God of Milfs: The Gods Request Me To Make a Milf Harem - Chapter 615

Chapter 615: Rats And Leeches
As Seraphina and Lyla stepped out of the car, they were soon joined by the low rumble of engines as several black SUVs pulled into the clearing behind them.

One by one, the vehicles lined up in a neat row, their headlights cutting through the misty darkness.

Doors opened, and a dozen women emerged, all members of the church, their movements precise and disciplined. Their faces were solemn, their eyes guarded, as if they were stepping into the presence of a king.

They, too, had heard the stories about their master, Kafka, but for most, this was their first time meeting him. The weight of that moment hung heavy in the air as they assembled in a tight, orderly formation before the barrels where Kafka sat, their postures rigid, like soldiers before a general.

Seraphina led the way, her steps stiff and steady, each one betraying the fear that coiled in her chest. Lyla followed close behind, her earlier excitement now tempered by confusion and curiosity, her gaze fixed on the figure in the duck-patterned raincoat.

The other assassins fell into place behind them, their silence speaking volumes about the apprehension they felt.

Kafka, however, seemed oblivious to their arrival, his head tilted back as he gazed at the star-streaked sky, lost in thought. The casualness of his posture, the soft rustle of his raincoat, only heightened the surreal contrast between the man they’d feared and the scene before them.

Seraphina cleared her throat, stepping forward cautiously. “Master.” She called, her voice steady but laced with deference.

Kafka’s head snapped down, his eyes locking onto her with a suddenness that made her flinch. A warm, disarming smile spread across his face, as if he’d just noticed an old friend.

“Oh, Seraphina! You’re here.” He said, his tone light and almost playful. “You’re earlier than I expected. Did you have any trouble finding this place? These mountains can be a maze.”

Seraphina shook her head, her expression carefully neutral. “No trouble, Master. The path was clear enough. We made it here without issue.”

“Good, good.” Kafka said, nodding approvingly. His gaze shifted to Lyla, and his smile widened. “And this must be your sister. Lyla, right? Just as pretty as you are. You two could be twins, you know—same eyes, same fire. It’s obvious you’re family.”

Lyla felt a flush creep up her cheeks, caught off guard by the compliment and the sincere warmth in his eyes.

At twenty eight, she was nearly a decade older than Kafka, who couldn’t have been more than nineteen, and the idea of someone so young speaking to her with such easy charm was oddly endearing.

She opened her mouth to respond, a spark of her earlier excitement flaring up, ready to forget Seraphina’s warnings and engage with this unexpectedly approachable master.

But Seraphina was quicker.

“Thank you, Master.”

She said sharply, cutting Lyla off before she could speak. Her tone was polite but firm, her eyes flicking to her sister with a warning glance.

Kafka’s smile didn’t falter, but his eyes gleamed with a knowing glint as he tilted his head, studying Seraphina.

“You look tense, Seraphina. Scared, even. What’s got you so spooked? Afraid I’m gonna gobble up your little sister or something?” His tone was teasing, but there was an edge to it, a subtle challenge that made the air feel heavier.

Seraphina stammered, her composure faltering under his gaze.

“N-No, Master, it’s not that. It’s just…” She trailed off, unable to find words that wouldn’t betray her fear or provoke him. Standing before him, she felt exposed, as if he could see through every lie, every thought, stripping her bare with a single look.

Kafka’s eyes swept over the assembled assassins, taking in their stiff postures and wary expressions. He chuckled softly, the sound both amused and slightly mocking.

“In fact, everyone here looks like they’ve seen a ghost. What exactly did you tell them about me, Seraphina? Got them thinking I’m some kind of monster?”

Seraphina’s breath caught, her mind racing for an answer that wouldn’t anger him. She opened her mouth, but no words came, her fear locking her tongue in place.

Kafka watched her struggle for a moment, then waved a hand dismissively, his smile returning.

“Never mind. Doesn’t matter. I don’t care what stories you’ve spun. Let’s move on.”

Seraphina exhaled, a quiet sigh of relief, while Lyla’s thoughts churned.

To her, Kafka seemed nothing like the demon Seraphina had described. He was charming, easygoing, even merciful in brushing off her sister’s obvious discomfort.

‘Maybe Sera had exaggerated to keep them all in check.’ She thought, her earlier doubts softening.

Kafka stood up, stretching his arms as if he’d been lounging for hours, and addressed the group.

“I bet you’re all wondering why I dragged you out to the middle of nowhere.” He said, his voice carrying a casual warmth. “Probably scared I’ve got some terrifying mission lined up, right?…But relax. It’s nothing like that.”

“…I just need some help moving a few things—quite a lot of things, actually and I can’t do it alone. That’s where you come in.”

A collective sigh rippled through the assassins, their tension easing at the mundane explanation. The idea of their fearsome master needing help with something as ordinary as transport was almost laughable, and it humanized him in their eyes, if only slightly.

But then Kafka did something that stunned them all. He stepped forward, his expression softening, and gave a slight, respectful bow.

“Before we get to that, though.” He said, his voice sincere. “I want to thank you. All of you. For taking care of my family, for keeping them safe, for watching over them from the shadows like you always do.”

“…They mean everything to me, and I know they’re safe because of you. I’m grateful for every single one of you.”

The assassins froze, their eyes wide with shock.

Gratitude? From their master? Their previous overlords had treated them like tools, disposable pawns to be used and discarded without a second thought.

But Kafka looked at them not as weapons, but as people, his words carrying a weight of genuine appreciation that none of them had ever experienced. For a moment, the clearing was silent, the assassins grappling with the unfamiliar warmth of being seen as human.

Lyla’s heart swelled, her earlier excitement surging back tenfold. This was the Kafka she’d dreamed of meeting—the savior, the hero, not the monster Seraphina feared.

She felt a sudden urge to speak, to ask him a dozen questions, to learn everything about the young man who’d changed their lives. Her lips parted, words bubbling up as she leaned forward, her fangirl enthusiasm threatening to spill over despite her sister’s warnings.

Seraphina, sensing the shift in Lyla’s demeanor, shot her a sharp look, her hand twitching as if ready to physically restrain her.

But before either could act, Kafka’s expression changed.

His warm smile morphed into something else—still innocent, but with an undercurrent that sent a shiver racing down every spine in the clearing, Lyla’s included. It was a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, a smile that hinted at something vast and unknowable lurking beneath the surface.

“Before we get to the transport…” Kafka said, his voice deceptively light. “I’ve got a few loose ends to tie up. Just one more, actually. I’d appreciate it if you’d bear with me for a bit longer. Won’t take long.”

Seraphina frowned, confusion flickering across her face. “Loose ends, Master? If there’s something that needs handling, I can take care of it. You don’t need to trouble yourself.”

Kafka’s smile widened, and for a moment, the air seemed to grow colder.

“Oh, no need to worry, Seraphina. I’ve already dealt with two of them. Just…one left.”

Kafka’s smile lingered, a faint, chilling curve that seemed to deepen the cold in the clearing.

“But before I deal with the last loose end.” He said, his voice light but carrying an undertone that made the assassins skin prickle. “I’II need to put these two barrels away. They’re part of what needs transporting and disposing of later.”

He slid off the barrels with a casual hop, landing lightly on the ground, and reached for one of the rusted drums as if it weighed nothing.

Seraphina, ever the loyal servant, reacted instantly, her instincts overriding her unease.

“No, Master.” She said quickly, stepping forward and raising a hand to stop him. “You don’t need to lift a finger. My girls will handle it.”

She turned to the assembled assassins, her voice firm. despite the tremor in her chest.

“You heard him. Take the barrels to the truck…Now.”

Kafka tilted his head, his expression mildly concerned. “They’re heavy, Seraphina. I can manage—”

“No.” Seraphina insisted, her tone sharper than she intended. “We’ll do it. It’s our job.” She shot a pointed look at the nearest group of assassins. “Move.”

The women hesitated for a fraction of a second, their eyes flicking between Kafka’s unreadable smile and the barrels, but they obeyed.

Four of them stepped forward, two to each barrel, their movements precise but cautious. As they gripped the handles, their muscles strained, the barrels far heavier than they’d expected.

One seemed to slosh faintly, as if filled with liquid, while the other felt solid, almost unwieldy. The assassins exchanged uneasy glances but pressed on, hauling the barrels toward the small truck parked at the edge of the clearing, part of the convoy they’d brought for the transport job.

The path was uneven, littered with roots and rocks, and the women moved slowly, their breaths labored, while Seraphina stood rigid, her eyes never leaving the barrels, as if she could sense something terrible within them.

…But unfortunately, they were nearly at the truck when disaster struck.

One of the women carrying the sloshing barrel caught her foot on a gnarled root protruding from the ground. She stumbled, her grip faltering, and the barrel slipped from her hands.

The sudden shift in weight threw off the other woman holding it, and with a collective gasp, the barrel crashed to the ground, its rusted lid popping off from the impact.

The second group, startled by the noise, lost their grip as well, and their barrel followed suit, slamming into the first and bursting open.

The moment the barrels opened, a sickening stench filled the air, a mix of rot, blood, and something far worse.

The girls watching froze, their eyes drawn to the contents spilling out onto the forest floor.

The women who’d dropped the barrels stepped back, their faces paling as they saw what lay within.

Gasps and stified screams rippled through the group, even from killers hardened by years of bloodshed.

Seraphina’s breath hitched, her worst fears confirmed, while Lyla’s hand flew to her mouth, her stomach churning. The other assassins recoiled, some gagging, others trembling, their training no match for the horror before them.

Meanwhile Kafka, standing a few paces away, tilted his head and let out a soft chuckle, the sound jarringly out of place.

“Oh no.” He said, his tone almost playful. “Looks like you’ve seen my two loose ends…My bad.”

What poured out of the barrels wasn’t just refuse or contraband—it was death and horror itself.

The first barrel had held the body of a middle-aged man, or what was left of it.

His flesh was a mangled ruin, torn and gnawed beyond recognition, his face reduced to a grotesque mask of exposed bone and shredded tissue.

As the barrel had split open, a swarm of rats had spilled out alongside him, their fat bodies scurrying into the underbrush. The man had been locked inside with them, alive, until the rats, starved and frenzied, had eaten him piece by piece.

His empty eye sockets stared blankly at the sky, a testament to a death so slow and agonizing it defied comprehension.

The second barrel was no less horrifying.

A body of a man is his 30s, bloated and pale as death itself, lay in a pool of water tinged red with blood. His skin was puckered and translucent, clinging to bones that jutted out like sharp edges.

Clinging to his corpse were dozens of fat, glistening leeches, their bodies swollen with the blood they’d drained from him.

He’d been submerged with them, trapped in the barrel as they fed, sucking him dry until nothing remained but a hollow, emaciated shell. The leeches, plump and sluggish, writhed in the spilled water, a living reminder of the torture that had ended his life.

The assassins, though no strangers to violence, were shaken to their core.

They had killed, maimed, and seen horrors most could never imagine, but this was different.

This wasn’t just death—it was cruelty, meticulous and unrelenting, designed to inflict maximum suffering. The sight of the bodies, mutilated in ways that spoke of both ingenuity and malice, was too much.

One woman turned away, retching into the bushes.

Another clutched her arms, her nails digging into her skin as she fought to stay composed.

Even Lyla, who had clung to the image of Kafka as a benevolent savior, felt bile rise in her throat, her earlier admiration shattered by the grotesque reality before her.

She glanced at Kafka, hoping for some sign that this was a mistake, but his casual demeanor only deepened her horror.

Seraphina, though, wasn’t surprised.

Her face was a mask of grim resignation, her eyes fixed on the barrels as if she’d known all along what Kafka was capable of.

She’d warned Lyla, warned them all, but even she hadn’t anticipated this level of brutality.

Her stomach twisted, not just at the sight, but at the realization that this was only the beginning.

Kafka had one more ‘loose end’ to deal with, and if this was what he’d done to the first two, she dreaded what was coming next…