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Kidpinoy Aftermath 26

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 The collective, predatory inhale of the room was louder than the hum of the streaming equipment. Sweat, expensive cologne, and the metallic scent of cruelty hung in the air. Kidpinoy’s world had narrowed to a searing, unbearable point of violation. Bungo, the traitor he’d once pulverized with a single, contemptuous backhand, was now buried to the hilt inside him, a living, throbbing monument to his utter defeat. “See, bayaw?” Bungo grunted, his voice a wet, gleeful rasp against Kidpinoy’s ear. His arms, thick and roped with muscle earned from a lifetime of thuggery, were locked around Kidpinoy’s torso in a crushing, possessive hug. “All that training… all those sit-ups… made your outside hard like iron. But inside?” He pistoned his hips upward, a brutal, grinding thrust that forced a choked, guttural sound from Kidpinoy’s throat. “Inside, you’re just soft, warm, and tight. My cock is stretching your impenetrable abs from the inside, hero. I can feel them… my head is kissing them. ...
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Kidpinoy Aftermath 25

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  The name KidPinoy was a prayer on the lips of the desperate and a curse on the tongues of the wicked. He was a specter woven from the grime and grit of Tondo’s alleys, a creature of pure will forged in the crucible of Philippine poverty. His legend was built not on magic, but on an indomitable body and a spirit that refused to break. At 5’5”, he was a compact storm of sun-kissed, taut sinew, every muscle defined with the sharp clarity of a survivalist’s anatomy. His armor-like abs were legendary, a sculpted wall that had deflected knives and bullets. His endurance seemed inexhaustible, a wellspring of power that fueled his pulverizing fists, fists that had reduced criminal empires to dust. His enemies were not fellow street brawlers. They were men who waged war from leather-bound chairs in air-conditioned towers. A consortium of old, white, supremely wealthy men who saw his homeland as a failing business and him as a rebellious asset. Led by the cold, calculating Silas Thorne, th...
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Kamao's Dessecration

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  The stench of cheap cigar smoke and expensive cologne was a thick, cloying perfume that filled the expansive, windowless chamber. It was the smell of absolute power, of old money and older hatreds. In the center of this opulent dungeon, under the cold glare of halogen spotlights arranged for the cameras, hung Kamao. His sun-kissed, tautly muscled body, a masterpiece of poverty-forged discipline, was suspended in a grotesque parody of a crucifixion. A thick, black leather collar was buckled around his neck, the attached chain pulled taut to a ceiling hook, forcing his head up in a permanent, straining arc. His arms, usually instruments of lightning-fast justice, were chained wide apart. But the most profound violation was below. He was impaled, forced to sit upon the engorged, veiny cock of Silas Thorne, the patriarch of this cabal of rich, perverted racists. Thorne, a man in his late sixties with a shock of white hair and eyes the colour of a winter sky, lay on a low, leather-pad...
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KidPinoy Aftermath 24

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The stench of Tondo was a familiar armor to KidPinoy. It was the smell of fish drying on lines, of open sewage, of countless bodies living in resilient proximity, of a struggle that was its own kind of beauty. It was the smell of home. For years, he had been its silent, stoic guardian. Not with the blessings of gods, but with the hardened fists of a man who had clawed his way from its deepest gutters. His body, a testament to that struggle, was a compact, sinewy weapon. Every muscle in his torso was a defined ridge of brown, sun-kissed flesh, his arms corded with the power that could shatter concrete. His face, handsome and sharp, was a mask of resolute calm, his eyes holding the quiet fire of a man who had never known a single day of easy living. His "costume" was a simple pair of worn-out jeans and a dark hoodie, his face often obscured by shadow. They called him KidPinoy—a digital-age folk hero. He was a rumor, a ghost story the corrupt politicians and drug lords told each...
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KidPinoy (vs Dark Creatures) Aftermath 23

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  "Now, how does it feel? How does it feel to be attacked from the front and from behind... KidPinoy... no, Bien Regalado- Hehehehe." "Haa... haa... ah, ugh!!... ah... ahhh..." Two lewd, wet sounds and a man's deep moans echoed through the dark, narrow room. In the center of the room, Bien's hands and feet were bound with chains stretching from the ceiling and floor in four places, forcing him to spread his legs wide open in an X-shape. His legs were also spread wide open, but the restraining chains seemed to be retractable, stretching him so tightly that he was almost at his limit, preventing him from bending his body or even his knees. Furthermore, the room was as hot as a sauna, and Bien seemed to be enduring the pain while sweat profusely dripped from his entire body. Bien himself couldn't tell if the liquid coming from his mouth was saliva or sweat. In his hazy state, all he could comprehend was the constant stream of pleasure coursing through his e...
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Destruction of Erlang Shen

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 The war was over. The heavens themselves seemed to hold their breath, the clouds stained a bruised purple and angry crimson from the celestial blood that had been spilled. On the blasted plains before the shattered Southern Gate, two figures remained. One stood, the other was broken at his feet. Chi You, the War God reborn, loomed like a mountain of scarred flesh and blackened iron. His four eyes, two on his face and two on his torso, burned with the infernal light of a billion slaughtered souls. His bull horns swept back from a brow thick with rage and triumph. In his six hands, he held no weapon, for the only weapon he needed was the utter devastation he had wrought. At his feet, half-submerged in a crater of his own making, was Erlang Shen. The Illustrious Sage, the God of Justice, the nephew of the Jade Emperor, was a ruin. His silver armor was rent and blackened, twisted into a cage of jagged metal that bit into his flesh. His divine spear, the three-pointed, double-edged bla...
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