A stark white light opened Jaldi’s eyes to the sound of chains. The legs moved and found themselves bound. The arms attempted to reach down but were pinned in place. Behind the torso a pain shot out to the wrist and shoulders as cold and heavy iron pressed itself against a body only recently brought back from death as it shuddered an unsuccessful attempt to break the rusted bonds it found itself in. The vision blurred as Jaldi’s head whirled in a futile effort to orient himself in the new space but found itself with nothing to orient against. There was a dark hall and floating nothing beyond the stone contours of a seemingly infinite hallway; bodies in front and perhaps behind but so far off nothing could be known besides their nude frailty.
A scream resounded with an anticipatory echo but found itself lacking. The voice quivered in pain as it tried to extend past its effective range, but found itself totally mute in silence. The chains rattled in reaction to breath and clanged through Jaldi’s ears, but in their receding absence there was not even the sound of the moving steel bar his chains were suspended from. And yet he could tell the bar moved forward in this stone hallway lit from above by evenly-spaced white orbs of light recessed in the ceiling and powered by some unseen mechanism. Or, well, magic. The lighting didn’t matter when Jaldi again tried to scream, but their magical nature did explain why his voice came out empty despite attempting to break it with words louder than the voice box could sustain.
His lips were not sealed— the mouth was very much open— and yet the words found themselves suppressed. A swallow felt no more abnormal than ever. The breath sounded loudly as it always had to the correctly-functioning ears able to detect the movement now registered by a body distracted from this process. A body now able to detect itself being dragged and in pain from its ankles being rubbed against the rough stone floor below and elbows pinned by iron to steel hanging him above and dragging him in inhumanity to some unseen end choked with bodies somewhere to the ever-forward. His ankles began to bleed in their contortion backward on themselves, but his continued screams found themselves again ever-silent.
A long corridor soon faded into an open room as dread gave way to panic and silence to the unmeasured sound of blood seeping into the cracks and steel hacking into bones; rusted iron machetes finding themselves dulled just a little further towards their bat-like use and nature. Before him stood a thousand demons to the sides: men and elves and dwarves stained with the blood of a thousand innocents like himself that poured over a glowing orange ledge to nowhere. The floor slanted down toward them, and to their sides were a series of holes punctured into bleeding stone for some unknown purpose, protected from the seeping liquid by lips that separated contents, and to their center an iron press whose seeping pink liquid invited a sense of terror Jaldi couldn’t shake off. But so what if he would die? So much had already been lost that life wasn't worth living anymore, but the press and tiny wooden stock only visible as he drew closer intertwined their sight with the massive rusted iron scissors in the hand of his coming captor to paint a picture of terror beyond death. So what if he would die? So what if this was it? He had lost so much it wasn’t even worth going on. But so what if he would die? His butcher had been one Jaldi had cut down years prior without a second thought and now he was rendered so powerless he could not resist him. So what if—
But he couldn’t keep saying that. The thoughts scattered as Jaldi found himself no longer able to suppress his terror, screaming and writhing as the ankles found themselves ever broken. As the wrists tore themselves apart against their chains and his every blood vessel popped from blood pressure and his pulse found itself easily on the border of 200bpm. His voice exploded without a squeak and suddenly tore to the company of extreme pain no longer expressible even if the spell of silence were to be lifted. He instinctively moved his hands to the throat but found them absent as his tears flowed unceasingly in the only expression of agony Jaldi found himself capable of in this moment.
But to no avail. His turn came and he found himself kneeling beneath a butcher-corpse with the face of a demon draped loosely over bones in a white apron stained entirely brown and red that held a pair of huge and jagged scissors almost too large, too heavy to be wielded by a single creature. They were more like two chunks of iron, ready to rend away flesh by way of friction and great force than tools sharpened to a point; two machetes of raw iron unsharpened by the scores of bone they had already rent apart.
To either side of the butcher was a pair of holes, each separated by a divider and falling into some unknowable abyss below. Jaldi was brought to the center platform, feet finding themselves damp and warm with moisture whose character was far too clearly known. He gagged as the smell at last greeted him, perhaps not of blood and its rusted iron tang but of fluids far more putrid and ideally contained within.
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There was no movement as Jaldi’s stomach emptied itself of eggs, toast and sausage only half-digested from the morning, granting him the small grace of weakening the stomach acid now heightening the fresh wounds in his throat. But had it really been so little time since then? He didn’t have long to contemplate as the necro-demon slapped him aside the face with scissors in a motion more akin to being assaulted with a bus than tapped with stationary. Below him the vomit interspersed with the red fluid as it seeped outward to stain the pool green-ish brown and seeped inward to the bloodstream as it burned his voice box in ever-heightening extreme pain. And yet it was almost masked by the terror now filling his stomach with realizing dread and panic.
The demon sighed and rubbed its forehead with one gnarled, gangly hand whose fingers seemed far too large for its frame, but made no attempt to speak to him, not that Jaldi could reply through a shredded voice box and magic silence. Jaldi’s knees were forced down as the bar lowered without tolerance for his frame. The room was deadly-silent as the scissors twirled in the demon’s free hand, clearly savoring its work in every possible capacity. It made no wasted movements in grabbing his genitals, nor did it bother with the scissors in ripping them off. Jaldi tried to double over in pain, breath knocked from the chest, knees trembling, vision blurred, senses damaged, mind rendered blank, voice rendering itself beyond mute if able to scream for the volume of its panic.
But there was no sound as the demon began to whistle and do a little shuffling dance, tossing his freshly-torn ball sack into the press to his side (penile shaft to the refuse hole opposite the press), twisting about to a lever and pulling with the shaking of his grotesque hips only loosely covered by cloth and oh so clearly outlined beneath. But Jaldi didn’t care. Jaldi didn’t even notice as the feminine pain radiated more strongly than birth to render him castrate. His neck bulged as it strained with his chest against the chains binding him until at last his left wrist began to bend beneath the skin. Mr. Demon flicked back over and in a spinning snap the bar above Jaldi adjusted itself to position him over one of the pits. The butcher-demon did not oversee the squishing of Jaldi’s manhood as it drained into one of the grates designed to collect its vital fluids.
Instead he spun and moonwalked over to Jaldi, ankles barely on the bloody ground as his abdomen faced the pit, mind spinning and only just beginning to recover itself not for lack of pain but for adjustment to its overwhelming total extent. It therefore did not hurt when the demon made a little prick with his fingernail in Jaldi’s bladder, grabbing his legs and tilting him up for some ten or fifteen seconds and squeezing just a bit to empty him of urine.
Jaldi, meanwhile, focused intently on his hand, rage building as he prepared to mount a defense with everything he had left. So what if he was going to die? We all had to die someday. He had lost it all but that didn’t mean he had to go down silently. He could go down swinging and kill this fucking butcher so daring as to strip him even of masculinity. Jaldi began to tear his bulging wrist bone loose, listening to the disgusting tearing of flesh within and the popping of tendons loose from their constancy within the flesh.
But by this time the demon had adjusted Jaldi above the next pit. He had little time, so with everything he had left Jaldi let out a vicious shout through the silence and pain of the throat whose vocal chords had been destroyed and burned away with acid. He would not allow himself to go down without a fight! He would fight and he would die, but it would not be like some defenseless woman! He would kill this demon and three more before the end. He would exact revenge on this cruel world for his fate and burn his name into the history of this day as the man who had resisted cruel fate to pause this operation if even for a moment.
His wrist tore loose and the demon caught it. He tilted his head but did not laugh, even as the thin, pale lips parted some millimeter in amusement. But then his fingernail tore Jaldi a new body-length pussy through the torso. With his forced gender reassignment complete, Jaldi didn’t have the wherewithal to celebrate. No, rather than celebrate Jaldi found herself in a state of shock, the body at last compensating adrenaline with endorphins and slipping consciousness to perhaps escape from the sensation of the overwhelming burning pain of her organs being pulled out.
But unfortunately for her, Jaldi did not have the time to appreciate this body’s favor, as the remains of a corpse processed and soon to be mulched found their way over to the stocks for one final cut. There was no comprehension of why as the pain at last found itself severed, nor was there understanding of why a headless corpse stared back in some whirling mockery of her resolve. Wait? But his wrist was right there? He was just about to strike the demon down? What happened?
A splash of lukewarm liquid reminded Jaldi of her new place and happiness of receiving a new gender carved up from the bottom to the chest to reveal the inner weakness always there within. Incapable of resistance. Incapable of taking even a single butcher-demon. Incapable of defending his former masculinity. Rendered without strength by the force of others. Rendered something impure… incapa.. In?
The vision blurred as the liquid rose, fading to a darker red and then black.