God of Milfs: The Gods Request Me To Make a Milf Harem-Chapter 617: Skinless Bodies

In a composed, almost artistic manner, as if he were merely sketching on a canvas, Kafka knelt beside the first son.

He produced a small knife from his pocket—not the scalpel, but a sharper, broader blade and began to cut away the young man's clothes, slicing through the fabric with precise strokes until finally the son's back was laid bare, pale and trembling under the cold night air.

Kafka then glanced at the father, his eyes locking onto the man's horrified gaze for a brief, chilling moment, as if to say: Watch closely, what I'm about to do to your sons.

And then, without a word, he returned his attention to the son, raising the scalpel near his neck.

And just like that, the blade sank into the flesh at the base of the son's neck, not deeply enough to kill, but just enough to pierce the skin—a few centimeters, no more.

"Mmm!~ Ahhh!~ Aughhh!~ Hahhhh!~"

The son's body convulsed, a muffled scream tearing through his gag as pain seared through him.

But Kafka's hand was steady, his expression unchanging, as he began to drag the scalpel downward, carving a long slit along the spine.

The blade sliced through skin and muscle with surgical precision, blood welling up in a crimson line that glistened in the moonlight.

"Ahhhh!~ Aughhhh!~ Gahhhh!~"

The son's screams grew hoarse, his body bucking against the women holding him down, but their grips held firm, though their faces were masks of nausea and horror.

Kafka worked slowly, methodically, as if savoring the act, as the slit widened into a gaping wound, exposing the raw, twitching muscle beneath.

Satisfied with the incision, he set the scalpel aside and began to peel the skin away, his fingers

separating flesh from muscle with the ease of a hunter flaying a deer.

"Hahhhhh!~ Maaa!~ Gaaaahhh!~"

Feeling the sensation of his skin getting torn apart, the son's screams reached a fever pitch, a sound so raw and primal it seemed to shake the trees. The women pinning him down fought to maintain their hold, their knuckles white, their stomachs churning as they tried not to look at the blood—soaked tarp or the glistening muscle now exposed.

Some clenched their jaws, swallowing bile, while others stared blankly, their minds struggling to process the nightmare unfolding before them.

Kafka continued, undeterred, his hands moving with a practiced grace that suggested he'd done this many times before.

He worked from the back to the shoulders, then down to the arms, making precise cuts to free the skin in large, intact sheets. The son's body twitched and spasmed, his screams fading into choked whimpers as shock began to set in.

Kafka then moved to the legs, slicing through the flesh with the same meticulous care, peeling away the skin until the entire backside of the body was a raw, bloody mass of muscle and sinew.

Blood pooled on the tarp, soaking into the dirt, the air thick with the coppery stench.

"Turn him over..."

Kafka said, his voice calm, almost clinical. The women hesitated, their faces drained of color, their hands trembling.

They were too shaken to move, their strength sapped by the horror they'd witnessed and seeing this Kafka sighed softly, as if mildly inconvenienced, and stepped forward.

With a gentle but firm grip, he rolled the son onto his back himself, letting the bloody, skinless mass rest against the tarp. The son's chest heaved weakly, his eyes glazed with pain and shock, barely conscious but still alive.

Kafka then resumed his work, the scalpel dancing across the chest, carving away the skin in smooth strokes. He worked with the precision of a sculptor, removing the flesh in neat, even sections, exposing the muscle and bone beneath.

The son's body was now a grotesque parody of humanity, a living anatomy lesson laid bare under the moonlight.

Kafka then moved to the arms and legs, flaying the remaining skin until only the face remained untouched.

He paused, looking down at the son, whose eyes flickered with the last vestiges of awareness.

The young man was on the brink of unconsciousness, his body wracked with pain beyond comprehension.

But then, Kafka's smile returned, soft and almost tender, as he raised the scalpel once more.

With slow precision, he sliced across the son's face, cutting through the cheeks, the forehead, the scalp.

His fingers worked with horrifying finesse, peeling the skin away in a single, intact sheet, until the son's face was gone, replaced by a bloody, eyeless mask of muscle and bone.

The scalp came last, torn free with a wet, ripping sound that echoed in the silent clearing.

Finally, Kafka held up the suit of skin, a grotesque trophy, inspecting it with a detached curiosity before setting it aside on the tarp.

The son's body lay still now, either dead or so far gone that death was a mercy.

And seeing the remains of his son, the father's muffled screams had turned to sobs, his body shaking uncontrollably.

The assassins were also in chaos—several had vomited, their bodies heaving as they stumbled away from the tarp. Others had turned away, unable to bear the sight any longer, their training shattered by the sheer brutality of what they'd witnessed.

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Only a few, like Seraphina, remained watching, their faces pale, their legs trembling their eyes fixed on the scene as if to prove they could endure it.

But even they were shaken, their composure a fragile facade.

Kafka straightened, wiping the scalpel on his raincoat, leaving a fresh streak of blood across the cheerful duck patterns. He then turned to the father, his smile unchanged, and gestured to the skinless corpse.

"Well..." He said, his voice light. "Looks like there was a human under all that skin after all. But..."

His eyes slid to the second son, who had watched his brother's torture in abject horror, his body trembling against the tarp.

"...I should double-check, just to be sure."

The second son's muffled screams erupted anew as Kafka approached, the scalpel glinting in his hand. He crouched beside the young man, the blade hovering over his neck, ready to begin the process again.

Seeing this, the father thrashed against Seraphina's grip, his eyes bulging with despair, but she held him fast, her own face a mask of grim resolve.

Seraphina's gaze darted to Lyla, who still faced away, her shoulders hunched.

"Don't look." She whispered, her voice barely audible over the second son's panicked cries. "Please, Lyla...Don't."

Lyla nodded, her hands clenched into fists, her nails digging into her palms. She didn't understand what was happening, but the terror in her sister's voice, the sickening sounds behind her, told her enough.

Whatever Kafka was doing, it was a nightmare made flesh, a horror that would sear itself into the souls of everyone present.

And as the scalpel pierced the second son's neck, the clearing filled once more with the sound of agony, brutal evidence to the darkness that lurked beneath Kafka's charming smile.

•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°

The mountain clearing was a theater of horror, the air saturated with the coppery stench of blood and the faint, acrid tang of vomit.

The second son's screams had also faded into broken whimpers, his body a raw, skinless mass of muscle and bone, trembling on the blood-soaked tarp.

Kafka's scalpel, slick with crimson, glinted as he set it aside, his work complete.

And in the end, somehow both sons, miraculously, still clung to life, their shallow breaths ragged, their bodies wracked with unimaginable pain as blood seeped into the earth, darkening the soil beneath them.

The assassins stood in a shattered silence, their faces pale, their eyes hollow. Even the bravest among them, who had steeled themselves to watch the first son's flaying had turned away during the second, unable to endure the sight again.

The women who had held the sons down had long since released them, stumbling to the edges of the clearing to retch and heave, their training no match for the nightmare they'd witnessed.

Seraphina was the only one still watching, her face a mask of grim endurance, though her legs trembled and her hands clenched into fists to hide their shaking.

Her eyes, wide and unblinking, were fixed on Kafka, as if by sheer will she could anchor herself against the tide of horror threatening to sweep her away.

The father, held in her grip until moments ago, now lay slumped on the ground, his spirit broken.

His eyes, once wild with panic, were dull and lifeless, covered with tears that carved tracks through the dirt on his face. He stared at the remains of his sons, their skinless bodies barely recognizable, and his body shook with silent sobs.

Regret consumed him—regret for every vile act, every twisted desire, but above all, for crossing the family of the monster before him, a young man who could smile so innocently while committing atrocities that would haunt the devil himself.

Seraphina's chest tightened, her breath shallow as she dared to hope the worst was over. The sons were dying, their suffering nearly at an end, and surely Kafka's wrath had been sated.

She longed to turn away, to join Lyla in facing the trees, to escape the weight of this moment. Her stomach churned, her composure fraying, and she felt the first stirrings of nausea clawing at her throat.

But then, to her utter shock, Kafka stood, his blood-soaked raincoat rustling, and reached into his pocket and then pulled out a needle and thread, the kind used for mending clothes, its simplicity so mundane it was almost absurd against the backdrop of carnage.

Seeing this, Seraphina's heart stopped for some reason. Her voice, trembling and barely audible, broke the silence.

"M-Master...What....What are you going to do with that? Why...Why do you have that here?"

Kafka turned to her, his expression as casual as if he were discussing the weather, though the blood splattered across his surgical mask and raincoat made him look like a vision from a nightmare.

"Oh, this?" He said, holding up the needle and thread, letting them dangle in the moonlight. "Our friend here..." He nodded toward the father, who lay slumped and broken "...he looks so terrified, doesn't he? So heartbroken. Like he'd give anything to be with his sons right now, even in their final moments."

"...So I thought I'd do him a favor. Let them be together. Really together."

Seraphina's blood ran cold, her mind struggling to process his words.

"Together?" She whispered, her voice cracking. "What...What do you mean?"

Kafka's smile widened, a chilling blend of innocence and malice.

"Well, the thing is...I'm going to make him wear them."

He said, his tone almost cheerful.

"Their skins, I mean. I'll stitch them together, patch them up nice and neat with this needle and thread, and wrap him up in a suit made of his sons skin."

"...That way, they'll be as close as can be, even as they pass on. One big, happy family, right?"

The words hit Seraphina like a physical blow, her knees buckling as the full horror of his plan sank in. Her mind reeled, unable to comprehend such depravity.

The image—vivid, grotesque, and unrelenting seared itself into her thoughts: the father, draped in the flayed skins of his sons, their bloodied flesh stitched together like some monstrous garment. It was too much.

Even for her, a woman who had killed without flinching, who had seen the worst of humanity, this was beyond endurance. Her composure shattered, and she acted on instinct, releasing the father, who collapsed to the ground with a dull thud.

Stepping forward, her voice shaking but resolute, Seraphina spoke, her words spilling out in a desperate plea.

"Master, please." She said, her eyes wide with panic. "I'm begging you—stop. None of us can bear this any longer. Not me, not the girls, not anyone. What you've done...It's already too much. We'll have nightmares for the rest of our lives if you go through with this."

"...Please, just...just kill them and be done with it. I know I shouldn't speak out of turn, and I'll take any punishment you see fit for my insubordination, but I'm begging you—finish this quickly..."

"...No more. We can't...We can't handle any more."

The mountain range fell silent, the assassins holding their breath, their eyes darting between Seraphina and Kafka.

Lyla, still facing the trees, felt her sister's words like a knife, her curiosity warring with the terror that kept her rooted in place. The other women, some still retching, others trembling with their faces averted, waited for Kafka's response, dreading what he might do to Seraphina for her defiance.

Kafka tilted his head, his gaze settling on Seraphina's pale, pleading face. For a moment, his expression was unreadable, the surgical mask hiding the full extent of his smile.

Then he looked around, taking in the devastation he'd wrought—the vomiting assassins, the shaking hands, the averted eyes.

"You're right..." He said finally, his voice soft, almost apologetic. "I shouldn't have shown you all this. It was...thoughtless of me. I got carried away."

He tossed the needle and thread aside, letting them fall into the dirt, and Seraphina's shoulders sagged with relief, a shaky breath escaping her lips.

"There's some petrol over there." Kafka continued, nodding toward a canister near the truck. "Group them together—all three of them and burn them. That'll be the end of it."

Seraphina didn't hesitate. She moved as if her life depended on it, terrified that Kafka might change his mind.

She grabbed the canister, her hands trembling as she hauled it back to the tarp. The father, too broken to resist, didn't even flinch as she dragged him across the ground, positioning him between the bodies of his sons.

Their skinless forms lay still, their faint breaths barely audible, their lives ebbing away with each passing second.

Seraphina worked quickly, pouring the petrol over the three of them, the sharp, chemical smell cutting through the stench of blood and decay. The father's eyes flickered, a final spark of awareness as he realized what was coming, but he didn't fight.

His tears mixed with the fuel, his body shaking with grief and pain.

And then, with a trembling hand, Seraphina struck a match, the tiny flame casting a warm glow in the darkness. She hesitated for a fraction of a second, her eyes meeting the father's one last time.

Then she tossed the match onto the petrol-soaked bodies.

The flames erupted with a whoosh, a roaring inferno that engulfed the father and his sons in seconds. The father's muffled screams rose, raw and anguished, as the fire consumed him, his body writhing in agony.

The sons, too weak to move, burned silently, their suffering finally ending in the merciless blaze.

The heat was intense, driving the assassins back, their faces illuminated by the flickering orange light, along with the ghoulish shadow of the master

watching it all...