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The Great Hall of Eternal Dominion sprawled beneath a vaulted ceiling of obsidian, its walls lined with torchlight that flickered against polished serpent scales. At the far end, upon a throne carved from a single chunk of black diamond, sat Long You, the Monster King. His humanoid torso bore the musculature of a titan, while his lower half coiled into a massive serpentine tail that draped over the dais and curled around the throne's base. Scales the color of midnight shimmered with each subtle breath, and his yellow eyes, vertical-slit pupils, glowed faintly in the dim light.

He was alone.

For three thousand years, this hall had echoed only with his own voice when he chose to speak. The two guardians stationed outside the grand doors, Xylar of the Storm and Vorn the Unbreakable, were powerful level nine monsters in their own right, but they dared not enter unbidden. The twelve generals, scattered across the land enforcing his will, never came without summons. Long You had not needed an audience in millennia. He had needed nothing—except a worthy challenger, and that was the one thing the Strange World could not provide.

He raised a hand, and from a pedestal beside the throne, a circular band of woven silver and enchanted crystal rose to meet his palm. The universal collar. Ten years of labor, ten years of pouring his vast treasury into the hands of goblin smiths, elven enchanters, and dwarven artificers who had no choice but to obey. The collar was a masterpiece of magical engineering. Among its many functions—translation of languages, resistance to elemental extremes, a built-in map of the world—the most crucial was its ability to suppress the wearer's level.

Long You turned the collar over in his scaly fingers, feeling the hum of power contained within. He had tested it on prisoners. A level six ogre had worn it and dropped to level three within moments. The collar's suppression field was adjustable, but he had calibrated it to one specific setting: level zero.

He smiled, revealing fangs that could puncture adamant. "If I wear this," he murmured to the empty hall, "I will be no different from a common human. No magic. No strength beyond a mortal's. I will walk among the lower races as one of them."

The thought thrilled him in a way battle no longer could. For centuries, he had toyed with the idea of experiencing weakness, of feeling the thrill of genuine danger. His two guardians, even when they attacked him simultaneously with all their might, could not make him break a sweat. He had once fought an entire army of level seven elves and monsters from other races, and after annihilating them, he had not even been winded.

Loneliness was a slow poison, and he had been drinking it for three thousand years.

He rose from the throne, his tail slithering across the floor with a soft hiss. The collar went around his neck, and he clicked the clasp shut. A pulse of energy washed over him, and for the first time in three thousand years, Long You felt his power drain away. His muscles remained, but the deep well of mana that had been his birthright was now a dry pit. His bones felt lighter, his instincts dulled. He took a step and stumbled, catching himself on the armrest.

He laughed. The sound was rough, unaccustomed, and it echoed in the hall.

At level zero, he was now the weakest creature in the Strange World. A single goblin child could kill him. A sharp rock could end his reign.

He had never felt so alive.

He slithered to the grand doors and pushed them open. Xylar and Vorn turned, their eyes widening as they sensed the sudden absence of their master's aura.

"Your Majesty!" Xylar, a feathered serpent with wings spanning thirty feet, lowered his head. "What have you done?"

Long You waved a hand. "I am going on a journey. Do not follow me. Do not send anyone after me. Continue ruling in my absence as you always have."

Vorn, a massive tortoise with a shell of crystalline stone, shook his head. "This is madness. If someone discovers who you are—"

"Then they will kill me," Long You said simply. "And I will have finally experienced a real fight. That is what I want."

The guardians exchanged glances but knew better than to argue. Long You slithered past them, down the long winding staircase that led out of the palace. The guards at the gates, level six lizardmen, bowed deeply. They did not sense his weakness, for they were too afraid to look him in the eye.

He passed through the city of Nagarok, the monster capital. The streets were crowded with orcs, trolls, alligator-men, and countless other creatures. They all stepped aside, pressing themselves against walls to let the King pass. None noticed the missing aura. None dared to test him.

Long You reached the outer gates, beyond which lay the plains of the Strange World. The sky was a perpetual twilight, lit by two moons and a single red sun. He had not left this city in five hundred years. He had not traveled among the lower races in a thousand.

He paused at the gate and looked back at the obsidian spires of his palace. "If I die," he said to himself, "then this world will finally have a new king. If I live... I might find something worth living for."

He slithered forward, leaving his kingdom behind, and for the first time in three thousand years, Long You felt fear. It was wonderful.

Lin Hai strode into the territory with the single-minded focus of a man who had already spent his fury and now operated on cold, mechanical expectation. Half the ceiling had caved in from the earlier fights, leaving shafts of pale afternoon light to cut through the dust. The stone floor was littered with charred fragments of the eighth-level centipede’s carapace and streaks of dried ichor. But what Lin Hai noticed first, what made him stop dead in the center of the ruined hall, was the empty space where the Monster King’s lower half had been laid out.

It was gone.

The slab of obsidian he had rested the body upon was cracked clean down the middle, as if something had pried itself free. Lin Hai’s jaw tightened. His right hand twitched, ready to summon the seventh-level blade he had only just finished quenching. “You’ve got to be joking,” he muttered, the words scraping out of his throat.

He swept his gaze across the debris. No drag marks. No blood trail. Just the clean absence of a corpse that should have been inert, powerless, waiting to be reforged into a weapon that would make the heavens weep. Instead, it had walked off. Or crawled. Or done something else entirely.

Lin Hai closed his eyes and extended his spiritual sense like a net, casting it wide across the territory. The signal came back faint but unmistakable—a presence, humid and ancient, pulsing from the direction of the old library wing. He set his jaw and moved.

The corridor leading to the library was lined with cracked murals depicting forgotten dynasties, their painted faces flaking into piles of pigment. Lin Hai paid them no mind. His boots echoed against the stone in a rhythm that matched the steady pounding of blood behind his temples. He had personally torn the King’s body in two. He had bound the spirit inside with three layers of suppression runes. How could it still move? How dare it still move?

He turned the corner and the library doors stood open, sagging on their hinges. Beyond them, shelves upon shelves of moldering texts rose into the gloom. And there, in the center of the reading room, stood the King’s upper half.

The torso was propped upright on a makeshift crutch of splintered wood, its one remaining arm free. The spine curved unnaturally, supporting the weight of the head. And that head—the same scarred, eyeless visage that had laughed while Lin Hai’s sect burned—was angled downward at a book.

A book the King held open with his clawed fingers.

Lin Hai blinked. He took two steps closer, his vision adjusting to the dim light. The book was bound in cheap leather, its cover long worn to illegibility. But the illustrations inside were clear enough: contorted figures, limbs entwined, expressions of exaggerated ecstasy. A pornographic text. The King was reading a pornographic text.

“I told you to stay dead,” Lin Hai said, his voice flat.

The King did not look up. His body swayed slightly, the crutch creaking. “And I told you I was not done reading.” His voice was raspy, shot through with the dry crackle of old paper, but there was amusement in it. Real, easy amusement.

Lin Hai’s patience snapped. He lunged forward, his hand extended, fingers curling into a grab that would seize the King’s throat and compress the soul inside to a manageable core. He had done it before. He would do it again. The second level-eight magic weapon would be his, and then—

Pressure.

It hit him like a mountain falling sideways. His knees buckled. The bones in his legs screamed, and before he could brace himself, Lin Hai was on the ground, both kneecaps grinding against the flagstones. The air itself became heavy, thick enough to chew. Every breath tasted of ozone and deep earth.

“What—” Lin Hai gasped, his teeth locked together.

The King finally closed the book. He set it down on a stack of ledgers with surprising care, then tilted his head. Even without eyes, Lin Hai felt the weight of that gaze, a pressure that went beyond the physical and bored directly into his soul.

“You thought a half-body meant half-power?” The King’s tone was conversational, almost gentle. “You measured my cultivation the same way you measured my severed leg. Foolish. A limb is only a limb. My core remains intact.”

Lin Hai’s vision swam. The pressure increased by a notch. He could feel the capillaries in his eyes threatening to burst, could taste copper on his tongue. This was not seventh-level. Not eighth-level. Not even ninth-level. This was the weight of a true sovereign, the kind that shattered reality simply by existing.

“Level ten,” Lin Hai whispered.

The King—no, not the King. *Long You.* The only level-ten monster in the known world, the great serpent who predated nations, who had feasted on immortals before humanity crawled out of the mud. Long You.

“You see now,” Long You said. He straightened, and the crutch seemed to transform from a pathetic support into a scepter. “You are a clever little craftsman. Your centipede-killing sword was moderately amusing. But you are still a child playing with forge-fire. You do not understand the forces you handle.”

Lin Hai’s hands were pressed flat against the floor. He wanted to speak, to curse, to demand why a being of such power would be caught reading smut in a ruined library, but the pressure stole his words.

Long You took a step closer. “I have a proposal,” he said. “You wish to destroy the eighth-level centipede monster that answers to no master but hunger. I can help you. Not with a weapon forged from my corpse—that would be crude, and beneath us both—but with knowledge. I can tell you where it nests, what it fears, and how to cut through its armor with a single strike.” He paused. “But you must do something for me in return.”

The pressure eased, just enough for Lin Hai to lift his head. Sweat ran in rivulets down his neck. His voice cracked when he spoke. “What?”

“A simple retrieval,” Long You said. “In the palace beneath the Lake of Whispers, there is a book chained to a pedestal. I want it. You will fetch it, and bring it to me, and I will give you the centipede’s true name.”

Lin Hai’s mind raced. The Lake of Whispers was a dead zone, a place where even the light bent wrong. No one returned from its depths. But the alternative was to remain here, helpless, with a level-ten monster reading over his shoulder.

He thought of his sect. The ashes. The screams.

He thought of the centipede’s endless, grinding hunger.

“Deal,” Lin Hai said, the word tasting like ash.

Long You smiled. It was the first time Lin Hai had seen that expression on the broken face, and it was far more terrifying than the pressure. “Good,” the serpent-king murmured, picking up his book again. “Now leave me to my literature. I have waited three hundred years for the sequel.”

The King’s voice was a cold whisper, barely audible yet cutting through the air like a blade. “Pick up my upper body.”

Lin Hai hesitated for only a fraction of a second before reaching down. His hands closed around the King’s shoulders—what remained of him from the chest upward, severed cleanly at the diaphragm. The flesh was warm, the pulse beneath the skin steady and unnaturally strong. Lin Hai lifted the torso as gently as he could, cradling the King’s head against his own chest. The King’s eyes were closed, his mouth set in a thin line, but his breathing was calm, as if he had merely lost a limb in a minor accident.

A low hum began to emanate from the King’s core. The air around them shimmered, warping like heat haze, and then with a soundless implosion of light, the cave of the Demon King’s throne room vanished. They stood now in a vast, damp cavern, the walls slick with black ichor and the floor littered with the bones of countless animals and adventurers. The stench of rotting meat and venom filled Lin Hai’s nostrils.

The centipede monster was already awake.

It rose from the pile of its own filth, a segmented horror of chitin and bristling legs, each segment the size of a wagon wheel. Its mandibles clacked together, producing a sound like snapping steel. At level eight, its intelligence was crude but its instincts were razor-sharp. It recognized its master—the King—held helplessly in the arms of a human. Its fury was immediate and absolute. The centipede let out a hissing shriek that rattled Lin Hai’s teeth and sent a tremor through the cavern’s stone floor.

“You dare bring him here,” the centipede rasped in a voice like grinding gravel. “You will die slowly, human. I will eat your legs first, then your arms, then your eyes while you still see.”

Lin Hai tightened his grip on the King, ready to defend with whatever magic or blade he had, but the King’s voice cut through the monster’s threat like a holy decree.

“Be still.”

The centipede’s head snapped toward the King, its many eyes gleaming with confused rage. “Master—!”

The King did not move. Only his eyes opened, twin pools of obsidian that seemed to drink the light from the cavern. A single ray of blinding white shot from his navel, a beam so pure and concentrated that it left a trail of afterimages in Lin Hai’s vision. The light struck the centipede’s head at the base of its mandibles. There was no explosion, no gore. The creature’s head simply ceased to exist, vaporized into a cloud of fine ash that drifted down like snow over its still-writhing body. The segmented carcass thrashed for a few seconds before going limp.

The King’s eyes closed again. “Collect it. The headless corpse is still useful.”

Lin Hai laid the King’s upper body gently on a dry patch of stone and moved to the centipede. The body was immense, heavy, but with the King’s passive enhancement still humming in his veins, he found the strength to hoist the largest segments into his storage ring. He worked quickly, ignoring the ichor that soaked his clothes and the faint, sickly-sweet smell of the creature’s blood. When he was done, he looked back at the King.

“Now, take me to the human artifact refining hall,” the King said. His voice was weaker now, but still carrying iron authority. “The one in the capital’s underground sector. I know you know where it is.”

Lin Hai did. It was a place he had visited only once, for a classified mission years ago—a vault of forbidden crafting knowledge, buried beneath the Imperial Alchemist’s compound. He picked up the King again, and with a gesture summoned a portal. The magic strained at the edges, nearly collapsing under the weight of transporting the King’s fractured existence, but it held.

They emerged in a cold, sterile room of white stone and enchanted light crystals. Racks of tools hung on the walls: tongs, scalpels, hammers, and chisels, all etched with runes. The air smelled of ozone and old metal. The human artifact refining hall was empty at this hour, silent except for the hum of the cooling systems that kept the enchantment matrices stable.

Lin Hai set the King down on a stone table. The King’s fingers moved, tracing shapes in the air, and from a fold in what remained of his robes he produced a small, leather-bound book. The cover was worn, the edges stained, and as he opened it Lin Hai caught a glimpse of illustration—a diagram of a beast, lines tracing the path of a blade through its neck.

“This book contains the ritual,” the King said, turning the pages with deliberate slowness. “To craft a level ten magic item. The material: the head of a level ten monster, severed cleanly. The soul must be extracted while the body still lives, and then bound to the headless corpse. The procedure itself is simple, once the proper incantations are spoken.”

Lin Hai leaned closer, his eyes scanning the text. He saw diagrams of soul extraction circles, notes on preservation, and then a section that made his stomach turn. The text described how the headless body, though incapable of voluntary movement, would still retain consciousness within the soul—a consciousness that could feel every touch, every stroke, every sensation magnified a hundredfold. It was designed not for combat, not for utility, but for a single, obscene purpose.

“The headless corpse cannot move or act on its own will,” the King continued, his tone clinical. “But the soul within it remains fully aware. It can feel pleasure. And that pleasure is amplified by the artifact’s enchantment. The body becomes an instrument of exquisite sensitivity.”

He looked up at Lin Hai, a thin smile curving his lips.

“We will begin at dawn. I will need the centipede’s head, a clear workspace, and your assistance. Do not fail me.”

Lin Hai stared at the King, his mind struggling to process what he had just heard. "You want me to... refine you into a level ten magic item?"

The King nodded eagerly, his cheeks flushing with an almost bashful excitement. "Not just any item. A pleasure device. A sheath. A vessel for your cultivation."

"A fleshlight," Lin Hai said flatly.

"Yes! Exactly!" The King clapped his hands together, his eyes alight with fervor. "Think about it. A level ten magic item, crafted from my own body. The sensitivity enchantments alone would be... unprecedented. Every touch, every movement would send waves of ecstasy through my transformed form. And for you, Lin Hai, it would be an endless experience pool. My essence—my seed—would flow without end, granting you boundless power. The human race would become the strongest in all the realms!"

Lin Hai rubbed his temples. "You understand that once refined, you won't be returning to this form, right? You'll be a... object."

"Yes, yes, I know." The King waved a dismissive hand. "But what is form compared to purpose? I shall serve the greater good. And," he added with a sly grin, "I shall experience endless orgasms in the process. A fair trade, I'd say."

Lin Hai considered the proposal. The logic was sound, if perverse. An endless supply of a level ten monster's essence would accelerate his cultivation by centuries. And the King seemed genuinely enthusiastic. "Very well. I'll order the refinement."

The King beamed. "Excellent! But first, there is the small matter of my head."

"Your head?"

"Yes. A level ten monster's body must be ritually separated from its head before refinement can begin. The head becomes the core, the body the vessel. It's standard procedure." The King reached into his robe and produced a simple silver collar. "That's why I brought this."

Lin Hai eyed the collar warily. "What is it?"

"A universal collar. Designed for high-level prisoners. It can restrain, paralyze, or, with sufficient magic power, decapitate." The King clicked the collar around his own neck, the metal snug against his throat. "I'll pour my own magic power into it. Enough to trigger the maximum setting. The collar will do the rest."

"You're going to decapitate yourself?"

"With style." The King winked.

Lin Hai watched as the King closed his eyes, his hands gripping the collar. A torrent of golden magic power surged from the King's body, flowing into the silver band. The collar began to glow, humming with energy. The air around them thickened, charged with invisible pressure. Lin Hai took an involuntary step back.

The King's lips curved into a serene smile. He raised his free hand, two fingers extended in a V-sign. "For the future of humanity!"

The collar emitted a sharp, piercing tone. Light flared, blinding white. Lin Hai shielded his eyes. When he looked again, the King's head was suspended in mid-air, separated cleanly from his body. The neck stump was perfectly cauterized, no blood, no gore. The body stood for a moment, then crumpled to the ground.

The head rotated slowly, still wearing that satisfied grin. It floated down, landing softly on the floor. The King's eyes blinked, still alive, still conscious.

"See?" the King said, his voice coming from the head. "Clean as a whistle. Now, shall we begin the refinement?"

The workroom had become a place of hushed reverence. Lin Hai and the grand mages had toiled for days, their faces drawn and their eyes hollow from lack of sleep. But now, as the last sigil flared and faded, a profound silence settled over the room.

On the cold metal table lay the finished Level Ten magic item. It was a headless upper body form, sculpted from a strange alloy that seemed to drink the light. Its surface was smooth, almost organic, and where the neck should have been, a faint, pulsing glow indicated the core. The form was contoured like a torso, with arms ending in hands that were merely suggestions of fingers. And from the groin, a fully erect cock rose, thick and veined, made of the same dark, light-eating metal.

Inside that metallic shell, the King's consciousness pulsed with smug satisfaction. *Finally,* he thought, his thoughts a silent whisper within the enchanted confines. *At last, I am complete. A god in a machine. Immortal power, shaped to my will.*

He felt Lin Hai's hand reach out, fingers tracing the cool surface of the item. The touch sent a shiver through the King's awareness, a sensation that was both foreign and exhilarating. He was used to being touched with reverence, with fear. This was different—clinical, possessive.

Lin Hai picked up the item. It was heavier than it looked, but perfectly balanced. He turned it over in his hands, inspecting the craftsmanship. "It's done," he said, his voice flat. "Time to test it."

The grand mages nodded, their eyes fixed on the object. One of them, an old woman with a network of scars on her face, spoke. "We have bound the soul firmly. There is no risk of escape. But the power within... it will need to be drawn out."

Lin Hai grunted. He had no intention of being gentle. He had waited for this moment, this culmination of centuries of suppressed rage. He positioned the item on the workbench, then took hold of the metal cock. It was cool and hard in his palm.

The King's consciousness reeled. *What is he—*

Then Lin Hai's hand began to move.

The sensation hit the King like a thunderbolt. It was not the crude, physical pleasure of flesh. It was a pure, spiritual ecstasy, a surge of energy that bypassed every filter of sense and slammed directly into his soul. His consciousness, compressed into the tiny space of the item, had no defenses. No control. The pleasure was absolute, overwhelming, a tide that washed away all thought.

The King's awareness shattered into a billion fragments of bliss. He had no body to arch, no lungs to gasp with, no voice to scream. But his essence convulsed, writhing in a paroxysm of joy. The item's cock, responding to the psychic command, began to pulse. And then, it ejaculated.

Not semen. A viscous, glowing fluid—raw magical essence, distilled and pure—splattered onto Lin Hai's hand and the workbench. It steamed, filling the room with a faint, ozone scent.

Lin Hai continued, his strokes methodical, relentless. Each pump drew more of the King's magic, converting it into this effervescent pleasure-fuel. The King's consciousness, caught in the feedback loop, could do nothing but experience it. *Yes! This is it! This is true apotheosis!* he thought, delirious.

The grand mages watched in silence. The scarred woman's lips thinned. "The drain is significant," she murmured. "We must ensure the magic is sustainable."

But Lin Hai did not stop. He was enjoying himself, savoring the proof of his power. The King, once his overlord, now a toy that squirted magic on command.

Minutes passed. The pleasure did not diminish. The King's consciousness floated in a sea of ecstasy, convinced that this moment would last forever. But slowly, insidiously, a cold tendril of awareness began to creep into his bliss.

He felt it. The flow of magic from his core was not being replenished. The item, as a magic weapon, was designed to draw power from the environment, from the ley lines, from the ambient mana. But the binding sigils, in their haste to secure him, had sealed the item's external conduits. There was no intake. Only output.

*Stop,* the King tried to think. *Stop, I need... I need to draw power...*

But he had no voice. No way to communicate. His consciousness could only feel, and what it felt was the intoxicating pleasure of the magic draining away.

Lin Hai's hand moved faster. A second orgasm wracked the King's form, then a third. Each one cost him a fraction of his stored millennia. The glowing fluid continued to spurt, but now it seemed less viscous, less potent.

The King's panic grew, a thin, reedy note beneath the crashing waves of pleasure. *He doesn't know. He doesn't know the sigils are wrong. I have to tell him... I have to...*

But he could not. The pleasure became a prison. Every time he tried to form a coherent thought, another stroke of Lin Hai's hand shattered it.

After a dozen climaxes, the King's magic was half gone. The ejaculations became weaker, the fluid thinner. Lin Hai noticed. He frowned, slowing his hand. "It's fading," he said. "The charge is depleting."

The scarred woman stepped forward. "We anticipated this. The item is self-contained. Without external charging, the soul's stored magic is finite. Perhaps we should activate the absorption runes."

But Lin Hai shrugged. "Let it run dry. It's a level ten item. Even at half power, it's more than enough for our purposes." He resumed his work, driven now by curiosity. He wanted to see what happened when the last drop was squeezed out.

The King screamed silently into the void of the item's interior. His consciousness, once so vast and proud, was shrinking, collapsing in on itself. The pleasure no longer felt like bliss. It felt like annihilation. Each stroke ripped away pieces of his identity, memories, power. He could feel the edges of his being dissolving, the bright core of his ego dimming.

Days passed. The workroom fell into a routine. Lin Hai would come each morning, take the item from its storage case, and work it until the flow of magic slowed to a trickle. The grand mages observed, took notes, and considered improvements. The King's consciousness, now a mere flicker, could only watch in helpless agony.

On the tenth day, the last trace of magic pulsed weakly through the item's cock. Lin Hai's hand was dry. No fluid emerged. The metal form, once humming with life, was completely inert.

The King's consciousness, finally released from the unbearable pleasure, had one moment of clarity. *This is death,* he thought. *Real death. Not the end of a body, but the end of a soul.*

The thought did not frighten him. It was too exhausted for fear. It simply was.

Then, the light inside the item guttered out. The consciousness of the King of the Millennia, once ruler of two worlds and master of the immortal arts, dissipated like smoke in a strong wind. There was no scream, no curse, no final proclamation. Just silence.

Lin Hai set the item down on the metal table. It was now nothing more than an extremely hard, completely useless onahole. The metal was warm from his hand, but there was no glow, no pulse, no sign of the power that had once inhabited it.

"It's dead," he said. "The soul is gone."

The grand mages gathered around, peering at the inert object. The scarred woman touched its surface. "The material is incredibly durable. It could serve as a bludgeon or a doorstop, but its magical properties are exhausted. It cannot be recharged."

Lin Hai picked it up again, hefting it. "A pity. But a useful experiment." He looked around the room. "We'll put it in the vault for now. Perhaps the creatures of the Strange World might find a use for it."

And so the Level Ten magic item, forged from the soul of a king, found its final resting place in a dusty corner of a dimensional vault, waiting for some eldritch being to find it and wonder at its density, its perfect shape, and the faint, lingering echo of millennia-old screams.

The Monster King turned the universal collar over in his hands, feeling its cold weight. It looked simple enough—a bright silver metal ring about three centimeters wide, seamless, almost elegant. But he knew better than to trust appearances. Anything that could control levels was dangerous. Anything that could control *him* was an anomaly he needed to understand.

He summoned a level six monster from the dungeons below. The creature shuffled into the laboratory, chains dragging across the stone floor. It had once been a hulking brute, all muscle and rage, but now it stood docile, awaiting his command. The Monster King placed the collar around its thick neck. The silver ring clicked shut with a soft hum.

"Lower to level zero," he said.

The monster convulsed. Its body shrank, muscles atrophying in seconds. The glow in its eyes dimmed until it stared blankly ahead, a hollow shell. The Monster King watched, fascinated. He touched the collar, and the creature didn't react. He waved a hand in front of its face—nothing. It was as if he had stripped away every trace of power, leaving only a breathing corpse.

He removed the collar. The monster gasped, shuddering as its body swelled back to its original form. Color returned to its hide. Its eyes ignited with savage recognition, and it snarled, lunging at him. The Monster King sidestepped, driving a clawed hand through its chest. The monster crumpled.

"Remarkable," he muttered, wiping blood from his fingers. "Reversible. So the level-lowering function is temporary."

He ordered the body disposed of and called for a level seven specimen. This one was larger—a towering beast covered in armored scales, its roar rattling the walls. The Monster King fitted the collar a second time. The silver ring hummed as it activated.

"Lower to zero."

The level seven monster dropped to its knees. Its scales dulled. Its roar faded to a whimper. The Monster King circled it, noting the same hollow look in its eyes. He reached out, touched its snout, and it didn't flinch. Perfect control. He deactivated the level-lowering function, and the monster snapped back in an instant, rising to its full height with a bellow of fury.

The Monster King raised a hand, and the beast fell silent, recognizing its master. But the collar was still on its neck. He had another function to test.

"Blades," he said quietly.

The collar tightened. A thin whirring sound came from within, and then—dozens of razor-sharp blades shot inward, slicing through the monster's neck from every angle. The head toppled, thudding to the ground. Blood sprayed across the laboratory floor. The body stood for a moment, then collapsed.

The Monster King stared. He had expected injury, maybe severe trauma, but not instantaneous decapitation. Level seven was no joke. That creature could have crushed a battalion. And the collar had killed it like a farmer slaughtering a pig.

He picked up the universal collar, turning it over. The silver surface was pristine, not a drop of blood on it. No scratches. No residue. It looked brand new, as if it had never been used.

He could not test this on another monster. He could not risk losing a valuable specimen—or worse, having the collar malfunction and injure something he needed alive. The only way to fully understand the collar was to wear it himself.

He took a deep breath. The laboratory was quiet, save for the drip of blood from the dissection table. He lifted the collar, pressed it to his own neck, and waited for the click.

The silver ring sealed shut around him.

The Monster King stood in the center of his private chamber, the damp stone walls glistening with condensation from the subterranean heat. He ran his fingers along his own scales, ink-black and gleaming from his level ten essence. The universal collar remained warm against his throat, a constant reminder of his morning’s work.

He had tested the decapitation function first, after restoring himself to full power. The blade had materialized from nothing—a thin crescent of absolute void that should have cleaved through any material. It had passed over his neck like a whisper of wind. Ineffective. The universal collar was designed to protect its wearer, but only from singular applications of its own functions.

The King had understood immediately. A single function could not harm him. But both functions together—level lowering followed by decapitation—that was a different equation entirely. He had run the simulation in his mind: first the suppression to level eight, his defenses crumbling, and then the blade falling true. Even he, the Monster King of a thousand years, might not survive such a sequence.

The thrill that surged through him was older than his crown, older than his kingdom. It was the raw electricity of danger, the spice of mortality that had grown dull over centuries of absolute power. His heart hammered against his ribs like a young warrior’s before his first hunt.

He activated the level-lowering function again. The collar hummed, and his scales began to change. The deep, ink-black obsidian of a level ten snake-man rippled and faded, silver light bleeding through the cracks. The transformation was not painful—it was like shedding a heavy coat. His body felt lighter, weaker, more vulnerable. The scales settled into a shimmering silver, the mark of a level eight monster.

The King studied his reflection in the polished obsidian slab that served as his mirror. Silver scales, still powerful but diminished. The universal collar glinted at his throat, a warning and a leash.

He left his chamber and descended into the changing room, an antechamber lined with leather trunks and wooden chests filled with garments accumulated over centuries. But he ignored the royal robes, the battle armor, the ceremonial vestments. He opened a small iron box at the back of the deepest trunk, one he had not touched in eight hundred years.

Inside lay the garments of a different life.

The King dressed slowly, deliberately, each article a deliberate insult to his dignity. He left his chest and midriff bare, the silver scales catching the torchlight like liquid mercury. He draped a translucent veil over his shoulders, the fabric so thin it offered no concealment, only suggestion. He fastened a nipple ring through his left scale, the cold metal a sharp pinch against his flesh. A navel ring followed, dangling a small ruby that caught against his belly. He wrapped a waist chain around his hips, the links cool and heavy, and crossed a chest chain over his torso. Finally, he inserted a gemmed butt plug set with a small emerald, its presence a constant pressure that reminded him of exactly what he was choosing to become.

He applied the appearance-changing magic with a wordless gesture. His features shifted—his jawline softened, his brow ridge flattened, his eyes changed from serpentine gold to a more ordinary brown. He looked nothing like the Monster King. He looked like a level eight snake-man who had wandered far from respectable society.

The King stepped out of the changing room and into the corridors of his own palace. The guards saw him and looked away quickly, trained not to question the passage of strange figures. But their eyes lingered, and he heard their whispers after he passed.

“Level eight? Did the King lower someone’s rank?”

“That armor is… unusual.”

“Where is he going dressed like that?”

The King did not answer. He walked through the servants’ passages, down the winding stairs that led to the undercity, and finally to a sealed iron door that had not been opened in fifty years. He pressed his hand against it, and the locks clicked open.

Beyond lay the underground black market.

The air changed immediately—thick with smoke, incense, and the mingled scents of a hundred different species. Lanterns of green fire hung from the ceiling, casting sickly light over stalls and tents and open-air pits where monsters of every kind traded in things that could not survive the surface. The King walked among them, his silver scales gleaming, his bare chest and chains catching every eye.

A vendor selling cursed artifacts stopped mid-sentence as the King passed. A pair of troll brothers turned to stare, their jaws hanging open. A succubus in a cage blinked and pressed her face against the bars, her interest piqued.

“What in the deep hells is that?” someone muttered.

“A level eight snake-man,” another answered. “But why is he dressed like a pleasure slave?”

“Look at those chains. That isn’t a warrior’s gear.”

The King felt their gazes like physical touches—curiosity, revulsion, arousal, confusion. He walked deeper into the market, his tail swaying with deliberate slowness. The emerald plug pressed against him with each step, a constant anchor to his chosen humiliation.

A minotaur merchant stepped into his path. “You there. Snake-man. What are you selling?”

The King looked at him, his altered face expressionless. “Nothing. I am buying.”

“Buying what? Information? Goods? Services?” The minotaur’s eyes traveled down his torso. “You look like you’re offering services.”

The King smiled, slow and cold. “That depends on who is asking.”

He pushed past the minotaur and continued deeper into the market, toward the central pit where the most forbidden trades took place. Behind him, the crowd parted and closed, and whispers followed like a trailing wind.

“That snake-man is going straight to the Pit.”

“He’s going to get himself killed.”

“Or bought.”

The King’s smile deepened. He had not felt this alive in centuries. The universal collar was warm against his throat, and the thrill of his own vulnerability sang in his blood.

The Monster King walked through the twisting tunnels beneath the city, his heavy footsteps echoing off damp stone walls. Torches flickered in iron brackets, casting long shadows that danced like living things. The air grew thick with the smell of sweat, blood, and something metallic—fear, perhaps, or old magic. He paid it no mind. His destination lay ahead: the black market's largest slave market, a sprawling den of iron cages and desperate souls.

A pair of hulking guards flanked the entrance, their tusked faces twisting into snarls as he approached. They were both level five—strong by mortal standards, but to him they were barely more than children waving sticks. He did not slow his pace. One guard stepped forward, hand reaching for a rusted axe. The Monster King met his gaze, and the guard froze. His hand trembled, then fell limp. Without a word, he stepped aside. The other guard followed suit, pressing his back against the wall as if trying to disappear.

The Monster King entered.

Inside, the slave market was a cavernous hall lit by hanging braziers. Row upon row of iron cages lined the walls, packed with creatures of every shape and size—goblins, orcs, fae, and beasts with eyes that glowed in the dim light. Chains clinked. Whispers rippled through the crowd of buyers and sellers, all of whom wore hoods or masks to conceal their identities. At the far end of the hall stood a raised wooden platform, the auction block, flanked by scribes and armed enforcers.

The receptionist, a thin man with slicked-back hair and a nervous twitch, sat behind a high desk near the entrance. He looked up as the Monster King approached, and his face drained of all color. His pen clattered to the floor.

"E-Eighth level," he stammered, his voice cracking. He scrambled to his feet, nearly knocking over his chair. "Sir—my lord—how may I… what do you require?"

The Monster King leaned on the desk, his massive frame casting the receptionist entirely in shadow. "I am here to be a slave," he said, his voice low and calm, like distant thunder.

The receptionist blinked. "I—I beg your pardon?"

"Auction me off," the King said. "I wish to be sold."

Silence fell over the receptionist. His mouth opened and closed, fishlike. Then he began to laugh—a high, brittle sound that broke off as the Monster King did not join him. The laugh died in his throat.

"You're serious," the receptionist whispered.

"I am."

"I need to call the manager." The receptionist bolted from his seat and disappeared through a curtained door.

The Monster King waited. Around him, the noise of the market seemed to dim. Buyers and sellers alike stared openly. A level eight monster, standing casually in a slave market, was unheard of. He could crush this entire place with a thought. Yet he stood still, patient as stone.

The curtain parted. The manager emerged, a portly man with a carefully trimmed beard and eyes that missed nothing. He wore fine silk robes threaded with gold, and a ring on each finger. He studied the Monster King with a mixture of awe and suspicion.

"I'm told you wish to be sold," the manager said, his voice smooth as oil. "Forgive my directness, but why? You could kill everyone in this room and take whatever you want."

"Where is the profit in that?" the Monster King replied. "I seek a new master. A wealthy one. I am sure your auction can find me such a patron."

The manager stroked his beard. "A level eight slave. No one has ever auctioned such a thing. The bids alone will be exorbitant. But I must be certain you will not turn violent the moment a collar touches your neck."

"I will not resist," the King said. "I give you my word."

The manager held his gaze for a long moment, then nodded. "Very well. We will need to lock you in a special cage—reinforced with mythril and warding runes. Standard protocol for anything above level six."

"Do as you must."

Guards brought forth a massive cage, its bars gleaming with pale blue light. The door swung open with a groan. The Monster King stepped inside without hesitation. The door clanged shut behind him, and the guards added three heavy locks. He sat cross-legged on the cold floor, staring out at the crowd.

The auction began.

First came the low-level slaves—goblins, imps, and feral wolves, all below level four. The auctioneer's voice rang out, calling for bids. A few coins exchanged hands. The crowd haggled and jeered. The Monster King watched without interest. These creatures meant nothing to him. They were fodder, chaff. He waited.

Hour after hour, higher-level slaves were brought forth. A level five harpy with broken wings. A level six minotaur, chained and drugged. Each sold for modest sums. The crowd grew restless, anticipating the final lot.

At last, the auctioneer climbed onto the platform, his voice brimming with theatrical excitement. "And now, honored guests, we present our final item—an unprecedented treasure! A level eight monster, willing and docile, ready to serve any master bold enough to claim him!"

The cage was rolled onto the platform. Torches flared around it, illuminating the Monster King's form. The crowd erupted in gasps and murmurs. Men in hoods leaned forward, their eyes gleaming. The auctioneer raised his gavel.

"The bidding will begin at one hundred thousand gold crowns!"

Shouts rang out. "One hundred fifty!" "Two hundred!" "Two fifty!" The numbers climbed, and with each bid the crowd grew louder. The Monster King sat motionless, his gaze sweeping over the sea of faces. He saw greed, fear, ambition. He saw merchants, nobles, and warlords, all hungry for a weapon beyond compare.

"Four hundred thousand!" bellowed a man near the front, his robes stitched with silver thread.

"Five hundred!" cried another.

The auctioneer's gavel pounded the block. "Five hundred thousand going once—twice—sold! To the human lord in the front!"

A hush fell. The buyer stepped forward, and the crowd parted. He was a stout man, middle-aged, with a graying beard and sharp, calculating eyes. His clothes were rich but understated—the mark of old money. He carried no visible weapons, but rings of power glinted on his fingers.

The Monster King looked at him, and the man met his gaze without flinching.

"I am Lord Alaric," the man said, his voice steady. "You belong to me now."

The Monster King inclined his head. "As you say, master."

Guards unlocked the cage. The King stepped out, chains draped over his wrists and ankles—more symbols than restraints. Lord Alaric smiled, a thin, careful expression.

"Come," he said. "We have much to discuss."

The Monster King followed, his chains clinking softly, as the black market buzzed behind them.