KidPinoy's Aftermath 19

 Rapis’s eyes glittered at Mastermind’s words, a predator catching the scent of a new, more exquisite hunt. “Control…” he mused, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. “Yes. But first, a demonstration. A lesson in futility. The people need to see their champion is no more. And he needs to feel it.” He finally removed his foot from your chest, a gesture not of mercy, but of dismissal. “Take him.”

Mastermind and Cultist complied instantly, their grips like iron vices. They hauled your broken body from the chamber, dragging you down a long, torch-lit corridor. The stone was cold and rough against your bare back, scraping the skin you could no longer feel through the haze of pain and violation. The echoes of your own ragged breaths were the only sound until a new noise began to grow—a low, guttural roar, a cacophony of growls, hisses, and brutish laughter.

They threw you through a massive iron-barred gate, and you tumbled onto a floor of sand and dried blood. You were in a crude arena, a pit carved from the rock, surrounded by tiers of jeering, slavering creatures. They were a motley collection of Rapis’s enforcers and summoned monstrosities—hulking mutants with mismatched limbs, lithe, demonic beings with too many eyes, and beast-men whose humanity was a distant memory. They were a writhing sea of filth and hunger, and you were the solitary island they were about to consume.

You tried to push yourself up, your muscles screaming in protest. A decade of instinct, a hero’s unyielding will, flickered deep within you. But it was a dying ember. The moment you were on your hands and knees, the gate behind you slammed shut, and the mob surged forward.

You felt no invulnerability now. The first blow was a club-like fist that sent you sprawling, the impact rattling your teeth. Claws raked across your back, tearing furrows in your sun-kissed skin, drawing blood that felt shockingly warm and real. Before you could even register the pain, they were on you, a dogpile of monstrous flesh.

Hands—or things like hands—grabbed at you from every direction. Your arms were pinned, your legs forced apart. The assault was chaotic, brutal, and utterly devoid of anything but savage dominance. You were mounted, used, and discarded by one creature, only for another to take its place. Every angle of your body was a target for their violation. The stench of their unwashed bodies, of stale sweat and fetid breath, filled your nostrils, making you gag.

And with every brutal thrust, every grinding violation from creatures whose bodies were unnatural and wrong, the pressure built inside you. Your overwrought system, already pushed to its limit, had no defenses left. Time and again, your body betrayed you. Spasms wracked your frame, and more of your precious chi, the gift of the dragon gods, erupted from you, spilling uselessly into the dirt and onto the monstrous bodies violating you. Each ejaculation was a wave of profound weakness washing over you, a hemorrhage of the soul. You felt the divine energy leaving, replaced by a cold, encroaching emptiness. Your vision blurred, the roars of the mob fading into a dull drone. You were no longer fighting; you were merely enduring, a vessel being emptied into the mud.

---

From their vantage point on a stone dais overlooking the pit, your captors observed their handiwork, each from his own unique perspective.

Mastermind watched with the detached curiosity of a scientist observing a critical experiment. He made mental notes, his sharp mind cataloging every detail. “Fascinating,” he murmured to no one in particular. “The initial chi expulsion under duress was immense. Now, with sustained, varied stimuli, the output diminishes logarithmically. The body is attempting to conserve, but the psychological trauma overrides the instinct for self-preservation. His spirit is breaking in direct correlation to his physical reserves. Once fully drained, will the vessel be permanently inert, or can it be… refilled?” He saw not a hero’s downfall, but a data set, a living equation of power and submission being solved before his very eyes.

Cultist saw a holy ritual. His hands were steepled before his face, his eyes gleaming with religious fervor from the shadows of his hood. To him, you were a false idol, a blasphemy of divine power gifted to an unworthy mortal. This was your righteous scourging. The mob below were the instruments of a greater, darker will, cleansing the world of your light. “Let the filth be washed away by filth,” he whispered, his voice a sibilant prayer. “Let the fountain of the false god run dry. Let his chi return to the abyss that craves it.” Each of your desperate cries was a hymn to his ears, each forced spasm a sign of his dark faith being validated.

Beast, now clothed and standing guard, watched with a more primal understanding. He flexed his massive hands, a low growl rumbling in his chest. He had been the instrument of your initial breaking, and now he watched the pack finish the job. He saw the natural order reasserting itself. The lone alpha, the proud stag, brought down by the relentless wolves. Your pain, your screams, your utter subjugation—it all resonated with a deep, territorial part of him. It was the simple, brutal logic of the strong devouring the weak, and it satisfied him completely.

And Lord Rapis… he was the conductor of this orchestra of depravity. He leaned forward on his throne, a goblet of wine in one hand, a slow, satisfied smile playing on his lips. This was his masterpiece. Every whimper that escaped your lips, every tear that traced a path through the grime on your face, every shuddering, involuntary release of your power was a testament to his absolute victory. He was not merely defeating a hero; he was unmaking him, deconstructing him piece by piece in front of an adoring audience of monsters. He let the chaos reign until he saw your movements cease, your body little more than a twitching heap in the center of the pit. Then, with a sharp whistle, he signaled the end.

---

The creatures, snarling and reluctant, retreated, leaving you a broken ruin in the center of the arena. You lay in the filth, your lean, muscled body—once a symbol of righteous strength—now a canvas of bruises, cuts, and the mingled fluids of your own defeat and your monstrous violators. You were barely conscious, a flickering awareness of profound, unending pain your only companion.

The gate creaked open, and slow, deliberate footsteps approached. You didn't have the strength to lift your head. A shadow fell over you.

“Behold, your champion,” Lord Rapis’s voice boomed, projecting to the silent, watching mob. He nudged your shoulder with his boot, rolling you onto your back. “The great KidPinoy. The hope of the Philippines.”

He knelt beside you, his face a mask of triumphant cruelty. Other figures moved in the periphery. Cultist was there, and another hulking brute. They grabbed your legs, pulling them wide apart, securing them. Another creature began to lick at your anus, its rough tongue a new and horrifying violation. Cultist knelt by your groin, taking your abused testicles into his mouth, suckling on them with a wet, reverent sound.

But your focus, what little you had, was on Rapis. He looked down at your penis, still slick with your own essence, still achingly semi-erect in a final, pathetic show of your body’s torment.

“All that power,” Rapis whispered, his voice now a venomous caress meant only for you. “All that righteous energy, gifted by dragons to a little brown boy from the slums. Did you really think you were a god, Bien? My little island hero.” He leaned in close, his breath hot against your ear. “You were just a container. A jar filled with a precious nectar you didn't even know how to use. And I am so, so thirsty.”

His head lowered, and his mouth closed over you.

The sensation was the final, ultimate degradation. It wasn’t the frenzied hunger of the mob; it was a slow, deliberate, savoring act of consumption. As he sucked, you felt it—the last vestiges of your chi, the deep reserves you didn't even know you had, being drawn out. It was a cold, hollowing pull from the very center of your being. The divine spark that had defined you for a decade guttered and died.

“That’s it,” Rapis murmured against you, his voice vibrating through your flesh. “Give your master the last drop. Your people can’t save you. Your gods have abandoned you. Your only purpose now is to fill me.”

With one last, agonizing spasm, your body gave up its final secret. A weak, watery stream of fluid left you, carrying with it the last echo of KidPinoy. Lord Rapis drank it down greedily, not spilling a drop.

When it was over, he lifted his head, a sheen of your stolen power on his lips. His eyes shone with a new, vibrant energy. He looked down at the wreckage of you, at the empty, broken shell of the boy named Bien Regalado.

You were nothing. A husk. The hero was dead, and his murderer was looking down at him, smiling.