He spoke, the world rumbled, and the forest listened. "Who dares cause a degenerate ruckus in my forest? Speak!" The strange crowned man lifted the hunter off the ground, and he writhed.

There was no doubt. This was the same majestic fisherman from the pier. The hunter struggled and kicked his feet off the ground, and he grunted out, "Who--who are you?"

The crowned man smirked, gripped hard the writhing hunter, and hurled him off the cliff. I heard a splash soon after. He looked at me to answer. "I am the Gimp King. The king of the gimps. And this is my domain, the Mannequin Forest." He crossed his bulging arms and glared into me with hungry, ravenous eyes, and I stepped back.

Not because he was terrifying in his own way, but because the bulge of his junk was growing, expanding, embiggening.

The fight had now become a three-way stand-off while in the background, the forest had come alive with those mannequin trees moving and uprooting and taking shaky steps to hobble over at another wounded hunter--and whack at him with their branches and groan and beg and rub their tree asses on each other and their prey.

What the fuck. I knew this quest was gonna be fucking stupid.

"I have no QUARREL with you, Gimp King." My opponent stared daggers into me.

Finally, it occurred to me. This pantless man was the Gimp King. This forest was his domain. I looked over to the trees. Several of them were now dry humping a dying hunter. Those weren't trees. Those were straight-up gimps. That wasn't bark across their bodies. It was black leather. And the leaves? They were just holding up branches in their hands. Fucking stupid. How did I not see it earlier? It was just a bunch of gimps pretending to be trees.

"Oh," the Gimp King rumbled, "But I have a quarrel with you. I did not consent to this wanton destruction of my forest, and now my Gimp Garden has been defiled by the filth of your people."

White Mask groaned. He pointed his blade at me. Then he swung it over to the Gimp King.

> Hmm-click

>

> +1 Rifle

The Gimp King dashed.

I drew my rifle and fired.

A pulse of red light ripped through the air, throwing the Gimp King back into the forest and eviscerating the rifle bullet into slag.

I tossed the spent rifle and charged in.

White Mask raised his sword--it was a feint, I knew it would be--and just before we clashed, I recoiled back like a snake and pre-empted him with a roundhouse kick.

He parried sloppily, and I knocked him off balance.

I followed through. Now was the time to rip that mask off his face.

I swung hard.

A black blur! The Gimp King! He flashed in behind my target, and White Mask rolled back over him like a circus freak, landing behind the Gimp King and kicking him toward me.

I kicked the Gimp King back--his bulge throbbed angrily!

The Gimp King gripped the white mask's throat and hurled him at me, and White Mask used the momentum to slash.

I parried.

He gripped my arm!

I swung him around--

And threw him back at the Gimp King.

And he rolled, pounced--the Gimp King tried to punch--but White Mask flared out with another pulsing wave of red light, and it threw us both back.

"Enough GAMES," he shouted. He thrust an open palm at his feet, and a crystallized dome of protection erupted out, encompassing both me and him--and Vil and Redrim.

I knew what this was. I had seen it before. This was not a spell for protection. It was a duelist's arena in magic form. A swirling magic circle with glyphs and symbols, all glowing red, all keeping all that was in within, and all that was without beyond.

"Well, Redrim?" White Masked said. "How about a new game? This spell will last for three minutes. If you can protect that woman until the spell finishes," he pointed at the female Redrim, "Then I'll tell you my name."

"And if I lose?" I asked.

"Then you lose everything," he said.

The Gimp King rumbled from outside the dome. "No bet."

"I DO NOT recall ASKING your opinion, you pantless FREAK."

The Gimp King smirked. His bulge throbbed eagerly. "And I do not recall hearing the consent from that woman to be a prize for your game." He clicked his tongue and shook his head sadly. "It appears we have a bad boy in our midsts." He raised his fists. "Brutal Dominion!" A pale blue dome of protection ripped out from him, cutting through the red dome like overlapping circles, and before White Mask could even react, he was now trapped in the Gimp King's arena.

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

The blue dome stopped right at my face. We were safe. White Mask was stranded between two protection spells, and the Gimp King stood right outside the red dome and within his own blue one.

This was a stalemate that would last as long as the spells, and with nothing else to do, White Mask said, "A waste of TIME." He clicked his fingers, and a portal snapped open beside him. Black smoke and red light. It was a demon's portal. On the other side, I caught a glimpse of... no. Could it be? The interior of a battleship.

There was a military officer on the other side dressed in black and grey. "Welcome back, Admiral," she said.

White Mask glowered at me, seething, and he stepped through his portal, and it flashed away to nothing.

Then, the silence came. The forest gimps had apparently finished off the last of the hunters. The Gimp King resumed his usual power stance. Vil continued to struggle with Redrim behind me, and she winced and gasped for breath.

The Gimp King stared hungrily into my eyes. His bulge throbbed with curiosity. This guy was a freak. A real degenerate, this one, and with my luck--

"Kneel!" he bellowed.

The trees of the Black Forest shook, and those mandrake monsters knelt at his command, and somehow--oh no--I felt my own legs give way. He was... commanding me! And my body listened! My body was moving on its own!

I dropped to my knees in trained obedience. Somehow--yes--I felt it. A quickening of my own pulse, a fire lit inside me, and--oh no--my dick! My metaphorical dick was getting tickled by this! I was getting turned on! Fuck!

Soon, the red and blue domes blinked off, and fresh air returned again.

The Gimp King stomped over. His massive, mighty, masculine figure towered over me, and I stared up the length of him.

He looked down into my eyes, then looked over at Vil and Redrim.

The gimp king stepped around to check on the woman. "Forgive me, traveler. I had given you shelter, but I have failed you."

Redrim panted weakly. She was pale. Bleeding. "You did protect me," she said. "But no one expected him to appear."

The gimp king waved his hand over her wound, then sharply withdrew it. "An accursed wound. I'm sorry. There is nothing I can do."

Vil lowered his head. "Redrim, do you have an anti-curse potion or something of the sort?"

> Hmm-click.

>

> +1 Nullify Potion

I handed it over. "It's the best I've got."

Vil poured it over her wound, and she winced at the ice-cold blue mist that rose from it. He waited a moment, then shook his head. "Sorry, Iskandria."

She huffed out a weak laugh and shrugged. "I've lived my life already. One hundred and thirty years now." She looked at me--I sat on my knees like an obedient puppy beside her--and she pet me on the head. "Perhaps it was fate, Redrim. For this name is hereditary, and I got it from another in the same way I give it to you now."

I searched for the right words to say, but I couldn't find anything. I had come here to take the name by force, but so much weird shit had just happened in a short period of times that-- "Thanks," I let out. "But maybe I deserve a different name. Maybe I am... undeserving of yours."

"So was I," she said back.

----------------------------------------

We buried her there, at the apex of the cliff.

The Gimp King watched, but he didn't bother us. When it became apparent that those fucked up trees were his fucked up trees, we honestly wanted nothing to do with him.

Unfortunately, the way he stared at us and by the way his bulge throbbed when he did, told me he wanted everything to do with us. Somehow, as if by BDSM-related telepathy, his human-shaped trees with twisted faces had marched up and spread out to trap us here.

The Gimp King stood with his legs apart, his arms crossed, and his chest out, and so far, it seemed like his permanent resting position.

Once Vil was done paying his respects, we turned reluctantly to face this fetish-freak.

He stared at us. We stared at him.

The wind blew.

The captured hunters had become mummified in the mandrake cage, and even now, their bodies withered away.

"Those cloaks," the gimp king said. "Are made from the material of my homeland. Are you perchance a rebirther as well?"

"What?"

"From worlds without," he said.

Vil whispered. "The outer reaches. Didn't Jessie say she came from there?"

"I'm not... one of those. And I don't think Vil is either," I said. "The material of this cloak came from something called a cave gimp." As soon as the last syllable left my mouth, I regretted it. This guy was the Gimp King. The king of the gimps. The Cyberleather recipe and the Masochist ability both came from a gimp that I killed.

"I see," said the Gimp King. His bulge throbbed sadly. "There are yet more wild gimps that have not come under heel." He clicked his tongue. "A terrible shame."

The trees shuffled closer. The branches rustled. The Gimp King's bulge throbbed curiously, patiently, wantingly.

"Yeah, I think we should head out now," I said. "I appreciate the company."

"What's the rush?" he said.

I looked at Vil, and he at me, and we both looked across the water and at the ship a half kilometer away. The Gimp King took notice. "You are but a sapling, yes. A sexual little sapling wrapped tight in your sweet masochism--but, you are no different than the gimps under my care, the gimps you see before you."

"The trees?"

"They have since evolved to Island Gimps, and they must evolve yet more. You, too, have room for evolution, my masochist brother. I have seen the choices you made in this battle, and I know that there is yet honor in that dark little soul of yours."

I looked at Vil. He shook his head, then my head shook, and I brought my shaking head back to the Gimp King. "Thanks but, nah. I, uh, have a ship to command. I'm an admiral, and--"

His eyes snapped open, he clicked his fingers, and he shouted, "A sea gimp! Of course! That's the next phase."

His mandrake trees rustled in agreement. The branches shook, the leaves dropped featherly to the grass, and soon--crack, crick, crack--the branches and roots and bark of those spooky fuckin' things began to peel off, and—of course--there were gimps inside. Leatherbound freaks with assless chaps and g-strings and ball gags and masks--ugh. My skin crawled terribly.

The gimp king stepped closer. Vil checked the height of the cliff again to see if we could make it. Too late. The gimp king gripped my wrist--my only wrist since I was still missing an arm--and said, "An agreement must be made. I want only for my gimps to grow and evolve, and I yet need the means of transport and security during this long and arduous process. I will ask nothing more than open space on your vessel for the gimps to breathe, and I will repay in kind."

"Repay how?" I asked.

"We are but sexual warriors in training. Although my gimps have not yet achieved transcendence, they are yet still forces to be reckoned with."

No, was the obvious answer. But considering that I could further add to my ship's fighting power with not only a BDSM god-king but his small army of gimps, I finally decided on "yes," I told him.

Vil groaned. "Do we even have space?"

"I'll make space," I said. "I'll put them in the dungeon."

The gimp king wordlessly ordered his gimps--the hundred or so of them--into formation, and he turned to me. "Ah, yes, a dungeon master. I, too, have commanded dungeons of my own."

"I'll think of something," I said.