So, I kinda drank the semen of a unicorn. Straight up mythical nut juice, served piping hot like a cursed Starbucks special.
Honestly, I would've been shocked at the existence of unicorns in this world… if not for the fact that I had some of his genes inside me right now.
But the word semen triggered a repressed memory. Observe this cultural masterpiece:
"Excuse me," a man told the woman in front of him on the bus, "You've got some semen on the back of your jacket."
"I'm sure it's not semen," she said. "It's probably yogurt."
"It's definitely semen," the man replied. "I don't ejaculate yogurt."
I need to build a statue for that man.
Anyway—back to my trauma—I told Erect I was headed to the bathroom to cut open my stomach and manually remove the cursed coffee I just drank. Full-on do-it-yourself open heart surgery, but for intestines.
Erect opened his mouth, probably to stop me.
But before he could speak, I raised my voice.
"Wait... if the coffee was brewed from unicorn... juice… then what the hell was in the tea?"
It had that distinct muddy-brown color — the shade you see in public washrooms after a toddler with diarrhea learns how to aim.
I didn't want to know…
But my tastebuds were already halfway to therapy, and I needed closure.
Sophia, bless her fermented soul, looked down at the floor and confessed:
"It was made from the powder of horse hairs."
Oh. That's... better?
Wait, what the fuck did I just say?
How have I reached the point in life where "horse hair powder" is a relief? This world got me playing culinary Russian Roulette every time I sip a beverage.
"Can't you make something with actual edible ingredients? Like normal people?" I asked.
"But everyone does it this way, my lord," Erect replied like a man defending cannibalism at a PTA meeting.
Unfortunately, the bastard was right. This isn't Earth — this is Hell's Kitchen: Apocalypse Edition.
Screw it. I still needed to purge that demonic latte out of me.
"I am going to open my stomach." I started walking towards the bathroom.
"Big brother!" Sophia shouted from behind. She must be worried about me.
I looked over my shoulder.
"What?" I barked.
Sophia looked sad.
"You can't cut your stomach..." she said softly.
My heart almost melted.
"...without a knife."
…
I take it back.
She nasty.
She walked up to me, offering me the knife like she was handing out free samples of despair at a grocery store.
I turned to Erect, giving him the look of a betrayed man who just found out his best friend microwaves water.
He got the message.
"You idiot!" he barked at his sister. "Go back to the kitchen and make something normal!"
"Okay," she said, cheerfully—still holding the murder utensil—and skipped off like a Disney princess with unresolved trauma.
"Sorry, my lord," Erect said. "She thought you were serious."
"I was serious!" I barked. "I just didn't expect her to assist in the ritual like she was prepping me for organ donation!"
"My bad. I didn't know you were against drinking things like that."
AGAINST?
BRO, WHO TF IS FOR DRINKING UNICORN SPUNK?
This world needs therapy, a reboot, and Gordon Ramsay.
Anyway, arguing was pointless.
I needed a cleanse. So instead of gutting myself, I activated one of my Skills:
[ Abortion ]
That's the name of the Skill. Abortion.
I once wrote a joke about Abortion but I decided not to keep it.
This Skill, though?
It removes any unwanted substance from my body.
Food. Poison. Trauma. Unicorn history.
I activated it and instantly felt like throwing up my soul.
I rushed into the bathroom and exorcised my digestive system.
Unicorn semen and horse-hair latte — all of it. Gone.
When I emerged, post-vomit, I was weak. Empty. Emotionally bankrupt.
But somehow... whole again.
I collapsed on the sofa like a war veteran coming back from World War C.
Erect sat on the other sofa beside me.
In front of us was a small table with books and magazines—the kind that looked like they had answers but only raised more questions.
This world have such things? Oh yes. They have. I remember that first Alien telling me about it. They have magazines like the top 50 most handsome aliens.
I picked one of the magazines kept in front of me.
On the cover it read :
What do Aliens eat?
Hmm. They probably eat Human brains. What else can you expect from them?
I flipped through the pages expecting cosmic horror.
Instead…
Pizza.
Burgers.
Omelettes.
Sushi.
There was even a section on aphrodisiac soup — with full step-by-step illustrations.
Aliens were out here living their best lives. Michelin-star diets. Nutritious, delicious, Instagrammable.
Meanwhile, me?
I just drank a unicorn's ejaculation smoothie.
God. Why? Why me?
I showed the magazine to Erect like I just found my wife cheating on me with a lasagna.
"Why don't humans eat this kind of food?"
Erect gave me the dumbest, most righteous answer in history:
"If I ever eat what my parents' murderers eat... I'd rather eat poison."
Okay Shakespeare, damn.
Then do it. EAT IT.
I didn't say that out loud though. I nodded. Respectfully.
"Fair enough," I said, emotionally broken like a rubber toy dog after a rottweiler attack.
I placed the magazine back on the table.
These people are hopeless. They were happy proudly committing genocide of future unicorns.
"But why do you even have alien magazines in your house if you hate them more than feminists hate common sense?" I asked the most logical question since "Should we stop putting pineapple on pizza?"
And I asked it before any logical dick-sucker could crawl out of Reddit to yell "plothole."
Erect folded his arms like a disappointed therapist.
"I keep them to monitor the enemy, my lord. It's crucial intel."
Hmm. Fair. Gotta know what the demons are cooking before they poison your kids with TikTok trends.
Anyway, I tossed the magazine aside like a girl tosses your heart after calling you her "best friend" for 6 months straight.
Then I picked up a thick book from the table.
Cover said:
'How to Write a Book'
Hmm. Ambitious. Inspirational. Maybe it'll finally teach me how to finish a sentence without getting distracted by—Oh look a bug.
I flipped it open.
Then saw the page count.
Closed it with the same energy I close job application tabs after reading "Minimum 3 years experience."
Next, I picked up a thin book lying beside it.
Title: 'How to Get a Book Published'
Bro.
This writer really went from "How to Write" to "How to Beg Publishers With Dignity."
"What's these books about?" I asked Erect.
Erect scratched his head like a man hiding bankruptcy under his hairline.
"I wrote both of them, my lord."
"You can write?" I blinked. "Like, full sentences and stuff? Are you an author?"
"I can write… but I'm not an author."
I tilted my head. "Bro, what does that even mean? You sound like those dudes who say 'I vibe but I don't catch feelings.'"
Erect looked like a broken motivational speaker.
"Well," he said, rubbing his palms like his dreams were on clearance, "My first book was about how to write a book. But it never got published…"
Pain.
"Then I wrote the second one—how to get a book published. And that also didn't get published."
He smiled.
"So I gave up."
Jesus Christ. That's the saddest plot twist since Titanic but with more paper cuts.
He pointed at the two books like they were his children who failed IIT.
"These two are all I've got. I keep them to remind myself of my failure."
…
Okay, bro. I get it.
The writing biz is tough. Like fighting a bear with a Nerf gun.
If your MC ain't a level 999 giga-chad with a demon wife and a traumatic backstory, the algorithm spits on you.
Wait, why the hell am I getting personal?
This ain't about me. This is about Erect's flop era.
I cleared my throat and shifted the convo.
"So there is a publishing industry in this unicorn-juicing, ethics-cursed world?" I asked.
"Yes," he nodded. "There are only two printing presses in existence. Both on other continents."
Of course. This continent barely has tea without trauma.
"Which continents?" I asked.
He leaned in like he was about to drop spoilers.
"First... the Cuckwell Continent."
This continent sounds like its citizens pay to watch their wives get published.
"After the Aliens captured the continent they built this publishing industry for their magazines and stuff." Erect explained.
Figures. Of course the aliens have infrastructure. They eat pizza and fuck logic.
"And the second continent?" I asked.
Erect whispered the name like it was forbidden:
"Hentaiger Continent."
Of course.
If that continent didn't have a printing press, their entire economy would collapse into a pile of uncensored despair.
It made sense.
But as the Hero King, I couldn't let this degeneracy continue. Not on my watch.
I'm not gonna sit back while alien-cooked moral corruption spreads faster than "Alpha Male" podcasts.
It was time.
Time to start my righteous journey.
Therefore, I took the first step to cleansing this world...
"Show me the Hentai."