John closed his eyes and let the chud body fall away like a shed skin. The shift washed over him in a wave of warmth and power, his height increasing, his shoulders broadening, his hair darkening to black, his eyes brightening to yellow. The overlord clothes adjusted to fit his husk form perfectly, the coat draping elegantly, the boots hugging his calves, the silver chain resting heavy against his chest. He cracked his neck, rolled his shoulders, and walked toward the chained figure on the floor.
Zedrik was face down on the marble, his body limp, his shoulders heaving with wet, gasping sobs. His red hair was matted with blood, spread out around his head like a crimson halo. His massive I-cup breasts were pressed against the cold stone, bruised and swollen, and his torn suit hung off him in bloody rags. He was trembling, every muscle in his body shaking with exhaustion and fear and pain.
John grabbed a fistful of Zedrik's hair and yanked his head up.
Zedrik's face was a mess. Both eyes were blackened, swollen almost shut. His nose was broken, bent at an unnatural angle. His lips were split in three places, crusted with dried blood. Tears and snot and saliva mixed on his cheeks, dripping down onto his chest. He looked up at John with his one visible eye, and there was nothing in it but terror. Pure, animal terror.
"Congratulations," John said, grinning down at him. "You survived the first round."
Zedrik's breath hitched. His mouth opened, but only a wet, rattling sound came out. He tried again, swallowing hard, his throat bobbing.
"Th-thank you," Zedrik whispered, his voice cracked and broken.
"Thank you. I'll be good. I promise. I'll do anything. Anything you want. Just please... please don't hurt me anymore. I'll be so good. I'll be so so good. I promise. I promise."
He was babbling now, the words tumbling out in a desperate rush, like a dog whimpering at its master's feet, afraid of being kicked again.
His whole body was trembling, his hands shaking in their chains, his massive breasts quivering with every sob.
John reached down and patted Zedrik on the head, slow and condescending, like you might pet a nervous dog.
"Good boy. Now then. Time for the second round."
Zedrik's eye went wide. "No—no, please—you said—you said I survived—"
"I said you survived the first round. I didn't say you were done." John released his hair and let his head drop back to the floor. Zedrik's sobs grew louder, more desperate, his whole body convulsing.
"PLEASE! I'LL DO ANYTHING! I'LL BE YOUR SLAVE! YOUR DOG! YOUR ANYTHING! JUST PLEASE DON'T—"
John turned away, tuning out the begging, and looked up at the ceiling. "System. I need a monster."
Sure. What kind?
John thought for a moment, his yellow eyes narrowing.
"I want a monster born from all the anger, fear, and sorrow in Zedrik's victims. The ones he killed. The ones he raped. The ones he destroyed. I want it to be made from their pain. Their suffering. Everything he inflicted on them, I want it to be reflected back at him."
Ooh, poetic justice. I like it. Give me a second.
There was a pause. The air in the throne room grew heavy, thick, charged with something that made the hair on John's arms stand up. The water beneath the floor began to ripple and churn, and the torches flickered, their flames turning from orange to blue to a deep, angry purple.
Thirty seconds. Stand back.
John walked backward, climbing the stairs to the throne, and sat down. Zedrik was still weeping on the floor, his body curled in on itself, his chains rattling with every shuddering breath. Alrick watched from his own pillar, his scarred face pale, his eyes darting around the room.
The air split open.
The black void behind the tear was absolute, empty, and then something stepped through.
The monster was eight feet tall, its skin a deep, bruised blue, the color of a fresh welt. It had eight arms, each one thick with muscle, each hand tipped with claws that looked sharp enough to slice through steel. Its body was lean and corded, veins bulging across its chest and shoulders, pulsing with dark, angry blood. Its legs were long, digitigrade, ending in hooves that clicked against the marble floor.
But its face was the worst part.
The monster had a mask. A comedy mask, the kind from old theater, with the wide, painted smile and the arched eyebrows. But the smile wasn't happy. It was rictus, frozen, a grin that had been stretched too wide and held too long.
The eyeholes were dark, empty, and beneath the mask, the monster's real mouth was visible, a maw that split its face from ear to ear, the jaw unhinging, rows of sharp teeth glistening with drool. The maw reached all the way down to its neck, a gaping, wet hole that seemed to swallow the light around it.
The monster stood in the center of the throne room, its eight arms twitching, its hooves scraping against the floor. Its tail, long and spiked, lashed back and forth, cracking against a pillar and leaving a deep gouge in the stone.
And then it screamed.
The sound was inhuman, a banshee's wail that rose and rose until the windows shattered, until the water beneath the floor boiled, until John had to cover his ears to keep his eardrums from bursting.
The scream went on and on, and then it changed. It became a sob.
A deep, gut-wrenching sob that seemed to come from a thousand throats at once. The monster's shoulders shook. Its eight arms wrapped around its own body, hugging itself, as if it were trying to hold itself together.
Then the sob became a roar.
The monster threw back its head, or what passed for a head beneath the mask, and roared with a fury that shook the pillars, that cracked the marble floor, that made the chains rattle and Zedrik scream. The roar was rage, pure and undiluted, the rage of every person Zedrik had ever hurt, every life he had ever taken, every family he had ever destroyed. It echoed off the walls, bouncing back and forth, filling the throne room with sound and fury.
The monster dropped to all eights, its claws scraping against the floor, and charged. Not at John. Not at the pillars.
At the walls. It slammed into the stone, cracking it, its claws gouging deep furrows. It ripped a torch from its sconce and hurled it across the room. It smashed a pillar, sending chunks of marble flying. It was destroying everything in its path, unable to control its own rage, its own grief, its own pain.
John watched from the throne, his expression calm. "Monster," he said, his voice cutting through the chaos. "I have an order for you."
The monster stopped. Its eight arms went still. Its head turned toward John, the painted smile of the mask seeming to stare right through him.
"Take out all your negative emotions on Zedrik," John said, pointing at the chained figure on the floor. "Every ounce of anger. Every drop of sorrow. Every scream of pain. Give it all to him. He's the one who made you. He's the one who deserves it."
The monster's maw opened wide, drool dripping from its teeth, and it let out a low, rumbling growl. It turned toward Zedrik, its eight arms flexing, its claws scraping against the floor.
Zedrik was sobbing uncontrollably, his body shaking, his hands pulling at the chains. "No—no—no—please—please—I'll do anything—I'll give you anything—just don't—don't let it—"
He looked up at John, his one good eye streaming with tears. "PLEASE! I'LL BE GOOD! I'LL NEVER HURT ANYONE AGAIN! I'LL SPEND THE REST OF MY LIFE MAKING AMENDS! JUST PLEASE—CALL IT OFF—PLEASE—"
John didn't answer. He just sat on his throne, watching, waiting.
The monster took a step forward. Its hooves clicked against the marble. Its eight arms reached out, claws flexing, drool dripping from its maw.
Zedrik screamed. "NO! NO! NO! PLEASE! I'M BEGGING YOU! I'M ON MY KNEES! I'LL—"
The monster took another step. Closer.
"PLEASE! I'LL CONFESS! I'LL TELL EVERYONE WHAT I DID! I'LL—"
Another step. Closer.
"I'LL KILL MYSELF! I'LL DO IT! JUST PLEASE—DON'T LET IT—"
Another step. The monster was looming over him now, its shadow swallowing him whole. Its eight arms spread wide, claws glinting in the torchlight.
Zedrik's voice broke. He couldn't even scream anymore. Just a high, keening whine, like an animal caught in a trap, like something that knew it was about to die.
The monster's maw opened wider, wider, wide enough to swallow his head whole.
And then the monster reached down.
Zedrik's whine cut off. His eye was wide, frozen, staring up at the painted smile, the dark eyeholes, the drooling maw.
The monster's claws wrapped around his chains. Not his body. His chains. And it pulled.
The iron groaned. Zedrik screamed again, a short, sharp sound, and then the monster lifted him off the floor, chains and all, dangling him in the air like a doll.
Zedrik's legs kicked. His arms strained. His massive breasts swung beneath him. He was crying, sobbing, begging, but no words came out, just sounds, just noise.
The monster held him there for a long moment, its eight arms trembling with the effort of not tearing him apart, and then it slowly, slowly lowered him back to the floor. It released the chains and stepped back, its chest heaving, its maw dripping.
It was waiting. Waiting for the command.
John leaned forward on his throne, his yellow eyes gleaming. "You know what to do."
The monster's claws flexed.
Zedrik's sobs grew louder, more desperate. "No—no—no—no—no— WAIT-WAIT—WAIT—WAIT"
The monster took a step closer.
And another.
And another.
And another.