Three hours later, John crawled out of the wooden hut on his hands and knees.
His silver-gray curls were matted with sweat, his green skin was slick and sticky, and his legs felt like they had been replaced with wet noodles.
Every muscle in his body ached. His jaw was sore from where one of the goblin women had clamped her thick thighs around his head. His hips were bruised from the relentless pounding. And his cock, his poor, overworked cock, was raw and sensitive and completely empty.
He had come at least twelve times. Maybe more.
He'd lost count somewhere around the seventh when the scarred woman had ridden him reverse cowgirl while the other three took turns sitting on his face.
The sounds, the smells, the sheer overwhelming weight of green flesh pressing in from all sides. It had been glorious. It had been exhausting. And now, crawling out into the cool night air of the goblin village, John felt like a used-up rag.
"System," John croaked, his voice hoarse from moaning. "Bring me back. Now."
You sure? You look like you're about to pass out.
"I'm sure. Just get me out of here."
The teleport hit him like a wave of ice water, shocking his system, washing away the grime and the sweat and the exhaustion. One moment he was on his hands and knees in the mud, surrounded by the sounds of the village settling down for the night. The next moment he was standing in his gaming room, the familiar glow of the triple monitors washing over him.
John gasped. His body felt different. Lighter. Cleaner. He looked down at himself and saw the chud form. Five-foot-eight. Soft belly. Greasy black hair. Taped glasses. He was wearing his overlord clothes, which hung off him like a tent, the coat dragging on the floor, the sleeves covering his fingers.
But he wasn't tired anymore. The moment he'd returned to his mansion, the exhaustion had vanished. The dehydration was gone. His muscles didn't ache. His cock didn't throb. It was like the last three hours had never happened.
"That's convenient," John muttered, dusting himself off. He stretched his arms over his head, feeling his joints pop. "I could get used to that."
Don't. It's a one-time courtesy. I'm not your personal spa.
"Noted."
John looked around the gaming room. The monitors showed the globe interface, spinning lazily. The PC hummed. The bed was still empty. Everything was quiet. Too quiet. He needed to check on Zedrik and Alrick, make sure they were still alive, still suffering.
He could teleport. It would be faster. Easier. But John's legs were itching to move, and his brain needed a moment to process everything that had happened. So he decided to walk.
He left the gaming room and crossed the library, the shelves of untouched books watching him pass. At the far end, a heavy wooden door led to the courtyard. John pushed it open and stepped outside.
The courtyard had changed.
It wasn't the empty fifty-acre field of dark trees and winding paths that he remembered. Now, there were buildings. Dozens of them. Chinese-style houses, each one three or four bedrooms, arranged in neat rows along curved concrete paths. The houses had tiled roofs that curved up at the corners, wooden lattice windows, and small gardens in front. Bonsai trees dotted the landscape, their twisted branches casting delicate shadows. Stone lanterns stood at regular intervals, their soft glow illuminating the scene. And everywhere, the gentle sound of running water from fountains and small streams.
John stopped in front of a fountain, watching the water bubble up from a stone spout and cascade down into a shallow basin. It looked like something out of a painting. Like one of those serene garden scenes you saw in travel brochures for places you'd never actually visit.
"Huh," John said. "We have working water. I didn't even think about plumbing."
You're welcome.
"I didn't thank you."
You fucking should your ungrateful chud.
John shook his head and kept walking. The concrete paths wound between the houses, leading him toward the central tower. He passed a group of bonsai trees that looked like they were at least a hundred years old, their trunks gnarled and thick.
It was peaceful. Calm. The kind of place where you could forget that you were a god with a revenge list and a throne room full of corpses.
But John didn't have time for peace. He had to check on his prisoners.
He reached the base of the central tower, a massive structure of black stone that rose twenty-seven floors into the air. The entrance was a simple archway, unadorned, leading to a spiral staircase that descended into darkness. John stepped inside and started down.
The stairs were steep, worn smooth by centuries of use that hadn't actually happened because the mansion had only existed for a few days. Time was weird in pocket dimensions. John didn't think about it too hard.
"System," John said, his voice echoing off the stone walls. "Which way to the throne room?"
Down. Keep going. You'll know when you're there.
The stairs wound deeper and deeper, the air growing cooler, the darkness pressing in. Torches flickered to life as John passed, their flames casting dancing shadows on the walls. He counted the steps. Fifty. A hundred. Two hundred.
Finally, the staircase opened into a wide corridor. The walls here were black marble, veined with gold, and the floor was polished to a mirror shine. At the end of the corridor, a pair of massive doors stood open, revealing the throne room beyond.
John walked through the doors and stopped.
Zedrik was still chained to the floor, his red hair matted with blood, his pretty face swollen and bruised. His I-cup breasts were covered in welts and cuts, and his torn suit hung off him in bloody rags. Around him, the line of men had shrunk, but there were still at least two hundred waiting their turn.
They took turns stepping up to the chained figure and letting out their rage. Fists flew. Feet kicked. Some men used weapons—a broken bottle, a chair leg, a belt—anything they could find.
Zedrik screamed. Begged. Cried. But no one listened. No one cared. They just kept hitting, kept kicking, kept taking their revenge.
One man, the same one who had started it all, the one with the scar across his forehead, was sobbing as he punched Zedrik's face. "You took everything from me," he kept saying, over and over.
"Everything. Everything. Everything."
Zedrik's head lolled to the side, his one good eye finding John standing at the edge of the crowd. His mouth opened, and a wet, gurgling sound came out. A plea. A prayer. Something that might have been a name.
John didn't move. He just watched.
Alrick was still chained to his own pillar, watching the whole thing with wide eyes. His scarred face was pale, and his massive breasts were heaving with every rapid breath. He looked relieved. Grateful. Because none of this was happening to him.
Not yet.
John folded his arms across his chest and watched the beating continue. The men showed no signs of stopping. They were driven by grief, by rage, by years of pain that they had finally been given permission to release. Zedrik would survive. The system would make sure of that. He would be healed, again and again, so that every single man in line could have his turn.
"Yeesh," John said quietly, and settled in to watch.