They nodded rapidly, their heads bobbing up and down like those little figurines John used to see on dashboards back on Earth. Their new breasts bounced with the motion, heavy and full, straining against the torn fabric of their ruined suits. Zedrik's green eyes were wide with desperation, his pretty face flushed with a mixture of fear and something that might have been hope.
"Yes, yes, we'll do anything," Zedrik said, his new high-pitched voice trembling. "Just let us go home. Please. We'll leave. We'll never come back. We'll forget any of this ever happened."
Alrick nodded beside him, his scarred features twisted into an expression of forced sincerity. "Whatever you want. Just please. Let us go."
John grinned. It was not a nice grin. It was the kind of grin that made the water beneath the floor ripple and churn, the kind of grin that made the torches flicker in their sconces. He looked up at the ceiling, at the shadows dancing in the corners of the throne room, and raised his voice.
"System," John said. "Revive all the males that Zedrik has killed. And any he's raped. Bring them back. Every single one."
You want me to do what now?
"You heard me. Every male victim. Bring them back."
That's a lot of people.
"I don't care. Do it."
The blue light that filled the throne room was brighter than anything John had seen before, so bright he had to shield his eyes with one hand. The water beneath the floor boiled and steamed, and the air grew thick with the smell of ozone and something else, something metallic and old. When the light finally faded, John lowered his hand and looked around.
The throne room was full.
Hundreds of men stood on the marble floor, packed shoulder to shoulder, their faces a mixture of confusion and fear. Some were young, barely out of their teens. Some were middle-aged, with graying hair and weathered skin. Some were wearing armor, rusted and dented, the kind of armor that soldiers wore. Others were in simple peasant clothes, tunics and trousers that had been torn and stained with old blood. A few were naked, their bodies covered in scars and bruises, their eyes hollow.
John counted quickly. Three hundred. At least. Either this guy was a mass-murdering fucker or an even bigger serial rapist to even include dudes. Maybe both. Maybe all of the above.
"What the fuck is going on?" one of the men demanded, looking around at the pillars, the water floor, the throne. "Where are we? Who brought us here?"
Another man, this one in tattered soldier's armor, grabbed at his own chest, feeling the flesh beneath his clothes. "I was dead. I remember dying. I remember the pain. And then... nothing. And now I'm here."
A third man, younger, maybe twenty, with a scar across his forehead, pointed at the chained figures on the floor. "Who are they? Why are they chained up? What's happening?"
John cleared his throat and closed his eyes, letting his chud body melt away. (I love using that buzzword)
The shift washed over him like a wave, his height increasing, his shoulders broadening, his hair darkening to black, his eyes brightening to yellow. The overlord clothes fit perfectly now, the coat draping elegantly, the boots hugging his calves, the silver chain resting heavy against his chest. He opened his eyes and looked out at the crowd.
"Ladies and gentlemen... well just gentlemen" John said, his voice carrying across the throne room. "Thank you for your patience. I know you have questions. I'll try to answer as many as I can."
The men stared at him, their eyes wide, their mouths hanging open.
"My name is John," he continued. "And I'm the one who brought you back from the dead. The man chained up on the left, the one with the red hair and the massive tits, is Zedrik. Former knight of Thornheim. Current piece of shit."
A collective gasp rippled through the crowd. The men turned to look at Zedrik, their eyes narrowing, their faces hardening. Zedrik squirmed in his chains, his new breasts jiggling with the movement, his pretty face pale with fear.
"That's Zedrik?" one of the men whispered. "That... that woman?"
"He was a man before," John explained. "I changed him. Thought it would be fitting. You know. Taste of his own medicine and all that."
The men murmured among themselves, their voices low and angry. John held up his hand, and they fell silent.
"Now," John said, "I have a question for you. Raise your hand if Zedrik raped you. While you were alive. Before he killed you."
He waited. The silence stretched out, long and heavy. No one raised their hand. Not a single one.
John blinked. "Seriously? No one?"
One of the men, the one with the scar across his forehead, shook his head. "He didn't... he didn't do that to us. He just killed us. Killed us and left us to rot."
Another man, older, with a gray beard and tired eyes, spat on the floor. "He didn't rape us. He wasn't interested in men. Just women. Just our wives. Our daughters. Our sisters."
John nodded slowly. So Zedrik was a strict rapist of women. Huh. Whatever. It didn't change anything.
"Alright," John said. "Here's the deal. I can teleport everyone back to your families, if they're still alive. You can reunite with your loved ones. Go back to your lives like nothing happened."
The men exchanged glances. Some of them looked hopeful. Others looked skeptical.
"Or," John continued, "you can stay. And you can take revenge on the man who killed you."
The temperature in the room dropped. The water beneath the floor went still. The men turned to look at Zedrik, and the hope in their eyes was replaced by something else. Something darker. Something hungrier.
Zedrik tried to smile, tried to look friendly, tried to ease the tension. "Hey, guys," he said, his voice high and shaky.
"Look, I know we have some... some history. But that was all in the past, right? Water under the bridge? No hard feelings?"
No one laughed.
"No hard feelings?" The man with the scar across his forehead stepped forward, his hands clenched into fists. "No hard feelings? You killed me. You stabbed me in the back and left me to bleed out on the side of the road. And now you want me to pretend like nothing happened?"
Zedrik's smile faltered. "I... I didn't mean to—"
"Didn't mean to?" The man's voice cracked. "You raped my wife. Right in front of me. And then you killed me. And now you're standing there, in that body, with those tits, telling me no hard feelings?"
He lunged.
The chains held Zedrik in place, but they didn't protect him. The man's fist connected with Zedrik's face, a sickening crunch that echoed through the throne room. Blood sprayed from Zedrik's nose, splattering across his massive breasts and torn suit. He screamed, a high, piercing sound, and tried to pull away, but there was nowhere to go.
"That was for my wife!" the man screamed, punching him again. "And this is for me!" Another punch. "And this is for every other person you've ever hurt!"
Zedrik's head snapped back, blood dripping from his lip, his eye already swelling shut. He tried to beg, tried to apologize, but the words came out garbled through his broken teeth. "P-please—I'm sorry—I didn't—"
"Didn't what?" The man was crying now, tears streaming down his face, his fists still swinging. "Didn't mean to? Didn't think? Didn't care?" He grabbed Zedrik by his red hair, yanking his head back. "You took everything from me. Everything. And now you're going to pay."
He hit him again and again and again, until Zedrik's face was a bloody pulp, until his screams turned to wet, gurgling sobs, until his body hung limp in the chains. The man finally stepped back, his chest heaving, his hands covered in blood, and he looked at John with eyes that were empty and full at the same time.
"Thank you," the man whispered. "Thank you for letting me do that."
John nodded. He looked at the system screen floating in the corner of his vision.
Heal him, John thought.
Again?
Again. He's got a lot more people to get through.
Blue light washed over Zedrik's broken body. His nose straightened. His eye unswelled. His teeth regrew. He gasped, sucking in air, and looked up at the crowd of men standing around him, their faces hard, their fists clenched.
"Line up," John said. "Everyone gets a turn. Take your anger out on the man who killed you. And when you're done, the next person steps up."
Zedrik's eyes went wide. "No," he whimpered, his voice small and broken. "No, please. Please don't. I'll do anything. I'll give you anything. Just please—"
The first man in line stepped forward, and Zedrik's pleas turned to screams.
John watched for a moment, then turned and walked toward the stairs. He had other things to do. Other tortures to plan. And Zedrik would still be here when he got back. Broken. Bleeding. Begging.
As he climbed the stairs, he heard the sounds of fists hitting flesh, of bones cracking, of Zedrik's high-pitched screams echoing off the marble walls. Alrick watched from his chains, his scarred face pale, his eyes wide with terror. But there was something else there too. A flicker of relief. A hint of smugness. Because none of this was happening to him. Not yet.
"NO!" Zedrik screamed, his voice raw. "PLEASE! SOMEONE HELP ME! DON'T LET THEM—"
The next punch cut him off.
John reached the top of the stairs and sat down on the throne, crossing his legs, watching the crowd of men take their turns. One by one, they stepped up to Zedrik and let out all their pain, all their rage, all their grief. Some punched. Some kicked. Some just stood there and sobbed while they hit him. And Zedrik took it all, because he had no choice, because the chains held him tight, because John had made sure there was no escape.
"Have fun," John said, his voice carrying across the room. "I'll be back in an hour for the second round of torture."
Zedrik's head snapped up, his one good eye wide with desperation. "NO! DON'T LEAVE! PLEASE! I'LL DO ANYTHING! JUST STAY! PLEASE!"
John stood up from the throne and walked toward the door at the back of the platform.
"PLEASE!" Zedrik screamed, his voice breaking. "I'M BEGGING YOU! DON'T LEAVE ME WITH THEM! THEY'LL KILL ME! THEY'LL—"
The door closed behind John, cutting off the rest of Zedrik's pleas. The last thing he heard was the sound of fists hitting flesh and Zedrik's screams echoing through the throne.