The twisted, mocking words, shimmering with a sickly green light and thick with humiliation, scrolled past his eyes.
Al's vision turned a furious, blood-red.
In the distant firmament, a terrifying shadow flickered—a mother possessed by a primal rage, brandishing a spatula, a rolling pin, a bamboo pole, and a drying rack, screaming Al's full name through gritted teeth.
A surge of blood boiled upward, flooding his lungs with infinite fury; the sky turned a bruised, somber hue, and crimson clouds choked out the heavens.
Under the shadow's glare, overwhelming fear and suicidal courage flooded Al's limbs at the same time.
With a speed and agility impossible for any beast-spawn his age, he scrambled up on all fours.
He dived straight between the Beastlord's massive, hairy legs, passing through the gap where he saw his birthplace—the dark grove—and the three-headed serpent lunging to desecrate that sanctuary.
Al went for the kill!
Possessed by an unknown strength, the infant grabbed Zhakun's massive, throbbing cock like a sailor gripping a mooring rope and punched upward with all his might.
It felt like hitting a slab of firm pudding; the Beastlord stumbled, dazed and confused.
The monster looked down but was unable to see what was happening beneath his own immense girth.
Seeing no immediate effect, Al bared his gums; his newly sprouted teeth grew sharp and jagged as he let out a savage, high-pitched roar:
"Blood for the Blood Mother!"
He bit down with everything he had.
Under the Chaos blessing, Al's body became a weapon; his fangs elongated into razors, sinking deep into the thick, rank skin of Zhakun's shaft.
The corrupted Beastlord let out a mangled howl of agony, his mountain-like frame swaying as he stumbled back.
Zhakun clawed desperately at his own crotch, but Al clung to the base of one of the great meat-serpents, narrowly avoiding the talons.
Even so, being caught was only a matter of time.
But the powers watching the play didn't want the curtains to fall just yet.
As the Mark of Slaanesh on the Beastlord's skin pulsed, a wave of skull-rattling ecstasy surged from Zhakun's wound.
The limp, multi-headed cock snapped into a rigid, throbbing trident.
Zhakun retreated further and collapsed onto his ass, too consumed by the unprecedented stimulation to care about the boy.
Slaanesh's power forced a further mutation; the heads of the three meaty serpents blossomed like gore-slicked flowers.
Each petal was lined with tiny, needle-sharp teeth that snapped at Al with a newfound, hungry sentience.
Al straddled the Beastlord's belly, pinning one meat-snake under each hand and crushing the third under his armpit.
With every heave, he smashed the heads together, drawing moans of agony and bliss from Zhakun.
Al ignored the stench and the filth; the vision of the crimson figure had ignited a fire in his soul that burned through his tiny veins.
The fire fueled him with the weight of every injustice he had ever suffered in his past life.
From a kid stealing his slide in preschool to a passerby bumping his arm yesterday—every trivial slight was amplified a thousandfold.
They were tossed into the furnace of his heart to power his muscles.
Thanks to this divine fire, the madness and rage stayed externalized as fuel, allowing Al's mind to remain cold and clear.
He pushed his body to the limit, wrestling the serpents like a dark reflection of an ancient myth:
Hercules strangling the snakes in his cradle.
In the camp, shivering Ungor hinds huddled together behind a stack of hay.
Zhakun's bellows soon drew more of the Revelers; they peeked from the shadows with a mix of awe and terror.
Those devoted to Slaanesh heard the mix of pain and pleasure in the howls; it was a powerful aphrodisiac for them.
They writhed and ground their bodies in a desperate, twitching urge to join the taboo filth.
On the ground, the Beastlord was a mess of tears and mucus, while an almost-human infant fought a death-match against his crotch.
As Al tore at the trident-cock, Zhakun's moans became more desperate; the pain in his crotch deepened.
The collision of ultimate pleasure and fatal crisis allowed Zhakun a moment of clarity.
He realized the "prophecy" shown by the Gods was actually a cruel joke played on a mad, arrogant beast.
He summoned his remaining strength, fighting through the waves of orgasmic bliss, and reached his right claw toward the boy.
Al snapped his head around, his blood-red eyes boring into Zhakun's; the Beastlord froze, his heart skipping a beat in terror.
In those pupils, Zhakun saw a towering, furious crimson shadow standing in an ocean of infinite skulls.
A jagged, red wound gaped on Al's left cheek, fresh infant blood streaming down his face.
In just a few minutes, his tiny frame had swelled into the size of a young boy.
Zhakun felt utterly insignificant, as if he were the weak one; he lay on his back, trying to push himself away.
But Al finally made progress; he grabbed the serpent he had bitten earlier and snapped it at the base.
He ripped it raw and bloody from the Beastlord's convulsing body.
Zhakun's scream sent birds scattering from the woods; a warm, sickly green light pierced the clouds.
The light bathed the gore-drenched boy, and the wound on Al's cheek knitted shut instantly.
Conversely, tiny, invisible things infested Zhakun's open wounds, spreading a rot that reeked of stagnant death.
Small but rapidly expanding pustules, sores, and pox began to bloom across the Beastlord's massive body.
On a post outside the cave, a crow with shimmering blue and gold tail feathers tilted its head, its third eye watching without blinking.
The mangled Beastlord finally understood the message of the Gods:
He was nothing more than a supporting actor in a grand Chaos play, a disposable toy.
To be murdered by this infant was the destiny the Dark Powers had written for him.
Zhakun recalled his deepest, darkest lusts: to trample civilization and desecrate every temple with the ultimate acts of filth.
In those unattainable dreams, his own image was replaced by the face of this growing, powerful boy.
He saw a boy with wings of bone, hard hooves, and a terrifying trident...
He felt a strange sense of total, internal fulfillment.
The remaining two heads of the trident-cock responded to Zhakun's final burst of life-pleasure.
They twitched, spraying a mix of crimson and milky-white essence across Zhakun's legs and onto the soil.
The fluids instantly rotted into foul-smelling blooms under the influence of the Unseen.
The Beastlord surrendered completely to the will of the Chaos Powers; he abandoned all reason, submitting to the pleasure.
As the last of his life essence left his body, he arched his back in a final, frantic spasm, screaming like a Slaaneshi cultist:
"YES! KILL ME! OH GODS, YES!"
Then his spirit was violently ripped away in the wake of that ultimate climax.
Al tore off the last two heads of the trident-cock and hurled them into Zhakun's dead face.
Under the influence of Chaos, the crotch wound had become a fatal, rotting void.
Foul, oily blood poured from the ruin, staining the earth with a nauseating, greasy sheen.
The boy, eyes still glowing red, loomed over the Beastlord as the massive body went limp.
The King is dead.
The Beastlord of the Revelers, the Slaaneshi puppet, was gone.
Perhaps in another timeline, he would have drowned the world in lust before being slain by a hero.
Or perhaps he would have gathered power like Morghur the Shadowgave, rising again and again.
But here, his mountain of flesh lay cooling in the dirt.
Al leaped off the corpse; he had grown to the size of a seven or eight-year-old human boy.
The crimson faded from his eyes, and a cool breeze brushed his face, carrying a lingering scent of sweet rot.
"HUAGHH!"
The next second, he was on his hands and knees, vomiting uncontrollably.
"BLEGH!"
Moments ago, his mind was filled with battle and glory; now, he felt like he'd woken up in a latrine after a blackout.
As the nausea passed, a cold dread set in; Al realized the "crimson shadow" and the "green light" were the Gods.
But as Al recalled the visions, the images seemed... different from the ones in his memory.
He remembered his instinctive shout: "Blood for the Blood Mother."
It wasn't quite right, but at least the Minotaur crisis was over.
Al looked at his surroundings.
The Beastlord's corpse... he didn't need to touch that, and it certainly wasn't edible.
The two empty-headed Ungor hinds were almost pretty, but their vacant eyes were a major turn-off.
The Slaanesh-marked banners still terrified him; he looked at the unconscious woman—his mother.
She definitely had that "Knight-Damsel" look.
A wave of heat rushed through Al's chest; goddammit, a defeated Knight-Damsel captured by Beastmen.
He thought about his own birth and felt a cold spike of horror.
He immediately checked himself: two arms, two legs, one dick, no extra limbs or patches of fur.
He felt his face and head; normal features, normal skull—no mutation yet.
He let out a shaky sigh of relief, but the internal cursing continued.
Choosing a wife had turned into choosing a mother, and he was born in a literal monster's nest.
Green, purple, red... he had seen them all. Was this some sick trick of Tzeentch?
It boiled down to two things:
The good news: I was reincarnated.
The bad news: It's Warhammer.