Extra's Life: MILFs Won't Leave the Incubus Alone-Chapter 198 - 199: Forgiven

The Saintess had come.

Amber’s breath caught the moment she saw her silhouette framed in the archway — a woman draped in white, light clinging to her like a confession. Her veil shimmered faintly, catching the halo of dusk that filtered through stained glass. Behind her, holy guards carried staffs capped with small suns, their radiance humming faintly like the murmur of prayer.

Everyone in the chamber rose. Priests and nuns exchanged glances — uneasy, tight-lipped. The air thickened with the tension of secrets everyone shared but no one dared name.

Only Shila laughed. A sharp, almost musical sound that echoed too loudly against the marble. It cut through the sanctity like a bell of mockery.

Amber’s fingers twisted around her rosary. She felt sweat slick her palms. The Saintess’s presence was supposed to bring peace — but peace had died here days ago, in the clash between Lucifer and the bishop. The memory still burned raw: the crack of power, the shouted accusations, the blinding flare of holy light — and the unthinkable truth that followed.

The Saintess stepped forward, her voice soft yet commanding.

"Where is the bishop?"

The question froze the air.

Every priest in the chamber lowered their eyes. Some looked toward Amber. Others toward the man standing near the altar — his robe black, the hood low, yet the faint aura around him shimmered with something both divine and dangerous. 𝒇𝓻𝓮𝓮𝙬𝙚𝒃𝒏𝓸𝙫𝒆𝙡.𝓬𝓸𝒎

Lucifer.

Amber swallowed, trying to find words that would not shatter the fragile silence. "Your Holiness, there were... complications." Her voice faltered. "The bishop—"

But before she could craft a safer lie, Lucifer stepped forward. His movement drew every gaze. The light itself seemed to dim around him.

"No complications," he said. His tone was calm, but each word landed like a hammer striking truth into stone. "I cast him out."

The Saintess’s brow furrowed beneath her veil. "You... what?"

Lucifer met her gaze directly. "He called me a false prophet and raised his holy spells against me. I merely returned the favor — with truth."

Gasps fluttered through the chamber. Shila stopped smiling. Amber’s heart pounded so loud she could hear it echo between her ribs.

"Why do such thing? He is named Bishop. Who gave you right to exile him?" The saintess spoke.

Lucifer stepped closer, slow and deliberate. The holy guards moved instinctively, staffs rising, but the Saintess lifted a hand — a single, graceful gesture. The air stilled. Even the guards obeyed.

"Stand down," she said. "Let him speak."

The room breathed again.

Lucifer came closer still, until the space between them held the weight of every unspoken heresy. His eyes — a strange, cold gold — reflected the candlelight like twin suns dying behind storm clouds.

"Tell me, Saintess," he said softly, his voice almost a whisper. "How many times were you violated, or nearly so, while growing up in the Church?"

The question struck like thunder in a temple.

The Saintess flinched as if the words themselves burned. The guards moved again, but she halted them with another wave, this one trembling. Silence fell heavy, suffocating.

No one should have known that. No one could have known.

Her mind flashed back — a corridor of stone, the scent of incense masking rot, the feel of a hand that lingered too long on her shoulder when she was twelve, thirteen, fifteen. The prayers she whispered to gods who stayed silent.

How could he—

Her composure cracked for the briefest instant, a fracture in porcelain. Then she exhaled, slow, steady, and said only:

"Walk with me."

The guards protested immediately. "Your Holiness—"

"She is of divine rank! He—he is dangerous—"

But the Saintess silenced them with a gaze that could still storms. "My status is gifted by God. If He wills my end, so be it. If not, none of you can protect me from His prophet."

Whispers rippled through the chamber. Prophet. The word hung there like a spark before flame.

Lucifer inclined his head slightly. "Lead on, Saintess."

They left together, their footsteps echoing down the corridor, swallowed by the slow rhythm of tolling bells.

The chamber they entered was small, circular — a prayer room long disused. Dust floated like tiny ghosts through the shafts of fading light. Icons of saints lined the walls, their eyes cracked and worn, as though tired of witnessing mankind’s hypocrisy.

Lucifer stopped before one of the icons — Saint Ilarion, patron of purity. A faint smile curved his lips. "They always made you kneel before men who never deserved worship."

The Saintess turned to him. Her veil slipped as she removed her hood, revealing hair pale as new snow. Beneath the cloth mask, her visible eye gleamed — not with divinity, but exhaustion.

"Speak," she said. "How did you know what happened to me?"

Lucifer’s expression did not waver. "Because.... God told me."

She laughed — a brittle, disbelieving sound. "You expect me to believe that?"

"I don’t expect. I declare." His gaze was unwavering. "I am His next prophet — the one who will cleanse the rot that festers beneath the altars. The one who will bring the sword to the weak-hearted and the fearful."

He stepped closer until their breaths mingled. The Saintess could feel the warmth of him — unsettling, alive, too human to be holy.

"Then tell me," she whispered, her voice trembling, "what else has your God shown you?"

Lucifer’s tone softened, a dangerous tenderness. "That you were chosen not because of purity, but because you were the Church’s prettiest lie. That behind every miracle you performed, a bishop counted coins and hid his crimes beneath your name."

The Saintess’s jaw tightened. She wanted to deny it — to throw scripture back in his face — but the words lodged like shards in her throat.

Lucifer’s voice grew lower, more intimate. "When you were thirteen, Father Corvin tried to touch you in confession. When you were sixteen, they made you bathe in holy oils while the high priest watched, pretending to bless your devotion. When you cried, they told you pain was sanctity."

"....Stop," she whispered.

He did not. "When you turned eighteen, they bound you in white because they feared what your power would become without chains. They called it chastity. It was containment."

"Stop!"

Her voice cracked. The sound echoed, filling the small room like breaking glass.

Lucifer stilled then. His eyes softened, almost mournful. "You see? God never wanted your silence. Only they did."

The Saintess turned away, hands pressed to her chest. Her pulse thundered beneath her palms. She remembered the countless times she prayed to forget — and the countless nights she woke to the same whispers of guilt and shame.

This man, this heretic, spoke truths that no scripture dared write.

For a long while, the only sound was her ragged breathing and the distant moan of wind through the chapel stones.

Then she turned back, her composure slowly rebuilt, voice low but steady.

"If you truly are a prophet, then...then tell me my future."

She wanted to ask this, this very question to the prophet, as she could see visions of future of so many but never her own. So this was it, this would be corner stone if the prophet spoke of god or of heresy.

Lucifer regarded her in silence. Inside, he almost laughed — for he knew her story already. Knew she was destined to die soon, her power passing to another. But that was the tale written by another hand, not his. And he would not let her fate be inked by anyone but himself.

He moved to the desk in the corner, took a sheet of parchment, and began to write. His quill moved swiftly, like a blade cutting through destiny.

When he finished, he folded the page once, then offered it to her.

"This is not your death," he said. "It is your truth."

The Saintess hesitated, then accepted it. The parchment trembled faintly between her fingers. She unfolded it — and as her eyes traced the words, something inside her broke open.

Her shoulders shaking, tears falling silently onto the parchment. The letters bled slightly beneath them, as if the ink itself wept with her.

When she finally looked up, her voice was a whisper. "You... you truly are the prophet."

Lucifer shook his head slowly. "No. I am the instrument. God is the flame."

She fell to her knees before him, hands clasped, trembling. "Then let me...let me serve the flame....oh lord prophet.."

He crouched down, his voice barely above a breath. "Do not kneel to me. Kneel only to Him."

[Aura of Allure — activated.]

The air thickened — not with magic, but with gravity. His presence filled the room like the slow rise of dawn over the ruins of night. The Saintess felt her pulse synchronize with his — two hearts caught in one rhythm, bound by faith or something dangerously close to desire.

Lucifer reached out, lifting her chin gently. His touch was neither tender nor cruel — it was inevitable. Their eyes met.

"You are forgiven, forgiven for all your sins, all your doubts." he said.

He leaned forward and pressed his lips to her forehead.

The kiss was brief, but the power that flowed through it was vast. The room’s candles flared white, and for an instant, every saint carved in stone seemed to weep.

The Saintess sobbed, clutching his robe, burying her face against him. "All my life," she whispered, "I thought God had abandoned me."

Lucifer’s voice was steady, solemn. "He did not abandon you. He sent me, for you, for every sinful soul."