The gate opened without a question.
It never should have. Her name wasn't on the guest list. She carried no invitation, no identification, no bodyguards. But the guards at the iron entrance simply moved aside as if her presence answered a question they didn't know they were asking.
It was nearly midnight.
The mansion stood like a palace at the edge of the hills—its white pillars lit with soft amber glow, surrounded by marble statues, gardens, and far too much silence for anything legal. The type of place that didn't need to hide what it was because no one powerful enough dared to ask.
Inside, the air was heavy with perfume and wine.
Soft classical music played in the background, but it was drowned beneath murmurs and laughter from the country's most untouchable men—politicians, judges, corporate lords, and those without official titles but more power than any parliament.
Women moved between them like slow rivers.
Silk-clad. High-heeled. Carefully painted.
But none of them were Lazara.
She walked through the room like something unspoken.
Her midnight blue saree flowed like oil in candlelight, split high enough to reveal her leg with every third step. Her blouse left her shoulders bare, hugging her chest tightly, its fabric thin enough to promise but never give.
She didn't try to blend in.
She moved like she already belonged.
The others noticed.
A waiter offered her a drink without being asked. A low-level minister stepped aside as if drawn out of her path. Conversations trailed off when she passed. And somewhere, from behind the velvet curtains at the far end of the room, Viraj Deshmukh was watching.
---
He approached her with the confidence of a man who'd never heard the word no from any woman who mattered.
Tall. Silver hair. A black silk shirt unbuttoned just low enough to show the gold chain pressed against his chest. His smile was warm but clinical—an operator's smile.
"You're very far from the college campus, Miss...?"
She met his eyes without smiling.
"Names are for contracts," she said, voice low, natural, but slow enough to make him lean in. "I'm not here to sign anything."
Viraj chuckled, motioning to the side room. "Come. There's too much noise here."
She followed.
Because that was the point.
---
The room beyond the curtain was smaller. Quieter. Dimly lit, with just a few low couches and a bottle of 18-year-old scotch already waiting on the table. No cameras. No staff.
Viraj poured a drink, offering her one.
She took it this time.
But she didn't drink.
She let the glass rest in her hand and walked around him, not saying a word.
"People don't usually ignore me," he said, half amused, half annoyed.
"I'm not people," she replied, brushing her fingers across the edge of the table, slowly closing the distance.
"Then what are you?" he asked.
She turned.
And this time she smiled. Not because it was part of a game. But because she already knew the ending.
"Someone who understands what you need better than you do."
He stepped forward, his body tensing—ready to play the predator again.
She stepped closer.
Her fingers unbuttoned the top of his shirt slowly, carefully, letting her knuckles brush against his chest.
Her mouth moved near his ear.
"You've had every kind of woman money can arrange. But not one who made you feel like you were being chosen."
She placed his hand on her waist.
"I'm choosing you."
Viraj didn't respond.
But his breath shifted.
His fingers tightened.
---
What happened next wasn't fast.
Lazara guided him backward onto the couch, straddling him softly, letting her thighs press against his hips. Her saree slipped off one shoulder. Her breath touched his neck, slow and warm. She kissed him—not urgently—but like she was unmaking him from the inside out.
She let him touch her.
But only where she led his hands.
She whispered into his ear—nothing abstract. No riddles.
Just exactly what he wanted to hear, in a voice like sleep and sin.
And when they moved together, bodies hot, clothing forgotten, it wasn't sex. It wasn't powerplay.
It was worship.
She watched him unravel—one kiss at a time, one thrust at a time—until the only thing left was a man broken open by surrender, looking at her like he would follow her into fire without question.
He came breathless.
Shaking.
His forehead pressed against her bare chest.
And then he whispered, "Tell me what to do."
---
System Notification – Zix Core
> [Target Submission: Viraj Deshmukh – Full Conversion]
[Faith Extraction: 9,800]
[Emotional Sync: Lust → Obsession → Devotion]
[Core Pulse Level: Stabilized – Tier I]
> Trait Evolved: Lazara – "Velvet Dominion"
Sexual surrender now directly strengthens system faith web. Core synchronizes with emotional flow.
---
Later that night, Lazara returned to the apartment.
Her steps were slow. Confident. Her blouse was missing. She carried her sandals in one hand, her hair loose and damp with sweat.
Inside, waiting in silence, was Ananya—her first female follower.
Still half-clothed. Still unsure of what she'd become.
Lazara didn't speak at first. She walked behind her, pressing bare skin to bare shoulders, her breath warm on the nape of her neck.
> "You felt something in you change," Lazara whispered. "Didn't you?"
Ananya nodded slowly, eyes closing.
Lazara turned her gently, holding her cheek.
> "I'm going to give you what was given to me."
> "Power?" Ananya asked.
> "No," Lazara said. "Permission. To stop pretending you're smaller than you are."
She kissed her softly—this time not for pleasure, but transmission.
And the Core pulsed again.
---
System Update – Zix Core
> [Spiritual Gift Transfer: Success]
[Ananya - Trait Acquired: "Whisperskin"]
Her aura now carries Lazara's spiritual scent. Those she touches feel warmth, hunger, and the urge to confess.
> [First Circle Formed – 2/7 Priestesses Awakened]
A network begins. Each will awaken others. Faith will bloom in silence.
---
That night, Rudra stood on his balcony, watching the city lights flicker beneath a quiet sky.
He said nothing.
But the Core behind him glowed, breathing like a second heart.
And far below, in beds and bathtubs, on couches and prayer rugs, a handful of people were already whispering prayers to a god they didn't know.
A god who had never spoken to them.
But who had already claimed their bodies.
And would soon take their world.
—
Lazara stood at the center of the apartment's old prayer room, now stripped of symbols and filled with quiet breath and candlelight. Ananya and Mallika stood in front of her, robes loose, bodies warm with surrender but eyes steady. There was no ritual chant, no instructions. Just silence and eye contact.
> "Are you sure you're ready?" Lazara asked.
Ananya nodded. "I already feel it... like something's moving under my skin."
Mallika added, "It's not scary. Just… alive."
Lazara placed her palms on their bare stomachs, just above the womb, where power was said to rest in every ancient system. Her touch was warm, firm, and strangely grounding.
> "This isn't about worship," she said plainly. "It's about knowing your body carries something that can change the world without anyone seeing it happen."
They both lowered their heads slightly.
> "Say it," Lazara whispered.
> "I give him my breath."
And the Zix Core responded — not loudly, not with light — but with a deeper hum that only Rudra could feel.
**********
Across another world, a war continued to escalate.
In the second realm, the Hero had led a counter-assault against the undead army, driving steel through corrupted bone, while the Lich raised another thousand corpses by sacrificing half his own command.
Each life lost, each soul twisted, poured faith into the Core through chaos and fear.
Back on Earth, the lust-driven surrender of Lazara's priestesses generated a softer, warmer thread of belief — steady, emotional, charged with intimacy.
The Zix Core didn't require perfection.
It required balance.
That night, it finally got it.