground is dangerous," Aiden said, standing too, the robe whispering like the wind before a storm. "Especially when you’ve spent your life kneeling."

The Bishop glared. "You would pit yourself against the Church, against GOD?"

Aiden’s eyes softened — not in kindness, but in terrible certainty. "Not against. Above the church, but below the alimighty..."

The word hung there — heretical, luminous.

The Bishop’s hands trembled. "You have lost yourself. You speak as if the sin of pride has taken your soul..like the heretics of now...."

Aiden smiled — slow, deliberate, like a man savoring the heresy on his tongue.

"Then perhaps the heretics simply saw what others feared to see," he said softly, voice cutting through the still air. "That gods do not grant power. They only lend it — to those who already know how to wield it....not to those who lay their fingers on innocent souls.."

The Bishop flinched as though struck. His fingers rose, trembling, to trace the sun’s sign across his chest. Words of prayer spilled from his lips, desperate, sacred — the kind uttered when faith itself begins to fracture.

Light burst from his palm, holy wards igniting in a surge of blinding gold. The air cracked — the scent of ozone, the sting of sanctity.

Judgment flared.

But Aiden did not move. He stood as the radiance roared toward him, the faint fissure in the crystal at his neck pulsing once... twice... and then drinking it in.

The light folded into him like rain into dark water.

Silence followed — terrible, absolute.

Amber gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. Even the Bishop’s chant broke mid-word, swallowed by the vacuum left behind.

His eyes — wide, disbelieving — fixed on the man before him.

"What... what are you?" he whispered, voice cracking under the weight of revelation. 𝘧𝓇ℯℯ𝑤ℯ𝘣𝓃ℴ𝓋𝑒𝑙.𝑐𝘰𝑚

Aiden took a step forward. Then another. The floor echoed beneath his feet, each sound like a tolling bell.

When he spoke again, his voice was quiet — but it carried. Every syllable pressed against the soul.

"Something that remembers what your Church has forgotten."

He paused, eyes like coals in the half-light.

"That faith is not obedience."

He leaned closer, the space between them electric with unseen power.

"It’s will. My will. The God’s will."

The Bishop staggered back, trembling, clutching his rosary as though it might bite him.

"You... you blaspheme..."

Aiden’s smile sharpened. "No. I reclaim."

The words struck harder than any curse.

"You call me heretic, yet your priests—your saints—touch one children after another, calling it mercy, being bound by lust yourselves...." His tone turned venomous, his eyes unblinking. "You preach purity while drowning in your own indulgence."

The hall trembled. Somewhere outside, thunder rolled — low and distant, though the skies were clear.

It was not a storm. It was attention.

Aiden’s voice dropped, almost tender. "Go back to your Holy Seat, Bishop. Tell your masters this: the age of obedience is ending. A new covenant is being written — not in parchment, but in blood."

The Bishop’s face went pale. "You’re... mad—"

Aiden turned his head slightly, the faintest curve of a smile still on his lips.

"Madness," he said, "is just faith without permission."

The confrontation replayed in Aiden’s mind as he traced his fingers along the spines of old books. Scripture. Philosophy. Forbidden records.

Every word was a weapon waiting for its wielder.

Amber entered quietly. "He’s gone," she said. "Left before dawn."

"Good," Aiden said. "Let him spread the fear. Fear travels faster than truth."

She hesitated. "And when the Saintess arrives?"

He looked up, eyes distant. "Then the true test begins."

Amber frowned. "You speak of her as if she were an enemy."

"Not enemy," he murmured. "Reflection. Every savior creates their opposite...."

He stopped before an old mural — cracked but magnificent. It showed a god descending from the heavens, offering light to men. But at the bottom, unnoticed by most eyes, was another figure — a shadow rising to meet that god.

"Do you see?" he asked softly. "Even light casts something beneath it."

Amber swallowed. "And which are you?"

Aiden smiled faintly. "Whichever one wins."

The wind howled through the palace towers.

Aiden stood again on the balcony, robe whipping in the cold. Below, the Leonidus banner snapped — the lion devouring itself, caught in its endless hunger.

He thought of the Saintess — her seal, her scent of lilies and ash. Symbols of purity and ruin intertwined.

"Seven days," he whispered. "That’s all the time the gods have left to stop me."