The sharp, relentless knocking jolted Truman from his dream. He lifted his head and met the furious glare of old Father Smith.
Caught off guard, Truman realized he'd fallen asleep during prayer. Under the collective stare of the surrounding worshippers, he managed an awkward smile.
"Sorry, Father Smith," he said. "I've been struggling with insomnia lately. I'm just exhausted. May the Lord forgive me."
"Mr. Truman," the priest snapped, "the merciful Lord may forgive a lamb's misstep, but if you cease to show devotion, we'll have every right to escort you out of this church."
Father Smith's beard bristled, his words heavy with an unspoken "handle it yourself" warning.
Truman subtly pursed his lips. The meager wages from prayer were his only income, so he forced a humble expression.
"Your Reverence, please forgive me," he said. "I swear it won't happen again."
He performed a flawless sign of the cross, which finally sent the fuming priest back to his seat.
Watching the priest's retreating figure, Truman yawned and let his mind wander again.
The interrupted prayer stirred the once-harmonious hall into a buzz of chatter. Most of the congregation, like Truman, hailed from the east district of Harvest City. They knew each other well and seized any chance to gossip.
"How many times has that guy been chewed out by the priest this month? Prayer's dull, sure, but still…"
"Bet he's got a woman. What else keeps a young guy up all night?"
"Bullshit. Look at him—broke as hell, a slum rat in the slums. Even a kind-hearted pickpocket would slip him some coins."
Truman ignored the chatter about him. His mind lingered on the intoxicating, soul-shaking experience from the night before. Truth be told, once a man tasted the pleasures of a fantasy being, no ordinary woman could compare. It was a rapture unique to this world.
"Still…"
Truman sighed, glancing at the worshippers resuming their prayers. Did he truly want to return?
Indeed, Truman didn't belong to this world. He still couldn't fathom how a twenty-year-old shut-in, munching fried chicken and chugging soda, had inexplicably crossed into this realm.
All he knew was that when he arrived, he was dumbfounded, half-expecting it to be some prank show. But when he saw immortals soaring through the air and bizarre creatures roaming the streets, he had no choice but to accept the cruel jest the heavens had played.
This marked his fifth year in this world, and he'd pieced together its nature.
After the era known as the Old History ended, the veil between fantasy and reality tore. Demons and monsters flooded the world, shattering the old civilizations. Nations, great and small, crumbled overnight, and billions of humans became fodder for these beasts.
Mountains wept, and the very grass mourned.
Angels and demons waged war, spirits and ghosts haunted the land, and dragons and phoenixes were no longer mere myths.
In this unprecedented cataclysm, some chose to bond with certain fantasy creatures, while others harnessed ancient arts—alchemy, magic, divine techniques—to rise to greatness. They survived, clinging to life, and built new nations, striking a fragile balance with the merciless demons. A semblance of peace emerged.
That was over four hundred years ago.
Truman now lived in the remnants of Old History's ancient China, in a main city called Harvest City within the Middle Kingdom. He scraped by on the meager pay from church prayers.
He'd once believed he was destined for a hero's journey, rising from the slums to battle the heavens and become a legend.
But reality crushed that hope. Neither the Middle Kingdom's Demon Suppression Division's spirit root test, nor the Federal Cross Church's baptism, nor the Arcane Association's ether catalyst revealed any potential for cultivation in him.
He'd resigned himself to a aimless life in the slums until, a month ago, he unearthed a parchment scroll among his late parents' belongings. It opened his eyes to the wonders of this world.
The thought alone reignited a spark in him, urging him to race back to his shabby little shack with wings on his feet.
The day's prayers finally ended. When Truman returned to his dwelling with a small pouch of coins, the sun had already dipped below the horizon.
Even in the slums, the city retained a semblance of its former grandeur as a capital. Towering concrete buildings, though worn, stood in clusters—many technologies had been lost, but the craft of rebuilding homes endured. Truman lived in the heart of this dilapidated alley district.
The creaky wooden door groaned as he pushed it open. A snow-white figure lunged at him like lightning in the dark, its momentum fierce. Unfazed, Truman stood his ground.
The figure halted an inch from him, the rush of air stopping abruptly, replaced by an enraged howl.
"Why! Who the hell are you?"
The words dripped with fury, but the voice was sweet, almost cloying, as if its owner were born to be a plaything for desire.
Truman's greasy gaze roamed over the stunning creature before him, his intentions bare and unashamed.
She was a breathtakingly sensual catgirl, her white stockings and maid outfit clinging perfectly to her wild, voluptuous form. Her ample breasts strained against the blue-and-white dress, her waist was slender, and her hips flared dramatically, pert and inviting, as if beckoning a mate.
She radiated a raw allure that could ignite any man's lust, her brown cat ears and swishing tail only amplifying her charm.
Even with anger etched across her youthful, sultry face, it did nothing to diminish her status as the ultimate fantasy of male desire.
To her furious question, Truman offered no reply. He shut the wooden door, turned, and casually dropped his pants, letting his formidable manhood spring free into the air.
"Do I need to repeat the greeting ritual for when the master returns?" he teased. "Or does Charlotte prefer her master's punishment?"
His mocking words hung in the air. Charlotte, the catgirl, couldn't retort. Her eyes locked onto Truman's nearly twenty-centimeter erection, memories of the previous night's pleading and sobbing flooding her mind. A flush of humiliated anger crept across her face.
Yet her body betrayed her, sinking to her knees. Her voluptuous form, wrapped in the maid outfit, trembled slightly. Her soft, pale hips pressed against her ankles, shifting into an enticing shape.
A voice, defying her will, escaped her throat.
"W-Welcome home, Master. Would you like to eat, bathe, or… enjoy me? Mrrrow~"
Her words, laced with shame and fury, ended, and Truman clapped with a satisfied grin.
"Charlotte's getting better at this," he said. "There's a reward for you tonight."
Reward or punishment—what's the difference? It's all just him ravaging me with that thing. Charlotte bit her lip, barely containing her rage.
Days of conditioning had nearly broken her to this reality. She was no match for that monstrous thing and could only surrender as her body succumbed. Yet deep within, she clung to a flicker of hope for escape.
When she'd been summoned to this world, she found herself utterly under this vile human's control—unable to harm him, unable to disobey, forced to submit to his relentless violations, gasping in pleasure amid the ecstasy.
But she'd devised a way to escape this blissful hell. All she needed was patience, to get just a little closer…
Truman eyed her submissive pose, itching to tear off her flimsy dress and ravage her delectable body. But he knew the finest meals required patience.
"My little kitten's not crawling over yet?" he said, giving his massive length a slight thrust. "Time for the pre-dinner cock-cleaning."
Charlotte's breathing grew ragged. As the imposing manhood revealed itself, a heat surged through her body, her thighs instinctively pressing together, rubbing faintly.
Her provocative, lascivious form betrayed her, stirring with anticipation—a primal instinct of a conquered female, craving the treatment her aroused body demanded.
"No! It's not pleasure—it's just that damned binding's effect. If I could just… just kill him!"
Charlotte bit her tongue hard, clinging to the last shred of clarity. Her body, slick with desire, sang with need, but her mind held fast, feigning arousal while poised to strike.
"Just a little more… almost there…"
Hot, misty breaths puffed from her nose, her eyes nearly crossing as they locked onto the throbbing length.
Her body quivered, waves of tingling pleasure reminding her to serve her "beloved" master. Only her fading reason sounded a faint alarm.
"Now!"
Charlotte's trembling right hand yanked a hidden rope in the shadows.
A massive heap of metal—painstakingly gathered during her confinement—plummeted from the ceiling. Tons of scrap, bundled tightly, crashed down to crush the wretched man into pulp.
She wasn't harming him directly—she'd only rigged the trap!
"Fuck!"
Truman hadn't sensed the trap. He barely had time to curse before the shadow hurtled downward, panic seizing him instinctively.
"Hahaha, you filthy human! Thought you could control me with your pathetic tricks? Today, you'll pay for my suffering with your life!" Charlotte crowed, hands on her hips, her voluptuous body swaying. As the weight crashed down, she envisioned a free, glorious future. Once liberated, she'd tear his corpse apart and scatter his ashes!