ButcherPete
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Chapter 102: The Ripest Harvest
🕑 Added 2025-08-04 13:00:17 +0000 UTCThe city of Sweet Oasis pulsed with life.
Five months of preparation had produced a wondrous atmosphere.
Sunlight soaked the alabaster courtyards and gleamed off golden spires crowned with fruit-bearing trees. Between each column and canopy, woven tapestries fluttered, depicting Gula’s many faces: the benevolent mother, the indulgent tyrant, the eternal hunger.
And the citizens? They ate.
Children rolled down buttery hills of sweetbread. Couples dipped roasted figs into bowls of warm caramel. Priests poured wine like it was water and threw roasted meats into the crowd like blessings. The city bloomed with worship, and their god bloomed with them.
The festival had been going on for days now.
Inside her grand temple, the throne room had become a palace of indulgence.
Tables ran for miles across the floor, heavy with spit-roasted beasts, tropical jellies, steaming grains, and towering sugared cakes. Platters hovered by magic, never empty and always glistening. Musicians played low, lazy tunes; dancers, cloaked in translucent silks, moved between fountains of chocolate and melted cheese.
At the head of it all, lounging across a heap of pillows wrapped in amethyst velvet, sat Gula.
She wore only what she wished the food to admire, golden rings and jewels laced her body, thin silks danced on her skin, a crown sat lazily behind her purplish-black horns, and a smile that could melt the resolve of angels hung on her plump lips. Her silver goblet dripped with wine, dark as blood, and her fingers, stained by berries and grease, tore into another salted quail as if peeling a fruit.
Hans stood behind her, hands clasped behind his back, eyes sharp as he occasionally cleaned her hands and face with a prepared handkerchief.
She spoke without looking. “They please me today.”
Hans didn’t respond. He never did when her tone went this syrupy. She preferred it that way, he didn’t need to answer when the city answered for him.
Thousands chanted her name between sips and bites.
She tossed the bird’s clean bones over her shoulder, licking her thumb.
“The time is ripe.” she said aloud, more to herself than to anyone else. Her voice carried through the hall like a bell through syrup, low and warm.
Then she stood.
The air shifted. Utensils paused. Dancers froze mid-spin. The music quieted without dying, just softened, as if unsure whether to intrude.
Gula stepped down from her plush throne, her bare feet leaving honeyed prints on the warm tiles. She walked through the feast without a word, past trembling priests and bowing chefs, until she reached the center of the room, where a small clearing of tile remained, untouched by food, lit by beams of dusk-orange sun.
She looked toward Hans.
Her smile deepened.
“You’ve watched long enough. Come, Hans. I want a partner tonight.”
He paused for a moment.
Then, with a tactful… yet mechanical grace, Hans moved from his post. His boots echoed against the food-slicked marble. He stepped into the circle with a soldier’s caution, standing across from her like a duelist waiting for the blade to drop.
“What dance will it be this time, my lady?”
Gula grinned like a child discovering a new flavor.
“Bachata.”
Hans hesitated, not visibly, not to most eyes. But to Gula, it was delicious. A single breath hitched, a blink longer than needed, the subtle shift of his Adams apple betraying a less that tactful swallow.
She knew what it meant. Last time, his hand had brushed too close to her lower back. Last time, his heart had fluttered in his chest. He’d sworn it was the tempo of the music. He lied.
She could smell it, she always could.
Still, he showed no hesitation as he lifted his hand, offering it to her.
And Gula, humming gently, took it.
The musicians began to play.
A soft, slow percussion. A rhythm smooth as melting butter. The air thickened with magic.
Their hips moved first, close, then apart. Gula pressed her chest lightly to his, teasing. Her perfume laced with cinnamon and some unknown spice, older than cities, heavier than meat. Hans did not flinch. Not outwardly.
They turned once, a slow pivot in four steps. The room watched. The feast watched.
“[Hambre Abundante - Fiesta]” Gula said. Her lips brushed Hans’s cheek as she whispered it.
“[Eat].”
A ring of deep purple aura left her body, spreading across the temple.
And the world rippled.
~~~
In a town north of the Greed Capital, a young devil lifted a glistening apple to his mouth.
His sister handed him another. They giggled, juice running down their chins as the midday sun filtered through blooming orchard trees. A woman nearby stirred cider over a small fire, adding cloves and laughing with neighbors. Everywhere, baskets overflowed with ripe, red apples.
Then came the word.
Eat.
And they did.
The devil bit into the apple, but it gave a slightly different feeling this time. Softer, warmer. He smiled. His sister passed him a second piece, though it looked less fruit-like now. A strip of something… pale. But he didn't see it. Or didn’t care.
A man beside them carved a slice from what looked like a shoulder. His wife sipped stew that had more than apples in it now. The smell remained sweet. The flavor even sweeter.
They heard no screams.
They only swallowed with pleasure.
~~~
Back in Sweet Oasis.
Gula turned beneath Hans’s arm, her hair spiraling in a ribbon of magenta. The silk wrap on her waist loosened just enough to expose the top of her thigh.
They stepped.
“[Drink].” she said.
Again, the word slid into the air like incense.
~~~
Farther east, in a trade town.
A humble and handsome butcher raised a glass of apple wine with three clients. They toasted as a girl nearby handed out candied slices, only some had seeds.
Another shimmer passed over the city. It was subtle, like the heat rising from cobblestone after rain.
They took bites. They passed platters.
One man was missing a hand.
No one noticed.
~~~
Back in the temple, Hans turned Gula with one hand on her lower back, the other guiding her spin. She leaned into his chest for just a second longer than the rhythm required.
“I can hear them,” she whispered. “The chewing.”
Hans said nothing. But in his mind, he saw it, the feast flipped inside out. Their sacred sins laid bare.
She smiled.
“Shall we keep going, partner?”
He nodded.
The next word was coming.
And the music did not stop.
Soft drums like distant thunder. Strings tiptoed atop the rhythm. Then came the bass, heavy and indulgent, throbbing in the bones of every onlooker in Gula’s palace temple.
They had gathered for a feast, and now it had become a performance.
Hans moved with Gula, one palm at her hip, one hand clasping hers lightly. His steps were precise, angled, dangerous in their control. Her eyes fluttered as their bodies grazed. Her leg slid between his, and his jaw remained fixed, refusing to betray how close she pressed.
“[Eat].” she whispered again, voice low and trembling with heat. The word slipped between her lips like a prayer and echoed into the gluttoned air.
The temple heard it.
Hellnia heard it.
~~~
Across the southern skies, the word bent with the wind, became part of the world’s breath, curling like perfume through the cracks of Greed’s golden territory.
There, apple carts still lined the boulevards. In offices of gold-flecked paper, demons in fine suits filed paperwork, licking juice from their fingers. Apple vendors smiled from stall to stall, offering perfect crimson fruits carved with contracts, promises of sweetness.
A devil banker leaned across his marble desk, biting into an apple as he signed away another false debt. “Ah, Farmer.” he said, greeting his partner with the usual grin.
“Farmer.” replied the other, chewing something already halfway down his throat. Neither noticed the red on each other’s chins. It could have been apple. Or tongue. Or a sliver of cheek.
They didn’t notice when the intern they recently hired, from the countryside, screamed at the sight of what was on the plate. Nor when she stumbled into the hallway, tripping over the half-eaten leg of a guild officer who once ran the Trade District. People greeted her calmly as she scrambled out the door.
“Haha, Careful there, Farmer.” they smiled.
“Farmer?” she heard again.
“Farmer, no need to hurry. The fruits going nowhere.” said another, chuckling.
“Evenin’ farmer.” from the slaver whose wagon reeked of missing handlers.
The intern’s screams were eaten by the calm. The biting never stopped. But no one thought they were cannibals. No one could. The apple fever took more than clarity, it took contrast. Flesh tasted as sweet as fruit, and the flesh was chewed with the same amount of pleasure.
~~~
Back in the temple, Gula turned.
She arched her back with the motion, letting Hans' hand trail from her hip to her side, and then down, brushing the curve just shy of indecency. Her breath shuddered, but she didn’t halt the dance.
He spun her.
“[Drink].” she purred, just as her back pressed against his chest. The word slid over her tongue like oil and honey.
The music slowed. The notes curled like velvet ribbons, each strum like lips grazing skin.
Hans held her in place for a moment. “You said you’d behave the next time.”
“I lied.” she hummed, rolling her hips back against him. “All queens do, darling.”
And then, she stepped forward, only to turn sharply on her heel, facing him again. Her eyes had changed. They were darker now, as if a flood of heat was dammed just behind them.
~~~
In Greed’s territory, a mayor offered his wife’s cooked arm at a neighborhood potluck. They said it was the new Greed Apple variant. Soft, savory, rich. The guests ate, licked their fingers, and asked for seconds. The mayor called it “homegrown.”
Someone asked what part of the tree it grew from.
The word ‘Farmer’ passed lips with reverence now. ‘Farmer’, they said outside of fruit shops now selling ‘pale variety’ crisps. The kind only grown on those who owed debts in body.
They believed it was all apple. How could it not be? It tasted perfect.
The curse did not rot them or drive them mad. It only replaced the world’s logic with something sweeter.
~~~
Back in Gula’s temple, Hans dipped her suddenly.
She gasped, one leg lifted, hooked behind his. Their faces were so close their breaths tangled.
“I can feel your hesitation, Hans.” Her voice trembled now, not from nerves, but from pleasure. “You’re afraid of me.”
“I’m afraid of indulging you too much.” he replied honestly.
“Then starve.” She pulled him closer.
Her thigh locked against his, her back arched as she pressed their chests together, and she whispered directly into his lips, “[Eat].”
The floor shook beneath them gently. As if the temple itself moaned in approval.
The feasters nearby were frozen in awe. Some blushed, others worshipped. But none dared interrupt. The goddess was in ritual. The goddess was feasting. Through her dance, she consecrated the curse. With every sway, she nourished it.
~~~
Far away, in Greed’s capital, the market thrummed.
They thought it was a festival at first. No one screamed, even as limbs were chopped, sautéed, skewered on sticks and sold. The performers juggled organs, thinking them novelty fruits. The fires roasted living flesh, and the air filled with perfume.
Even the guards bowed to the “Farmers.” The slavers turned chefs. The brokers turned brewers, distilling marrow into cider.
One old devil, eyes cracked with age and clarity, watched from a window and said. “…this isn’t what apples taste like.”
Then he took a bite.
And smiled.
~~~
Back in the temple, Gula whispered, eyes closed, “Almost there…”
Hans steadied her body in his arms. She was heavy now, heavy in presence. Her soul was bloated with essence and demonic energy. Her hunger near climax.
His fingers dug into her side more firmly than they should have, and she exhaled sharply at the force.
“We’ll have to stop soon,” he warned.
“We’ll stop,” she said. “After they’re full.”
And then she said it again:
“[Drink].”
~~~
The final veil of logic in Greed’s territory melted like sugar on the tongue.
The devil feast had begun.
The sun never truly set in Greed’s territory. The fires of commerce burned eternally. Lanterns and gemstone billboards shimmered through the night like artificial stars, sponsored and paid for by the highest bidder. Streets once filled with hawkers, traders, and debauched nobles now held a new kind of celebration this night.
Apple Day.
A recent invention, born of the apple fever's influence, had become a citywide festival. It began innocently. Free apples distributed at every corner, gifted by the greeder’s upper echelon. The people had rejoiced. Their corrupted overlords had seen it as harmless morale-boosting…until now.
They still smiled, still laughed, still spoke to one another. But the way their eyes gleamed while chewing was...off. As if what they tasted wasn’t fruit anymore.
"That one’s so juicy!" a devil woman whispered, her eyes locked onto a merchant smoothing out his blazer across the plaza.
"Don’t let it get away!" another barked. “He looks overripe.”
The mob giggled, chasing after the merchant, pitchforks or blades nowhere in sight, only bare hands and teeth. When they caught him, they chewed through his protesting cries, congratulating each other on the “flavor.”
“Such ripe skin, soft meat! You’re a natural farmer!” one said, blood coating his lips.
“P-Please! I'm on the Council!” the merchant gasped before another bite tore out his throat.
“No wonder you were so sweet,” someone cooed. “Rotten to the core.”
Across Greed's markets, corrupt nobles tried to flee in golden carriages. Slavers armed themselves in gilded halls. Entire estates raised magical barriers, but it was too late. The curse Gula had set in motion with Hans, one sensual step at a time, had spread fully.
The people saw them as Apples.
And the farmers were oh so hungry.
~~~
Back in the lush depths of Gula’s golden temple, the scent of spiced wine and roasted meats filled the air like perfume. Musicians played to the rhythm of passion, their instruments pulsing in tempo with the Queen of Feast's hedonistic sway.
She was pressed close to Hans now, their hips moving as one. Bachata wasn’t just a dance anymore, it was a ritual. Her fingers roamed along his shoulder blades and chest, her lips nearly brushing his neck with each whisper.
“[Eat].”
A spin.
“[Drink].”
A slide of her thigh against his.
Hans moved with restrained power, his gloved hand at her lower back, the other guiding her through each sultry beat. His face remained unreadable, but inside his body was on fire. She was warmer than any flame, more dangerous than any dagger.
His mind repeated the same mantra: ‘Do not break. Do not bend.’
The temptation of the Queen herself was one thing.
The magic she was channeling, another entirely.
She moaned low into his ear, her breath sending shivers down his spine. “The harvest is beginning, Hans. Do you hear it? The farmers are dancing too…”
He did not answer.
His answer came in the firmness of his step, the resolve in his hold. But even that faltered for half a heartbeat as her nails traced down his back.
“Control,” he warned her quietly. “You’re losing it.”
But her eyes were closed now, lips parted, face flushed as she rode the tempo. Her hips ground harder against his. Her voice, a whisper turned chant, her will becoming law.
“[Eat]. [Drink]. [Eat]. [Drink]. [Eat]. [Drink]…”
~~~
In Greed’s capital, blood ran in the gutters. But the people didn’t notice.
“This one’s still squirming! That means it’s fresh!”
“Pull out the seeds bruther! He’s got lies in his teeth!”
The word “businessman” had vanished from their tongues entirely. No one used it anymore. Instead, greetings were changed to, “Good hunt, fellow farmer.” Children stayed hidden indoors, unaware and dazed. The innocent who had consumed apples simply smiled and wandered, seeking more ‘fruit.’
But the predators?
They had become prey.
A new hierarchy was rising, driven not by coin, but hunger.
~~~
Back in the temple, the climax of the dance approached.
Hans spun Gula, only for her to pull him tight against her chest. Her breath was hot against his cheek now, her hands desperate. Every part of her screamed indulgence now.
Then it happened.
A scream was never heard. Just a crack…and a splash.
Hans' grip froze mid-turn, halting Gula’s sensual spin with a sudden jerk. She blinked, dazed, body flushed and humming with hunger and heat…but something was wrong.
His hand remained firmly in hers, but his other arm hung limp, blood dripping freely from the now-tattered sleeve of his uniform.
Her breath hitched.
A crescent-shaped divot, deep, red, and torn with jagged edges, was missing from the curve of his shoulder. The bite was far from neat. Flesh hung loosely, blood pulsed slow and dark down his arm, pooling at his fingertips. One of his collar bones had been scraped raw, the imprint of her teeth stark and damning against his red skin.
Gula recoiled instantly, hand flying to her mouth, where a smear of blood still stained her lips.
"I…" she whispered, trembling. "No… I-I didn’t mean to-"
Hans met her eyes, unflinching. His stoic mask remained in place, as if the agony hadn't even registered. Only his body spoke the truth. The angle of his shoulder was off, his breathing just slightly labored, and his arm twitched occasionally from the shock.
“It’s fine,” Hans said softly, pulling a roll of black gauze from his spatial ring. With clinical precision, he wrapped the wound, ignoring the wet sound of blood soaking the first layer. “It is the right of the Queen to eat what she pleases.”
The words hit her harder than any slap. Her stomach twisted in guilt. Her power had flared again, and she had failed to restrain it. She was a god of appetite, not cruelty. Not to him.
“Hansel…”
He looked up and, as always, wore that infuriating calm. “Let’s not ruin the evening.”
Hans looked at her only briefly before finishing the wrap with a sharp tug. Then, almost as if it were nothing, he reached into the same pocket dimension and retrieved a small black bottle. It shimmered faintly with inner light, like a storm in glass.
“I believe,” he said calmly, tactfully shifting the mood, “the feast has yet to serve dessert.”
Gula stared at the bottle, then at him, her wounded knight, blood-stained and still unbent.
And her heart ached in silence.
Her nose then caught the scent within the sealed bottle.
She knew the scent.
Essence of Desire, condensed from the prayers, dreams, and sins of lesser beings. The flavor of longing itself.
A gift from Hannya.
And a rare delicacy.
Her lips quivered in appreciation, for the gift…and the distraction. She took the bottle in both hands, reverently.
The dance was over.
The feast had begun.
And the dessert… would be divine.
Comments
Butch Perterson
It won’t stop 😂
Butch Perterson
👍
Butch Perterson
lol thanks! 😊
Butch Perterson
I’m glad you like it 😂 I wanted something obvious and simple yet still completely cooked
Butch Perterson
lol nice catch there 😂 and yeah I’ve skipped so much I wanted to go into but I just couldn’t cut the story any shorter just to meet 100 chaps I fucked the pacing too much 😭
ShadowTycho
Love the allusion with Gula taking a bite from "Hansel", he is very lucky the wood he got lost in had such an accommodating witch Such a brutal curse, literally eating the rich. I wonder if they will recover thier senses and understand the horror or if this is a true 6 star curse and the only thing that can be done is putting them down. Also praise pete for deciding book 1 can have more then 100 chapters. These last few have been fire.
Prent
I love Gula and Hans’ relationship
Aune
wow. Did not expect this. great story telling!
Wintermelody
Thanks for the chapter
Cosmoros Subs
Damn. Shit show is just growing
