There is no horizon here. No up, no down, no stone walls, nor starry skies. There is nothing here but... Girl.
Sheepman Sailor is not merely watching a cluster of girls; he is drowning in them. He is inside the colon of an entity comprised of billions of feminine body parts stitched together by madness. The ceiling is an endless expanse of arched back skin, the floor is a sea of breasts and thighs undulating softly yet lethally, and the air itself is the steam of sweet, stifling sweat. He is now within a conceptual stomach, a metaphysical digestive chamber where he is no longer a sailor, but a morsel of food ready to be dissolved, digested, and assimilated into one flesh with those 'girls'.
Behind his empty skeletal ribcage, something pulsates. Not a normal heart, but a bruised-blue artifact—a Heart of the Ocean, cold and ancient.
THUMP.
In that one absolute beat, his authority spreads. The universe of flesh jerks. The deafening sounds of billions of girlish laughs, the wet moans replacing oxygen, and the billions of eyes staring both coquettishly and ravenously... everything stops. Frozen in a forced, cold stasis.
Seizing the frozen gap in time, Sheepman Sailor moves. With fluid motion barely visible to the eye, he draws his cutlass.
SHIIING!
He does not slash an enemy. He slashes the empty space before him. The rusty blade splits the air, creating a perfect vertical black line. The line widens, tearing this abhorrent fabric of reality, opening a dimensional rift—an emergency exit from this slaughterhouse wrapped in human skin.
Without looking back, Sheepman Sailor steps into the black rift. He leaves that horrifying pink world, stepping into the displacement dimension—a corridor of pure void, silent and cold. Only the scent of blood from the earlier slaughter still clings to his robes.
He pauses for a moment. He flicks his left arm—a chain ending in a meat hook—to the side.
SPLAT.
A splatter of fresh blood is thrown from the hook, floating weightless in that pure void like red ink spilled on a black canvas. He has escaped. Or so he thought.
However, before he can take a second step... The Universe screams.
"YOU. CANNOT. LEAVE."
The voice does not come from behind. It comes from *all directions*. From inside his mind, from the pores of his bones, from the void itself.
Sheepman Sailor halts. His gaze sweeps the surroundings. The darkness of the displacement dimension... shifts.
He... is in the same place.
Ocean of flesh. Sky of red hair. Giant eyes. He never got out. He sees no exit light. He has returned to the starting point, as if the concept of 'exit' has been erased from the dictionary of existence.
Sheepman Sailor: "What is this?"
His voice is heavy, echoing between the walls of flesh that are pulsating once again.
He looks back, staring at the black rift where he tried to escape. The dimensional tear he made with his sword... he can feel it. The rift isn't closing. Instead, the rift is *changing*.
The edges of the dimensional tear begin to sprout teeth. The straight line curves, reddens, and becomes wet. It is no longer a portal. It is lips. A giant vertical mouth gaping in mid-air.
And from within that dimensional mouth, the figure of the Faceless Girl—who has now become one with the portal itself—calls out to him.
Polgha?: "World for the two of us... me... her... TOGETHER."
Her voice is a choir of millions of broken souls, sweet yet shattering to the eardrums.
Instantly, the world writhes. The ground of meat beneath Sheepman Sailor's feet churns violently, creating tsunami waves made of human limbs. He tries to freeze time again with his blue heart, but... fails.
This creature ignores stopped time. No, more precisely... time itself has now become part of them. Time has been digested. The assimilation of this cosmic stomach does not merely consume matter or life, but devours abstract concepts and the fundamental laws of physics themselves. Gravity, time, distance... everything is now merely nutrition for the Girl.
Sheepman Sailor stands firm in the center of the flesh storm. His skeletal hand grips the hilt of his cutlass tighter, so tight his bones creak under the strain.
This power... This madness transcending logic... This is not just magic or a curse. This is a rewriting of reality. He feel certain.
Certain that this is enough to threaten his own existence.
A cold blue aura begins to burn around his skeletal frame, opposing the dominating crimson. He knows there is no negotiation here. No escape. Only one entity will walk out of this monster's belly alive.
And if he does not start getting serious right now, he won't need to guess who will die and become filth in this universe.