Chapter 68: Divine Power Unleashed
The mountain air was thin and cold, a sharp contrast to the heat simmering within the sacred chamber. Bruce stood at the center of the polished stone floor, his bare chest gleaming in the low light of a hundred guttering candles. His eyes, usually a calm hazel, swirled like molten gold, currents of emerald and bronze twisting in their depths. The wives formed a loose circle around him, a tapestry of anxious breath and rapt attention. Briana knelt closest, her violet eyes fixed on him, the bond between them a taut, humming wire in the quiet of the room.
“Just feel,” Bruce murmured, his voice not quite his own, echoing with a resonance that vibrated in the bones. “Don’t push. Just… expand.”
He closed his eyes. For a heartbeat, nothing. Then the room seemed to inhale.
A sound like tearing silk filled the air, and a jagged fissure exploded across the far wall of solid granite, not from impact, but from a thought. Dust plumed. Lena gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. Bruce hadn’t moved.
He blinked.
One moment he was there, solid, real. The next, he was a wisp of darkness, a man-shaped hole in the world, so faint the candlelight passed through him. He reappeared behind Ketut, his lips brushing her ear. She jumped, a shiver wracking her toned frame. “Impossible,” she breathed.
He was gone again. Not speed. Erasure. He popped back into existence three thousand miles away, the salt-kissed air of a remote Pacific atoll filling his lungs for a fraction of a second before he was back in the chamber, the scent of ocean spray lingering on his skin. Sophia’s green eyes were wide, her trainer’s mind unable to process the physics he was obliterating.
Bruce raised a hand. Flame erupted. Not a trickle, but a roaring, liquid wall of blue-white fire that roared towards the high ceiling, heat washing over the wives in a blistering wave. He swept his other hand in an arc. The fire vanished, replaced by a torrent of water that crashed against the stone floor with the force of a tidal surge before disappearing into nothing, leaving no dampness behind.
He became the shadow again, slipping around Camille, his fingers a ghostly caress on her neck that raised goosebumps. She leaned into it, her eyes closed, a devotee before her god.
Then he stopped. His form solidified, his swirling eyes settling on a point in the center of the room. The air thickened, puckered. From nothing, a man coalesced. Then another. And another. Perfect replicas of the mercenaries who had attacked their villa—the same cold eyes, the same tactical gear, the same weapons held at the ready. A dozen of them. Two dozen. A silent, hate-filled army materialized from the void, crowding the spacious chamber.
The wives tensed, powers flickering to life—Sophia’s muscles coiling, Ketut’s connection to the stone floor vibrating, Lena’s form shimmering with possibility.
Bruce held up a single finger. Wait.
The replica soldiers opened fire. The sound was deafening in the enclosed space. Bruce didn’t move.
The bullets stopped. Hanging in the air an inch from his skin, a shimmering, silent constellation of lead. He looked at them, bored. With a thought, they vaporized into wisps of smoke.
Then he moved.
It wasn’t a fight. It was a dismantling. He was everywhere. A fist passed through a replica’s chest, not breaking ribs but unmaking the matter, leaving a gaping, clean hole. He snapped a neck with a casual flick, the sound like dry kindling. He tore a man in half, not with savage strength, but with a precise, effortless pull, as if separating wet paper. He moved through them like a scythe through wheat. There was no anger in it. No fury. It was clinical. A statement. They were figments of his will, and he revoked it.
In less than ten seconds, it was over. The replicas were not bodies, but piles of grey ash drifting to the floor. Silence returned, heavier than before, thick with the scent of ozone and something metallic.
Bruce stood amidst the settling dust, his chest barely rising. He looked down at his hands, turning them over as if seeing them for the first time. The raw, unimaginable power coursed through him, a bottomless ocean contained within the vessel of his flesh. And through it all, the sweet, stabilizing thread of Briana’s bond held him, an anchor in the cosmic storm. He felt her awe, her fear, her unflinching devotion feeding back into him, amplifying everything.
He turned to his wives. Their faces were pale, stunned into a profound silence. Only the quick rise and fall of their breasts, the dilated pupils, betrayed the adrenaline coursing through them.
Then Lena broke the spell. She stepped forward, her eyes not on his face, but lower. The loose linen trousers he wore did little to hide the massive, rigid length straining against the fabric. A thick vein pulsed down its side. Her tongue darted out to wet her lips.
“You’re not finished,” she said, her voice husky. It wasn’t a question.
Bruce’s swirling eyes found hers, then traveled over the assembled women—Camille’s hungry gaze, Sophia’s fierce pride, Ketut’s submissive longing, Briana’s violet eyes glowing with predatory need. The awe in the room was curdling, transforming into something hotter, darker, more urgent. The display of absolute power had stripped away all pretense. It was a primal trigger.
“No,” he rumbled. “I’m not.”
He didn’t command them. He simply opened his arms, a god accepting worship. They moved as one.
Lena was first, dropping to her knees before him with a soft thud. Her small hands went to the knot of his trousers, fumbling only for a moment before the fabric gave way. His cock sprang free, thick and impossibly long, standing rigid against his stomach. A collective, sharp intake of breath came from the women behind her.
“Fuck, Papi,” Lena whispered, her breath hot against the throbbing head. She didn’t tease. She opened her mouth wide, her lips stretching into a tight ring, and took him deep, her throat working immediately to accommodate him. The sight of her—his fierce sombra—submitting so completely, her jaw straining, sent a jolt of pure lust straight to Bruce’s core.
Camille came up behind him, her soft curves pressing into his back. Her hands slid over his shoulders, down his chest, her fingers finding his nipples and pinching hard. “Look at her,” Camille breathed into his ear, her voice rough with desire. “Look at your shadow take that monster cock.”
Sophia and Ketut closed in on either side. Sophia, her strength undeniable, gripped his bicep, her teeth grazing his shoulder. Ketut sank to her knees beside Lena, her dark eyes watching the brutal penetration with fervent attention before she leaned in, her tongue snaking out to lick the heavy base of his shaft where it met his balls. The dual sensation—Lena’s sucking, deep-throating rhythm and Ketut’s wet, lavish tongue—made Bruce groan.
But his eyes were on Briana. She stood apart for a moment, her lush body trembling, her violet eyes locked on the scene. The catalyst. He felt her power winding tighter, a coiled spring ready to release. She unclasped her robe, letting it fall. Her body was a dream of obscene curves, her full breasts heaving, her waist impossibly narrow, her hips and ass a sinful promise.
“Come here,” Bruce commanded, his voice guttural.
She moved, a glide of perfect skin. She didn’t join the others at his front. Instead, she pressed herself against Lena’s back, her hands reaching around to cup Lena’s breasts, pinching the nipples through her thin dress. Lena moaned around Bruce’s cock, the vibration shooting through him.
“Give it to him,” Briana urged Lena, her voice a sultry chant. “Take every inch, you filthy slut. Take your god’s cock.” Her words were a lightning rod, amplifying the depravity, the raw need in the room. Bruce felt Briana’s power not just stabilizing the bond, but heightening every sensation, making Lena’s mouth feel impossibly tighter, Ketut’s tongue more clever, Camille’s nails sharper.
He tangled his hand in Lena’s dark hair, not guiding, just holding, feeling the muscles of her throat work as she took him deeper, again and again, until her nose was buried in his pubic hair. Her eyes streamed tears, but she didn’t pull away. She fucked her own face on him with a desperate, hungry zeal.
It wasn’t enough. The power was a beast in his chest, demanding release.
With a grunt, he pulled Lena off him. Her lips were swollen, slick with saliva and pre-cum. He turned her roughly, bending her over the low stone altar at the room’s center. He pushed her dress up to her waist, exposing the glorious, round expanse of her ass. She was already soaked, her pussy glistening, her dark flower open and ready.
He didn’t enter her. He looked at Sophia. “Hold her.”
Sophia moved with soldier’s obedience, her strong hands pinning Lena’s shoulders to the cold stone. Ketut spread Lena’s cheeks, presenting her. Bruce spat into his palm, slicked his raging cock once, and positioned the broad head at her tight, puckered entrance.
Lena stiffened, a brief flash of fear in her eyes, before it was swallowed by pure want. “Yes,” she hissed, pushing back against him. “Dámelo! Give it to me!”
He pushed. The resistance was fierce, a tight, clutching ring of muscle. He used his strength, the strength that had punched holes in mountains, and sank into the unbelievable tightness. Lena screamed, a raw, ragged sound of pain and ecstasy that echoed off the temple walls. He buried himself to the hilt in her ass in one long, relentless stroke, feeling her body stretch and burn to accommodate him.
Camille was there, her mouth on his, her tongue warring with his as he began to move. He fucked Lena’s ass with hard, deep, piston-like strokes, each one forcing another choked cry from her lips. Briana knelt beside Lena’s head, whispering obscenities, kissing her, sharing the taste of Bruce on Lena’s lips.
Ketut’s hand snaked between Bruce’s legs, cupping his balls, rolling them as he brutalized Lena’s back passage. Sophia held Lena firm, her own breath coming in sharp gasps as she watched.
Bruce felt it building, the cataclysmic pressure of his power and his climax twisting together. The bond with Briana was white-hot, a conduit for pure sensation. Lena’s ass was a molten vise, milking him, her strangled cries music. He grabbed her hips, his fingers digging into soft flesh, and slammed home one final time.
He came.
It wasn’t a release; it was an eruption. A torrent of cum that seemed endless, flooding Lena’s depths, hot and claiming. As he pulsed into her, the chamber itself seemed to pulse with golden light. The candles flared. The stone hummed. The women cried out, not from touch, but from the shockwave of pure, raw divine energy that rolled out from his orgasm, crashing over them like a tide.
He stayed buried in her, panting, the world slowly coming back into focus. Lena was sobbing openly, her body limp over the altar, filled and claimed. The other women were on their knees, trembling, overwhelmed by the residual energy.
Bruce pulled out slowly. Lena collapsed. Briana was there instantly, gathering her, whispering soft words, her catalytic power now soothing, healing.
Bruce looked at his hands again. They were steady. The ocean of power was calm, satiated for now. He turned his swirling eyes toward the north, toward Zurich. The fortress. The Rothschilds.
The game had just changed. And he was ready to play.
And he was ready to play.
The afterglow was a thick, sated thing, heavy with the scents of sex and candle wax and power. Lena lay sprawled across the stone altar, breath slowly returning, while Briana murmured to her, soft violet light flickering from her fingertips to soothe the tender flesh. Bruce watched them, the immense calm of his release settling into his bones. It was a deceptive peace, the eye of the hurricane he now knew lived within him. Camille’s hand found his, her fingers lacing through his blood-warmed ones. She leaned her head against his shoulder.
“Zurich,” she said quietly. It wasn’t a question.
“Soon,” he replied. His voice was low, a rumble that vibrated through her. He looked at the others—Sophia flexing her hands as if recalling the feel of Lena’s shoulders, Ketut tracing patterns in the dust on the floor, her connection to earth seeking stability after the metaphysical storm. They were all connected, a circuit humming with spent energy. He was about to speak again, to outline a plan, when the air in the chamber changed.
It wasn’t a sound. It was a silencing.
The natural hum of the mountain, the whisper of wind against ancient stone, ceased. The candle flames didn’t flicker; they froze, pointing straight upward as if gripped by an invisible force. Briana’s head snapped up, her violet eyes wide. “Bruce—” she began.
A shrill, psychic shriek tore through the temple, bypassing ears to scream directly into their minds. It was Inga’s voice, strained and metallic through the telepathic link she maintained as Goddess of Knowledge. “PROXIMITY WARNINGS GO OFF. THEY SENT A WAVE. LET’S GO.”
All softness evaporated. Bruce’s swirling eyes hardened into chips of amber flint. “Where?” he sent back, the thought a sharp spear.
“East perimeter. The old pine ridge. Multiple signatures. Heavy.” Inga’s mental voice was clipped, flooding his consciousness with tactical data—thermal outlines, weapon signatures, a coordinated advance pattern.
No time. He looked at his wives. Fear was there, a cold flash in their eyes, but beneath it was a ferocity that matched his own. These were not victims. They were goddesses. “BE CAREFUL,” he said aloud, his voice leaving no room for argument. “I LOVE YOU ALL. STAY BEHIND ME. SECOND LINE.”
He didn’t wait for acknowledgments. He reached out, his hands finding Camille’s and Lena’s. They, in turn, grabbed Sophia and Ketut, who linked to Briana. A chain of flesh and power. He pictured the pine ridge, the specific coordinates Inga had seared into his mind.
The world dissolved.
It wasn’t the gentle pop of his practice. It was a violent tear, a lurch through the fabric of space that left their stomachs heaving. One moment, the warm, incense-heavy temple. The next, the biting chill of high-altitude air, the scent of pine resin and damp earth. They stood on a rocky outcropping, the villa’s lights a distant shimmer below. The moon painted the scene in monochrome.
Before them, black against the grey, were figures. Twelve of them. Clad in matte black gear that drank the moonlight, faces obscured by helmets with multi-lensed goggles. They moved with an unnatural, synchronized silence, fanning out. Their weapons were unfamiliar, barrels glowing with a faint, sickly green light. They froze as one, as if surprised by the sudden appearance of their targets.
Bruce stepped forward, placing himself between the line of his wives and the intruders. The night air tasted of ozone and impending violence. “YOU DARE TRY AND HURT MY FAMILY?” His words didn’t echo. They seemed to absorb the sound around them, falling into a void.
The lead soldier didn’t speak. He raised his weapon. A pulsating green dot appeared on Bruce’s forehead.
Bruce moved.
It was a blur, a disruption of reality. He didn’t run. He simply wasn’t in one place, and then he was in theirs. The first soldier died with Bruce’s fist buried in his chest cavity, not punching through armor, but phasing through it, gripping the heart within and crushing it to pulp. The man had time for a wet, choking gasp before he collapsed.
Green energy bolts screamed through the space Bruce had just occupied, sizzling as they struck rock. He was already behind the second shooter. His hand closed around the man’s helmeted head. A twist. The crack of the spine was loud, a dry stick snapping in the quiet forest.
Chaos erupted. The perfect formation shattered. They fired, panicked, green beams cutting the darkness, searing holes in tree trunks. None found their mark. Bruce was a phantom of wrath. He caught a third man’s arm as he swung a crackling energy blade, ripped it from its socket with a terrible ripping sound, and drove the still-active weapon into its owner’s throat. Flesh sizzled. The smell of cooked meat joined the pine.
“Fan out! Contain him!” a distorted voice yelled from a helmet.
They tried. It was futile. Bruce flowed between them. He tore a rifle in half and drove the jagged end into a soldier’s eye lens, deep into the skull. He grabbed another by the jaw and the back of his head and wrenched, the helmet distorting with a metallic screech before the neck gave way.
A beam caught his shoulder. It burned, a searing cold that ate through his shirt and bit into his skin. He grunted, more in annoyance than pain. The soldier who fired hesitated for a millisecond, stunned his weapon had an effect. It was his last mistake. Bruce closed the distance and drove his fingers, hardened like stone, into the man’s throat, crushing his windpipe. He went down clawing at his neck, gurgling.
Blood misted the air. It wasn’t a battle; it was an eradication. Bruce used everything—the mountain’s strength in his blows, the speed of light in his movements, the unyielding solidity of diamond in his skin. He was physics itself, weaponized. He picked up a screaming soldier and used him as a bludgeon against his comrade, the impact reducing both to broken, bloody pulps.
The final two tried to run, scrambling back down the ridge. Bruce didn’t chase. He raised a hand. The earth at their feet erupted, sharpened stone spikes shooting upward, impaling them both through the abdomen, lifting them off the ground. Their strangled cries were short-lived.
Silence rushed back in, louder than the fight.
Bruce stood amidst the carnage, his chest heaving. The pristine white of his linen pants was gone, splattered and soaked with dark gore. His arms were painted red to the elbows. Bits of tissue clung to his skin. The cold burn on his shoulder hissed softly. He looked at his hands, slick and dripping. They trembled. Not from exhaustion, but from the flood of adrenaline and something colder, deeper—the visceral, unforgiving truth of what he had just done. He had not just killed. He had unmade.
A soft touch on his bloodied arm. Lena was there, her face pale but determined. She didn’t flinch from the mess. “Mi amor,” she whispered.
One by one, the others gathered. They formed a tight circle around him, not speaking, just there. Their presence was a warmth against the chill of the kill. Camille pressed her forehead against his back, her arms wrapping around his waist from behind. Briana took one of his trembling hands in both of hers, her violet light softly glowing, not healing, just calming.
He looked from the shattered bodies to their faces—these beautiful, fierce women who were his anchor, his reason. The gore on his skin was a stark, violent contrast to their love. The tremor in his hands began to slow.
“It’s over in minutes,” Sophia said, her voice quiet with awe and horror.
Bruce finally released the breath he was holding. The shaking subsided. His swirling eyes, which had blazed with a cold, golden fire during the fight, softened. He was covered in the evidence of his brutality, but inside, looking at them, he was utterly clear.
“Not one gets past me,” he said, the promise a vow etched in steel.
He was covered in gore and blood and had been shaking.
But he wasn’t now. Now, he was just focused. He looked toward the east, past the broken corpses, toward a distant continent.
“Inga,” he said, his voice calm once more, cutting through the metallic scent of blood. “Get me everything on that Zurich fortress. We’re not waiting for the next wave.”
He turned, his wives parting for him, a king walking from a red-stained field. “We’re bringing it to them.”