Chapter 169: Trial 3/4 - Xia
The antiseptic smell couldn’t mask the memory. The black chaise lounge, still damp from being hastily wiped down, gleamed under the arena lights like a scar. Grace was gone, shrouded in a sterile blanket and led away by silent Aurum, her steps a shuffling echo of a person no longer there.
The six men who had violated her—Gideon, Ruben, Kungawo, Shen, Fabrizio, Amine—stood huddled off to the side, being ordered back into their clothes with brutal efficiency. Amine was pulling on his trousers, his hands shaking with residual rage. Fabrizio buttoned his shirt with meticulous, deliberate slowness, as if reassembling a shattered artifact of himself.
Amir Dahan stood in the wings, breathing into a cupped hand. His eyes were closed. The crowd’s restless murmur was a physical pressure against his skin. He could feel the Crucible’s energy, a cold, humming directive in his bones. It wasn’t done. The song was shifting to a new, crueller movement.
He opened his eyes. The fear was gone, burned away by a numb, professional dread. He was the instrument. He had to play.
He walked back onto the stage. The lights hit him, and the persona clicked into place, though the seams were visible. His smile was a grimace.
“The human spirit,” he began, his voice hoarse but amplifying, “is not a monolith. It fractures along different fault lines. We have seen violation by peers. By strangers. Now… we test it against authority. Against those entrusted with guidance and protection.”
He let the word ‘protection’ hang in the air, bitter and ironic.
“TRIAL THREE OF THE FINAL!” he shouted, the forced vitality returning. “BOTH XIA AND GRACE WILL HAVE A GANGBANG WITH THE COACHES FROM THE RIVAL CAMP!”
A new, sharper wave of shock rippled through the competitors’ sections. Coaches? This was a new boundary, violently crossed.
“XIA WILL BE FIRST!” Amir’s finger stabbed toward the wing where Xia had been taken. “AFTER BOTH FINALISTS’ PERFORMANCES, THE PUBLIC WILL VOTE!”
He turned his body, his gaze sweeping over the coaches’ dais, a raised platform where the head and assistant coaches observed. Their faces were carved from stone. Zara’s fire was a banked, dangerous glow. Isla’s calm was glacial. Diego and Jonas were statues of contained fury. Alex (Lerok) had gone pale, his hands gripping the rail. Kelechi’s eyes were closed, his head bowed. Yuna was staring at her own hands, as if seeing blood on them. Layla Hassan’s sharp features were a mask of pure, undiluted hatred, directed at Amir, at the arena, at the entire fucking nightmare.
“FIRST, XIA!” Amir’s voice was a whip-crack. “A GANGBANG WITH LAYLA, JONAS, YUNA, AND KELECHI!”
The named coaches flinched as if struck.
“MAKE HER CUM! EVERY SINGLE ONE OF YOU HAS TO GET INVOLVED!”
Aurum guards moved with swift, terrifying purpose, climbing the dais. They didn’t ask. They simply took Layla and Jonas by the arms. They took Yuna and Kelechi. The other coaches—Zara, Diego, Isla, Alex—moved to intervene, but a wall of guards materialized, stun-staffs humming. The message was clear: interfere, and you’re next.
The four were marched onto the stage. Layla walked with her head high, her eyes burning coals. Jonas’s climber’s calm was a thin veneer over a seismic rage. Yuna seemed shrunken, the grief for her lost brother and the horror of the present collapsing into a quiet, terrifying vacuum. Kelechi moved with a resigned, rhythmic dread, each step a beaten drum.
“You vile little puppeteer,” Layla spat at Amir as they passed him.
Amir didn’t look at her. He addressed the crowd. “The coaches! The mentors! The wise, the strong, the protectors! Now reduced to tools of the Crucible’s inquiry! Strip them!”
The guards didn’t wait. They used small, precise knives to slice through clothing. Buttons popped. Fabric tore. Layla fought, a brief, furious struggle that ended when a stun-staff touched her ribs, not enough to drop her, but to make her convulse and cry out. Jonas, seeing his wife jolted, went still, his jaw locked so tight a muscle pulsed in his cheek. He held her gaze as his own shirt was cut away, a silent promise of shared agony.
Yuna submitted. She closed her eyes as her simple tunic was sliced open and pulled from her body. Kelechi, beside her, did the same, reaching out to briefly squeeze her hand before his own clothes were sheared off.
Within a minute, the four of them stood naked under the blinding lights. Layla’s body was taut, sculpted with lean muscle, her defiance making her seem taller. Jonas was powerfully built, a landscape of disciplined strength now exposed in shame. Yuna was slender, almost fragile-looking, her skin pebbling with goosebumps. Kelechi was tall and rangy, his percussionist’s body poised in a state of suspended collapse.
From the opposite wing, Xia was brought back out. She was clean, dressed in a fresh, simple shift. But her eyes were the same—distant, hollow. The trauma had not been washed away. She was led to the chaise.
“Lie down, Xia,” Amir said, his voice a parody of gentleness.
She obeyed, lying back on the black upholstery. She stared at the ceiling, as Grace had done. The professional detachment was gone; this was just numb acceptance.
Amir circled them. “Layla Hassan. The truth-seeker. The surgeon of souls. Let’s see you operate now. Jonas Richter. The anchor. The steady hand. Let’s see what you’re holding onto. Yuna Seo. The gentle leader. The bereaved sister. Is your empathy a strength or a weakness here? Kelechi Adebayo. The rhythm-keeper. Find the beat in this.”
He gestured to the chaise. “She is your canvas. Paint her with pleasure. Make her scream it. Begin.”
A terrible silence stretched. Layla looked at Xia, then at Jonas. A whole conversation passed between them in that look—rage, despair, a shattered love.
Jonas moved first. He didn’t look at Amir. He looked only at Xia. He approached the chaise, his movements stiff. “I am sorry,” he murmured, the words so low only Xia could possibly hear.
He knelt between her spread legs. He didn’t touch her with his hands. He leaned forward, his mouth going to her cunt. He began to eat her out with a focused, grim determination. It was not an act of passion, but of desperate, horrible duty. His tongue, broad and firm, licked up the length of her slit, then circled her clit.
Xia’s breath hitched. A faint, broken sound escaped her lips.
“Good!” Amir crowed. “The strong, silent type, getting his face wet! Does she taste like innocence, Jonas? Or just like fear?”
Layla watched her husband, tears of fury spilling down her cheeks. Then she turned her ferocity onto the task. She climbed onto the chaise, straddling Xia’s torso. She took Xia’s face in her hands, her thumbs pressing into the girl’s jaw.
“Open,” Layla commanded, her voice rough.
Xia opened her mouth. Layla, with a shudder of utter revulsion, lowered her own cunt onto Xia’s face. She ground herself down, mashing her pussy lips against Xia’s nose and mouth. “Lick, you pathetic thing,” Layla hissed, the dirty talk a weapon she turned on herself as much as on Xia. “Eat my pussy like the good little slut they want you to be. Get your fucking tongue in there.”
Xia’s tongue flicked out, tentative at first, then more insistently as Layla ground harder.
“Yuna! Kelechi!” Amir barked. “Don’t just spectate! Participate!”
Yuna, trembling, moved to the side of the chaise near Xia’s hip. She reached out a shaking hand and began to fondle Xia’s small breast, pinching the nipple between her fingers. Her touch was clumsy, guilt-ridden. Kelechi, his face a mask of shame, positioned himself behind Jonas. He placed his hands on Jonas’s bare back, as if offering support, but then he pressed his hips forward, rubbing his hard cock against Jonas’s buttocks in a grotesque mimicry of sex.
“Oh, look at this!” Amir’s narration was feverish. “The coaches are fucking each other now! Kelechi’s drilling Jonas’s ass from behind while Jonas eats Xia’s cunt! A daisy chain of degradation! Yuna’s pinching those little tits like she’s tuning a fucking instrument!”
Jonas groaned, the vibration against Xia’s clit making her twitch. His tongue worked faster, deeper. Xia’s hips began to lift off the chaise, a weak, involuntary movement.
“She’s responding! The humble little maid is getting turned on by her coaches’ debauchery! Look at her squirm!”
Layla, riding Xia’s face, reached back and shoved her hand between Jonas’s legs, grasping his cock. She jerked him roughly, her own hips still grinding on Xia’s mouth. “Make her cum, Jonas,” she snarled, her voice cracking. “Fucking make her come so we can be done with this.”
The command, the rough touch, the overwhelming, wrong sensations—it pushed Xia over an edge she didn’t know she was approaching. Her body tightened, then convulsed. A muffled scream was swallowed by Layla’s flesh as an orgasm ripped through her, harsh and unwelcome.
“THERE! SHE CUMS! JONAS LICKED IT OUT OF HER!”
As Xia spasmed, Jonas pulled back, panting. Layla climbed off her face, collapsing to her knees beside the chaise, her body wracked with silent sobs. Kelechi stumbled back from Jonas, turning away.
But Amir wasn’t finished. “No! Not done! Everyone has to get involved! Layla! You haven’t properly fucked her!”
Layla looked up, her face ravaged. “What?”
“You have fingers, don’t you?” Amir’s voice was ice. “Or do you need a demonstration?”
Layla stared at him, then at Xia’s trembling, splayed form. A terrible resignation settled over her. She wiped her face with the back of her hand, a gesture of brutal finality. She crawled back up the chaise. She positioned herself over Xia’s face again, but this time, she lowered herself not onto her mouth, but lay beside her, face to face. She kissed Xia, hard and deep, her tongue forcing its way in. It was a violent, desperate kiss.
Then her hand snaked down between their bodies. She pushed two fingers inside Xia’s still-quivering pussy. She began to thrust them, hard and fast, her other hand gripping Xia’s hair. “That’s it,” she whispered against Xia’s lips, her voice a broken rasp. “Take it. Take all of it. You fucking strong, beautiful girl. Take this horrible fucking world and survive it.”
She finger-fucked Xia with a relentless, punishing rhythm, her thumb circling Xia’s oversensitive clit. Xia, overstimulated, began to shake, another climax building against her will.
“Yuna!” Amir shouted. “Your turn! Do something!”
Yuna, crying silently, leaned down and took Xia’s nipple into her mouth, sucking and biting gently. Kelechi, lost, knelt and began sucking on Xia’s toes, mirroring Fabrizio’s earlier act in a strange, awful symmetry.
The combined assault—Layla’s punishing fingers and fierce, broken whispers, Yuna’s mouth on her breast, Kelechi’s mouth on her feet—sent Xia into a second, shuddering orgasm. This one was quieter, a deep, pulsing surrender that left her limp and weeping openly.
Layla withdrew her glistening fingers. She looked at them, then slowly, deliberately, she sucked them clean, her eyes locked on Amir, a final act of defiant contamination.
Amir stared back, his own facade finally crumbling. He looked sick. He took a shaky breath.
“Trial… Three… concluded for Xia Lin,” he managed, his voice barely carrying. “The coaches… are dismissed.”
The Aurum moved in, pulling the naked, broken coaches away, handing them shrouds of cloth. Xia lay unmoving on the chaise, a tiny figure drowning in the black leather.
The crowd was silent for a beat, then erupted into uncertain, hesitant applause. The spectacle had tipped over from entertainment into something that felt like witnessing a grave crime.
Amir turned his back to them, facing the dark wing. He had one more to introduce. Grace was next. He swallowed hard, the taste of bile in his throat. The song was not done with him yet.