Chapter 7: Birth of a Monster

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A pulse of pure pleasure tore through him as the ooze reached his core. His eyes rolled back, body arched violently, and fangs bared in a frozen gasp. His mind went white. Blank. Floating.

His claws clenched, then trembled. There was no thought—no strategy, no pride, no Snake Men, no King Hiss. Only sensation. It was too much. Too good. Too complete.

The Slime knew him—it had found where he kept the last of his self. His center. His fire. His defiance. And it smothered it with bliss.

          “Yesss…” he hissed without meaning to.

And there it was.

The crack in his armor.

The pit surged, pouring faster now from the skull above like a flood finally unleashed.  Khan’s legs buckled, but the bony claw clenched tighter, holding him in place as his body bucked one last time—not in rebellion, but in surrender. His muscles trembled, his chest rose and fell in frantic gasps, and his mouth—

—opened.

A thick wave of Slime spilled over his lips, across his tongue. There was no time to turn away. No strength left to spit. And this time…

He wanted it.

A deep, reflexive gulp. Slow. Willing. And as it slid down his throat—so warm, so alive—everything inside him shifted. There was no taste of rot now. No bitterness. No revulsion.
Only sweetness. Rich and cloying, like nectar from a forbidden tree. It was comfort, it was peace, it was belonging.

His eyes fluttered.

His spine arched.

The sensation blossomed through his body like lightning wrapped in velvet, racing from his core to his fingertips. He felt it coil around his heart and squeeze—not to crush it, but to replace it. And in that instant, there were no doubts. No fear. Only one thought remained. Not screamed, not whispered—but embraced:

          “This is what I was always meant to feel.”

The Slime poured into him, and he let it. Welcomed it. He was warm. Whole. Home.

He was entirely covered, now, except for his eyes—still barely flickering with resistance. His doubts vanished, vision blurred as the transformation reached its peak. His consciousness began to slip away, replaced by the will of the Horde.

A long, shuddering moan escaped his throat—half-plea, half-surrender as the last of his free will dissolved. The thought of escaping now seemed exhausting. Why fight? Why struggle?  The pleasure was too deep. Too good. Too warm.

And in the pit of his mind, the whispering voice returned:

          “There it is.”
          “Your true self… not screaming. Not fighting. Just feeling.”
          “Doesn’t it feel better when you stop trying to be anything at all?”

Khan didn’t answer. He couldn’t. Because in that moment, as the Slime cradled his core and filled the hollow spaces inside him with warmth, he didn’t know who he was anymore. A flicker of memory surfaced—King Hiss, standing tall, hand on his shoulder, calling him “General.” But it felt distant now. Faded. Meaningless.

And worse still— He didn’t care.

          “You fought well,” chuckled the whispering voice.
          “But you were always meant to belong.”

His body stood upright, but there was nothing left behind his eyes but warmth and obedience.

The Slime was in control now.