Chapter 181: Divine Revelation from Rome
The study was silent save for the soft whisper of the antique globe spinning on its axis. Bruce watched it, a faint golden light reflecting in his hazel eyes. The candle, vanilla and slow-burning, guttered as a spatial anomaly blinked into existence above his desk—a shimmering, silent communication portal, encrypted with layers of reality-bending code only he or Lena could unravel.
He reached out a finger, touching the light. The image of a man in simple black clerical robes, features etched with deep-seated anxiety, solidified.
“Domine Protector,” the envoy began, his Latin hushed and reverent, the ancient tongue flowing through the void. “We have detected… certain ancient scriptures. They foretell your ascension. The Holy See requests… no, begs an audience.”
Bruce said nothing. His stillness was absolute.
Isabella, monitoring the compound’s bio-signatures from her med-bay, saw Bruce’s life-force spike on her screens. The graph lines went jagged, then threatened to flatline from sheer intensity before recalibrating. A warning chime sounded.
In the study, the polished mahogany of the desk groaned.
The envoy leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, the Latin syllables tumbling out in a rush. “They found remnants… of Saiyan DNA. In the Shroud of Turin.”
Crack.
A spiderweb of fractures shot through the three-inch-thick marble slab of Bruce’s desk, radiating from where his palm rested. Not a slam. Just the unconscious clenching of a god’s hand. Dust puffed from the fissures. The globe wobbled, its brass needle spinning wildly.
“How do you know about Saiyans?”
The new voice was younger, curious, cutting through the tension. Jake stood in the doorway, having felt the psychic ripple. He stepped in, his eyes sharp on the holographic envoy.
The cleric’s eyes widened, taking in Jake—the young man with the old eyes, the palpable power that hung around him like a scent. “There is much history… and theory… in the secret archives. Things we could not verify. Stories we thought mere allegory. Until now.Please. You must come visit.”
Bruce finally spoke, his voice low, a rumble that seemed to make the very air particles vibrate. “Are you available now?”
A beat of stunned silence from the envoy. “Now?”
“He asks now?” Jake echoed, a slow grin spreading on his face.
“Now,” Bruce stated. It wasn’t a request. The connection severed, the hologram winking out. The silence that followed was heavier, charged. Bruce looked at the cracked monument of his desk, then at Jake. “Get Camille and Lena. My study. Five minutes.”
They arrived smelling of sunshine and sea salt. Camille, in a simple sundress, her curves a comfortable, beloved geography. Lena, in shorts and a tank top, her body a testament to vibrant youth, her eyes already alight with predatory curiosity.
“You cracked the world’s most expensive desk,” Camille noted, running a finger along the fracture line. “Bad news?”
“The Vatican,” Bruce said, leaning against the ruined furniture. “They have Saiyan DNA. From the Shroud.”
Lena whistled low. “No fucking way. Jesus was a Super Saiyan?”
“We don’t know what he was,” Bruce said, but the implication hung in the air, immense and unsettling. “They’ve seen the prophecies. They’re scared. They want to talk.”
“And you said now,” Camille stated, understanding dawning. This wasn’t just a meeting. It was a statement.
“I need to be… grounded,” Bruce said, his gaze traveling over his wife, then her shadow. The cosmic revelation thrummed in him, a discordant note against the simple reality of his home, his family. He needed to re-anchor in the visceral, the tangible. In them.
Lena understood first. A slow, filthy smile touched her lips. She looked at Camille, a question in her raised eyebrow.
Camille’s answer was to reach behind her back and unzip her sundress. It pooled at her feet. She stood there in nothing but the afternoon light, her perky breasts tipped with hard, dark nipples, the glorious swell of her hips and ass a silent invitation. “So ground yourself,” she said, her voice husky.
Bruce was on her in two strides. His mouth crashed down on hers, the kiss consuming, a reclaiming of reality. His hands gripped her full ass, kneading the soft, generous flesh, pulling her against the sudden, formidable hardness tenting his pants.
Lena moved behind Camille, her hands sliding around her friend’s waist, cupping her breasts, pinching the nipples. “He needs to fuck the universe out of his head, mami,” Lena breathed into Camille’s ear. “Let’s help him.”
Camille moaned into Bruce’s mouth as Lena’s fingers plucked and rolled her nipples. Bruce’s own hands were busy, pushing his pants down just enough to free his cock. It sprang out, already thick and long, the head dark and leaking.
“Turn her around,” Bruce growled, breaking the kiss.
Lena spun Camille with practiced ease, bending her forward over the cracked marble desk. The cool stone kissed Camille’s stomach and breasts. Lena spread Camille’s legs wide, then leaned over her back, presenting her own ass, wiggling it in Bruce’s face. “You want this too, papi? You wanna feel us both?”
The offer was irresistible. Bruce spat into his palm, slicked his monstrous length, and guided the broad head to Camille’s waiting, already-wet entrance. With one hand, he yanked Lena’s shorts and panties down to her thighs.
“Fuck yes,” Lena hissed, bracing herself.
Bruce pushed into Camille in one deep, relentless thrust. She cried out, her back arching, her fingers scrambling on the marble as he filled her completely, stretching her familiar, welcoming heat to its limit. He didn’t pause. He pulled back, the glistening shaft dragging against her walls, and then angled himself, pressing the tip against Lena’s tight, pink asshole.
Lena gasped. “¡Sí! Right there, jefe, fuck me right there!”
He pushed, the resistance fierce, then giving way with a wet, popping sound as the thick head penetrated her. Lena’s scream was one of pure, sharp pleasure-pain. Now he was sheathed in both of them, Camille’s pussy gripping the base of his cock, Lena’s tight ass milking the upper half.
“Oh, God… Bruce… fuck…” Camille chanted, the dual sensation of being impaled and feeling Lena’s body clenching around him through the thin membrane driving her wild.
He began to move. A slow, withdrawing drag that made both women whimper, then a powerful, driving shove forward that buried him to the hilt in both of their bodies. The sound was obscenely wet, a slapping, squelching rhythm of pure possession.
“You feel that, chica?” Lena grunted, her face pressed against Camille’s back. “Feel him in my ass while he’s in your pussy? He’s fucking us into one woman.”
Bruce’s rhythm intensified. Each thrust was a piston stroke, a brutal, grounding act of ownership. He gripped Lena’s hips, his fingers digging into her flesh, using her for leverage as he hammered into Camille. The desk groaned in protest with every impact.
“This is real,” Bruce gritted out, his voice strained with effort and ecstasy. “This is mine. Flesh and blood. My wives. My universe.”
“Yes!” Camille screamed, her orgasm ripping through her without warning, a convulsive wave that made her cunt spasm and clamp around his cock like a vice.“Yours! Always yours!”
Lena’s climax followed, triggered by Camille’s tightening and the relentless pounding against her prostate. She came hard, her ass clamping down on him, her body shaking. “¡Coño! I’m coming, I’m coming on your fucking cock!”
Their simultaneous orgasms pushed Bruce over the edge. With a roar that seemed to shake the very foundations of the villa, he buried himself as deep as possible and erupted. Hot, thick pulses of cum flooded Camille’s channel, an internal claiming, before the continued pressure forced the overflow past his shaft and into Lena’s depths, seeding them both in a single, indefinable act.
He stayed there, lodged between them, panting, as the last tremors subsided. The scent of sex and sweat and vanilla candle filled the study. The cracked desk was now a testament to two kinds of power.
Slowly, he pulled out. A mingled stream of his release leaked onto the marble. He turned them, gathered them both—sweaty, sated, and smiling—into his arms, holding them against his chest.
“The Vatican,” Camille murmured against his skin, tracing the crack on the desk with her toe.
“Later,” Bruce said, his voice calm now, the cosmic static silenced by carnal truth. He kissed her forehead, then Lena’s. “First, we visit.”
The globe had stopped spinning. The brass needle pointed steadfastly at Rome.
The brass needle pointed steadfastly at Rome.
Bruce exhaled, the last vibrations of his release still humming in his blood, the scent of Camille and Lena clinging to his skin. It was a good anchor. The cosmic questions about DNA and shrouds receded, manageable now, just another problem to solve. He gently disentangled himself from their warm, pliant bodies.
“Get dressed,” he said, his voice carrying a finality that brooked no delay. He looked at Camille, then Lena. “We’re going.”
“Right now?” Camille asked, reaching for her sundress from the floor. Her movements were languid, sated.
“Right now.” He pulled his pants up, fastening them. The air around him still crackled with latent energy, the kind that preceded a storm or a jump. “Jake!”
The young man appeared in the doorway again, having given them privacy. He was already alert, dressed, feeling the shift in purpose. “Here.”
“Grab Isabella, Jake, Camille, Lena, Ketut,” Bruce commanded, listing the names like a squad. “Let’s go see what they want.”
Jake nodded and vanished, a blur of preternatural speed. Bruce finished dressing, his expression settling into the impassive mask of the Protector. Camille and Lena exchanged a look—this was business now, family business—and quickly tugged their clothes back on, not bothering with underwear.
Seconds later, the air in the study rippled. Jake reappeared, a hand on the shoulder of a surprised but composed Isabella, still in her lab coat, and Ketut, whose dark eyes immediately found Bruce’s, reading the resolved focus there.
“What’s the play?” Isabella asked, her medical mind already cataloguing potentials, threats.
“Introduction,” Bruce said simply. He reached out, and they moved to him, a practiced unit. Camille took his right hand, Lena his left. Isabella placed a hand on his bicep, Ketut on his shoulder. Jake completed the circle, his own power, a bright, sharp string of the Tet, humming in sync.
There was no flash of light, no dramatic whirlwind. One moment they were in the sunlit, sex-scented study on the island, the cracked desk a testament to recent passion.
The next, they were standing on cold, ancient stone.
The air was dry, thick with the smells of old incense, dust, and polish. They stood in a vaulted, dimly lit corridor of plain stone, lined with towering wooden doors adorned with iron fittings. It was stark, hushed, profoundly austere.
Directly in front of them, frozen in the act of turning a heavy key in a massive lock, was the envoy. He was older than his hologram had suggested, his face a map of wrinkles etched by deep worry. He wore the same simple black robes.
He jumped violently, the key clattering to the stone floor with a sound like a gunshot in the silence. His hand flew to his chest, his mouth agape, his eyes bulging as they took in the sudden, impossible apparition of six people where there had been empty space a heartbeat before.
He saw Bruce first—the shaved head, the imposing frame, the hazel eyes that held no divinity he recognized from his frescoes, only a calm, immense power. He saw the women arrayed around him: the curvy one in a sundress, the fierce young Latina, the doctor in her coat, the Balinese beauty with fathomless eyes. He saw the young man with the gaze of a gunslinger.
“You…” the envoy stammered, his Latin forsaking him, his English thick with a Italian accent. “You are here. Now. Santo cielo.”
He took in their dishevelment—the flush on Camille’s and Lena’s skin, the slight sheen of sweat, the powerful, raw scent of sex that had translated with them, utterly foreign in the sacred corridor. His face paled further, a mixture of terror, awe, and profound, scandalized disbelief.
Bruce took a single step forward, his boots echoing. He looked down at the shaken man, his voice a low rumble in the quiet vault.
“You requested an audience,” Bruce said. “We’re here.”
The envoy, Father Alessio, stared. His breath hitched in the silent corridor. The dropped key seemed to gleam accusingly on the stone between them.
“You… you traveled,” he stammered, the statement absurdly inadequate. His eyes darted from Bruce’s impassive face to the women, then to Jake, who watched the shadows with a chilling, detached readiness. “That is not possible. This wing is consecrated, warded.”
“Apparently not,” Isabella said, her voice cool and clinical. She sniffed the air, analyzing. “Heightened microbial spores consistent with parchment over five centuries old. Lead dust. This is a restricted archive.”
“You will explain the DNA,” Bruce said. He didn’t raise his voice. The words simply occupied the space, leaving no room for anything else.
Alessio swallowed, his throat bobbing. The raw, human scent coming from the visitors was a profane shock in the sterile environment. He bent, trembling, to retrieve the key. “This way. Please. Speak of this to no one.”
The wooden door groaned open on hinges that hadn’t tasted oil in decades. Beyond lay not a room, but a cavern. Stone steps spiraled down into a deeper darkness, the air growing colder, damper. The only light came from ancient, wire-caged bulbs that cast erratic pools of yellow.
They descended.
The archive at the bottom was a vault of nightmares and revelations. It wasn’t a library of neat shelves. It was a ossuary of knowledge. Stone niches held sealed clay jars. Iron racks supported scroll cases of tarnished silver. In the center, under a single stark light, a modern laboratory spectrometer and gene sequencer hummed, a bizarre anachronism.
Alessio went to a specific niche, donned white gloves, and lifted out a jar. His hands shook. “We have always kept… the impossible. A thorn from Eden’s tree. A feather from the angel that barred the gate. Shards of the tablets Moses shattered.” He set the jar down, carefully removed a lead-lined cylinder. “And this. The cloth from the tomb. The Veronica Veil.”
He didn’t open it. Instead, he gestured to a screen connected to the sequencer. A helical strand of DNA rotated, certain sections highlighted in glaring, anomalous red. “The human sequence is perfect. Pristine. Too pristine. But woven within it, like a second thread in the cloth, is this. An exotic nucleotide structure of immense complexity and latent energy. We had no reference… until satellite imagery from your island, during the… incident with the dead king.”
He pulled up another image. A familiar DNA helix, pulled from global sensors that had scanned Bruce’s unleashed power. Sections were highlighted in the same red.
They were a near-perfect match.
“Christ was not a Saiyan,” Alessio whispered, his voice cracking with a lifelong faith straining under the weight of fact. “But something of your lineage… was within him. A catalyst. The source of the miracles, perhaps. Or a symbiotic passenger.”
The implications crashed through the room like silent thunder. Bruce felt Camille’s hand tighten in his. Lena’s mind, always so quick, was a buzz of recalculated history.
“Where’s the body?” Jake asked, his voice cutting the heavy silence. His eyes weren’t on the screen, but scanning the dark recesses of the vault. “If you have the shroud, you know where the tomb is. Is he still in it?”
Alessio went ashen. “That… is the final secret. The tomb is empty. Not from resurrection. From theft. In the 4th century. The remains were taken, studied, then lost during the Schism. All that remains is the genetic data and… this.”
He led them to a stone plinth. On it lay a single, brittle scroll. The script was Aramaic, but the diagrams… were celestial maps. Star charts pointing to sectors of space. One, circled repeatedly, matched the last known trajectory of the Saiyan homeworld fragment.
“It is a star map,” Alessio said. “And a warning. The ‘divine spark’ it speaks of, the ‘hidden heritage,’ it says is a beacon. It says ‘the buried king will seek his own.’ Your Dead King was not the first. He will not be the last. They are drawn to this signature.”
Bruce reached out. He didn’t touch the scroll. He touched the space above it, feeling the echoes. A faint, millennia-old resonance of immense power and profound sorrow. A homesickness that spanned galaxies.
“He was alone,” Ketut breathed, tears suddenly streaking her cheeks. She felt it through Bruce. “Whoever he was… he was so alone here. And he knew others would come looking. Not for salvation. For the weapon.”
The emotional wave from Ketut hit Lena first, a surge of devastating loneliness. Then it crashed into Camille, a mother’s sorrow for a lost child. It bonded them in that dark, cold vault, a shared wound. Lena turned, seeking anchor, her eyes finding Bruce’s. The intellectual shock transformed, metabolized into a fierce, protective need.
“We need to go,” Isabella stated, the medic sensing the psychological tipping point. “This environment is toxic.”
“This environment is toxic.” Isabella’s voice was a clinical knife slicing through the thick air of revelation and dust.