The New Calculus

Commercial District, City of Vale

10:01 PM — Thursday, 15th October, 2015

The commercial district of Vale was supposed to be secured.

Instead, it was a slaughterhouse. The heavy iron train of the White Fang had torn a jagged hole straight through the reinforced concrete of the lower district walls, and through that gaping wound, the dark tide of the Grimm had poured. Sirens wailed a shrill, discordant canopy over the city, punctuated by the sharp, echoing cracks of high-caliber Dust rounds and the **** screams of a fleeing populace.

Gale Vance pressed his back against the brick facade of a collapsing storefront, his chest heaving as he clutched a blunt, civilian-grade machete. He was no Huntsman. He was just a logistics clerk who had the misfortune of working the night shift when the perimeter collapsed.

A shadow fell over the alleyway.

A Beowolf, its bone-plated skull slick with fresh blood, slinked into the narrow passage. Its glowing crimson eyes locked onto Gale, a low, rumbling growl vibrating through its chest. Gale’s legs gave out. He slid down the brick wall, the machete slipping from his slick, sweaty palms and clattering uselessly onto the asphalt. He closed his eyes, waiting for the inevitable tear of teeth and claws.

But the blow never came.

A sudden, crushing stillness dropped over the entire city block. The distant gunfire seemed to muffle, swallowed by a heavy, atmospheric pressure that made the hairs on Gale’s arms stand on end. The Beowolf stopped. Its growl died in its throat, its massive, muscled frame going completely rigid as its head snapped upward toward the heavens.

Gale opened his eyes, blinking through the smoke and ash, and followed the creature's gaze.

The sky had gone entirely wrong.

The permanent, fractured silhouette of the moon—the shattered shards of rock that had drifted in pieces for ten thousand years—was moving. With a silent, terrifying fluidity, the massive chunks of ivory stone were slamming back together, fusing into a perfect, flawless, unbroken sphere. The deep, glowing fractures sealed themselves like melting glass before his very eyes.

Then, the stars began to dance.

Across a massive expanse of the night sky, entire constellations drifted and shifted across lightyears in a matter of seconds. They locked into a new, terrifyingly precise alignment, burning with a brilliant, blinding intensity. Gale stared, his jaw hanging slack, as the starlight spelled out a single, monolithic command that stretched across the cosmos:

SUBMIT.

A profound, manic awe washed over Gale. The terror of the Grimm, the burning buildings, the collapsing city—it all faded into background noise. His mind, shattered by the sheer, impossible scale of what he was witnessing, scrambled for the only explanation his civilization had ever provided.

The Gods, his mind screamed. The Spirit Gods are asking for our faith.

"Forgive us," Gale wept, his hands trembling as he dropped his weapon entirely. He turned away from the Beowolf, throwing himself flat onto the blood-stained asphalt. He prostrated himself, pressing his forehead against the cold stone, his voice rising in a ****, frantic prayer. "O Lords of the Wild, deliver us from the dark! Have mercy on your children! We bow to your judgment! Save us!"

Unfortunately for Gale, the Spirit Gods didn't exist, and even if he had prayed to the true Deity of Remnant, who was currently twenty thousand leagues away in the Land of Darkness, it wouldn't have helped. God was entirely indifferent to the frantic chirping of an insect, far too preoccupied with the systematic defilement of the Schnee heiress to care about a clerk's salvation.

A foot away, the Beowolf had refocused on it's target, entirely uncaring of Gale's prayers. It stepped forward, its heavy, obsidian claws casting a long shadow over Gale's prostrate form, and brought its massive paw down with a silent, skull-crushing finality.

The clerk's prayer died mid-sentence.

Across the rest of Vale, the same scene was repeating as macro-level confusion was turning a standard tactical crisis into an absolute structural collapse.

In the central plazas, the ranks of Vale’s civil defense forces and standard Huntsmen were melting down. Elite warriors who had spent their entire lives training to face the Grimm dropped to their knees in the middle of active warzones, their weapons slipping from their hands as they stared up at the unbroken moon and the burning mandate in the stars.

"Is it... is it the end of the world?" a young huntress-in-training whimpered, her defensive stance entirely evaporating as a pack of Creeps encircled her. She didn't fire a single dust round. She just wept, completely paralyzed by existential dread.

The human element of Vale's defense was utterly compromised. Communication channels were clogged not with tactical data, but with frantic, terrified reports of theological hysteria. Orders from the high command were ignored; captains were screaming at their squads to pray rather than hold the line.

The only forces still operating at full, lethal capacity were the automated units of the Atlesian military.

Deep within the commercial sector, rows of Atlesian Knights and massive Paladin mechs marched in perfect, mechanical sync. Their digital optical sensors registered the restructured moon and the altered constellations, processed the data as an anomalous atmospheric event, and immediately discarded it. Logic circuits and targeting algorithms did not possess souls; they could not feel the suffocating, primal weight of divine presence.

“Target acquired,” a mechanical voice droned from an Atlesian Knight as its twin arm-cannons whirred to life, chewing through a wave of invading Grimm with cold, unblinking efficiency.

But a few automated robots could not hold an entire kingdom. The sheer, unprecedented wave of negative emotion radiating from millions of terrified civilians was a beacon. It was a massive, pulsing flare of pure hysteria that echoed across the continent, drawing an even larger, more ravenous tide of Grimm toward the kingdom's borders.

From the shadows of a shattered clocktower overlooking the plaza, Cinder Fall stood frozen against the stone railing. Her dark hair whipped around her face in the violent wind, her amber eyes wide, reflecting the brilliant, burning light of the rewritten stars.

Her Scroll was clutched so tightly in her hand that the screen was beginning to crack.

This wasn't her plan. The virus she had planted in the CCT network was supposed to cause a minor security glitch, a localized panic to let the White Fang execute their breach. But this? The moon mended? The stars rewritten?

She looked down at the streets, watching the sheer volume of negative emotion paralyze the city's defenders, realizing her goals had been achieved a thousand times over in a single night—and she had absolutely no idea how.

"What did you do, Salem?" Cinder whispered, her voice trembling with a rare, fragile note of genuine fear as she stared at the word SUBMIT burning in the heavens. "What kind of power were you hiding from me?"

Evernight Castle, Master Bedroom

11:02 AM — Friday, 16th October, 2015

You wake up in the master chambers of Evernight Castle, the pale morning light filtering through the towering obsidian windows to cast long, cold shadows across the velvet-draped bed. Beside you, Weiss Schnee is sleeping, her breathing shallow and deliberate. Her pale, flawless skin is stark against the dark sheets, a faint purple bruise from your fingers still lingering on her hip.

As you look down at her, you review her performance from the night before. Her physical submission had technically been total—there wasn't anything explicit you could punish her for—but she had hesitated more than once. She had hesitated when you gripped her hair to **** your length deeper down her throat, making her gag. She had hesitated when you painted her pretty little face with your seed. And she had hesitated the hardest when you bent her over the table to claim her virginity. Each time, you could see her mind frantically redoing the calculus, re-evaluating whether submission was truly worth it. You are going to help her answer that question permanently today.

You snap your finger once.

The double doors grind open with silent, fluid precision. A cadre of bipedal Grimm servants, their sleek black skin molded into the shape of high-society formal uniforms and their polished white bone masks gleaming in the dim light, glide into the chamber. They move with an eerie, terrifyingly polite grace. Two of them approach the bedside, bowing deeply before gently lifting the sleeping heiress from the mattress. Weiss snaps awake, her blue eyes widening in a flash of instinctual panic as she briefly thrashes in their hold while the monstrous attendants carry her toward the adjoining bath chamber.

"Master—!" she gasps, her voice catching as she looks back at you, but she catches herself, swallowing her scream and forcing her hands to drop to her sides. She forces her body to go limp, actively choosing compliance over a struggle as the Grimm lower her into a steaming, sunken pool of scented water.

You follow her into the bathhouse, leaning against a marble pillar as you watch the servants wash the dry cum from last night from between her thighs.

They work with a detached, clinical perfection, brushing out her long white hair before styling it into a flawless braid, and drying her skin with plush, silk towels. Once she is dry, they dress her in the opulent finery of a potential future queen.

They array her in a heavy, structured gown of pure, light-blue silk, its low-cut neckline framing her pert, pale breasts, accented by geometric, Atlesian-style jewelry forged from dark metal and pulsing Dust crystals. A slim choker sets into her collarbone, a subtle mark of your absolute ownership disguised as royal jewelry.

You step into her personal space, lifting her chin with a single finger to **** her gaze upward. "Are you enjoying yourself?"

"Yes," she whispers, her throat clicking as she swallows, her hands clutching the heavy fabric of her skirt to keep them from shaking.

You lean down and kiss her softly, sweeter and more tenderly than you ever have with any of your other girls, but she stiffens against your lips anyway. You hide your frown, pulling back just enough to look into her eyes. "As long as you hold up your end of our bargain, you will continue to enjoy these luxuries. If you decide to break your word..."

"I understand, Master," she says quietly, her voice **** to project stability.

"I don't think you do," you reply smoothly, a dark edge to your tone. "But you will. Follow me."

You turn and lead her out of the master chambers, your boots clicking rhythmically against the polished stone corridors. Weiss falls into step a half-pace behind you, her head held high, clinging desperately to her cold, aristocratic poise. As you navigate the sweeping hallways toward the East Tower, the sheer scale of your hierarchy unfolds before her. Every single Grimm you pass—from the massive, armored Beringels guarding the arched thresholds to the airborne Lancers hovering in the high rafters—instantly drops to one knee, bowing their heads in flawless, synchronized reverence.

Crucially, they do not just bow to you. They offer the exact same submissive deference to Weiss. Looking through the eyes of your Grimm, you watch how her posture shifts; the way her shoulders square and her jaw tightens with pride. The display appeals to her, like you hoped it would. You are stroking her ego, making the prize for submission all the sweeter. When coupled with the immediate cost of defiance she is about to witness, it will get your new princess acting exactly how you want.

When you reach the East Tower, you open the heavy obsidian doors with a mental command. They part with a low, grinding sigh, breaking the fragile silence of the suite.

Blake Belladonna snaps around instantly at the noise, her entire body tensing into a low, defensive crouch. She is physically unscathed, but her dark cat ears are pinned flat against her hair, twitching with a frantic, animalistic alertness. She looks like a panther backed into a corner, her amber eyes scanning the threshold for any sign of a threat.

The moment you step into the parlor with Weiss trailing half a pace behind you, the defiant anger on Blake's face completely shatters. Her jaw drops, her eyes widening as she takes in the sight of her teammate. She stares at the immaculate, light-blue silk gown, the shimmering Atlesian jewelry, and the pristine, unbruised skin of the Schnee heiress.

"Weiss...?" Blake breathes, her voice a fragile, trembling whisper before it instantly curdles into venomous disgust. "What... what is this? What did you do?"

Weiss holds her chin high, her hands resting elegantly over the heavy silk of her skirt as she desperately tries to project an untouchable poise. "I did what was necessary, Blake. He is a God. There is no fighting him, no running from him. I secured our survival. If you just cooperate—"

"Cooperate?!" Blake roars, taking a violent step forward, her fists clenching so hard her knuckles turn white. "You sold us out! You sold out Ruby and Yang just so you could keep wearing silk dresses and playing the part of a high-class puppet! I always knew the Schnee name was built on stepping on people, but I didn't think you'd step on your own team just to sit on a throne!"

"You don't understand the scale of what we're facing!" Weiss screams back, her carefully constructed mask slipping as tears prick the corners of her eyes. "Look out the window, Blake! Look at the moon! He mended it with a thought! He rewrote the stars! There is no rebellion here! There is only submission or ruin!"

While their voices clash, you simply smile and flex your reality-warping will with a silent, effortless command.

Leagues away, in the lavish dining quarters of the North Tower, a vivid, crystal-clear magical projection ignites in the air like a rip in reality. Ruby and Yang snap their heads toward it. The two sisters are unbound, having been released the night before, but they are sitting listlessly at a grand mahogany table, their untouched breakfast growing cold under the unblinking, watchful eyes of a dozen uniformed Grimm servants. Yang drops her fork and Ruby freezes as the live feed carries their teammates' argument to them in real-time. You let them continue arguing for another minute, letting the scale of their team's disunity dawn on Ruby and Yang, before stepping between the two confrontational girls.

You fix your gaze on the cat Faunus. "She speaks the truth, Blake. And now, the same choice is extended to you. Submit willingly, and you will find a comfortable, luxurious place in my new world. Refuse, and there will be consequences."

Blake spits directly at your boots, her teeth bared in a snarl of defiance. "I'd rather die than bow to a tyrant."

"A predictable answer," you murmur, turning back to Weiss and giving her a cold, dark look. "Watch closely, my princess. This is what defiance costs."

You reach out with your mind, targeting the fundamental code of Blake's biology.

Physically, the shift begins with a sharp, sickening crack at the base of her spine. Blake gasps, her back arching violently as her clothes simply dissolve into nothingness, leaving her bare skin exposed just as a sleek, black cat tail erupts from her lower back, swishing frantically through the air to match her ears. The true violation, however, is internal. With a merciless sweep of your power, you systematically obliterate her humanity to an extent far beyond what you did to Raven and Summer. They, at least, could still speak. With Blake, you burn away her capacity for language, her intellect, and her memories, plunging her mind deep into a vacant void, replacing it all with the base behaviors of an actual feline.

Blake’s eyes go completely wide, the fierce, rebellious intelligence behind them instantly dying, replaced by a reduced, animalistic instinct. Her legs buckle. The capacity to walk upright vanishes from her nervous system, forcing her to drop heavily to all fours. She opens her mouth to scream, but her human vocalizations are gone; all that tears from her throat is a frantic, high-pitched meow that dissolves into a low, frightened hiss.

"B-Blake?" Weiss lets out a sharp, choked gasp, the color completely draining from her face as she looks at the hollow shell of the woman she had been arguing with seconds ago.

"Blake is gone," you say smoothly.

With a flick of your wrist, a simple ceramic cat bowl manifests on the floorboards right in front of her, filled to the brim with raw, wet ground beef. The former freedom fighter, now possessing only the base instincts and mind of a domestic animal, blinks her vacant amber eyes at the offering. Then the scent of the meat hits her nose, and her pupils dilate into massive black discs. Forgetting her fear, forgetting her team, and completely stripped of her dignity, she crawls forward on all fours, lowering her face directly into the bowl and lapping greedily at the food, her new tail swishing with mindless, content satisfaction.

"I always wanted a pet cat. I think I'll call her Bella," you muse.

On the other side of the magical projection in the North Tower, Ruby buries her face in her hands, her vocal cords straining as she lets out a muffled, hyperventilating sob, while Yang goes completely catatonic, her purple eyes staring blankly at the screen as she watches her partner reduced to a mindless pet.

"Now, Weiss," you state calmly, stepping up behind the trembling heiress and sliding your hands over her silk-clad ass. "I want your anal virginity."

Weiss stiffens, a violent shudder ripping through her body as your words hit her. "Master... please..." she whimpers, her voice completely fracturing as she watches Blake lap greedily at the floor.

"Are you resisting?" You ask her pleasantly.

"No!" she almost shouts, her voice panicked as she glances down at the purring creature at her feet. She swallows hard, bowing her head. "Of course not, Master," she says much quieter, her voice trembling with total surrender. "I would never."

"Prove it," you murmur, your voice dropping to a low, smooth purr that cuts right through her panic. "Show me there isn't a single doubt left in that pretty head of yours."

Weiss swallows hard, her throat clicking in the heavy silence of the parlor. She looks at you, then her gaze flickers down to Blake—or rather, Bella—who is completely oblivious to the tension, happily crunching away at the raw meat on the floorboards.

Weiss' trembling hands reach down to the hem of her heavy, light-blue silk gown. Step by step, she peels the structured silk upward, bunching the expensive material around her waist.

She doesn't wait for you to **** her. Sinking to her knees on the plush rug, she turns her back to you and lowers her upper body, pressing her chest against the cushions of the nearby sofa. She arches her back, tilting her pelvis upward to present her pale, bare hips and the tight, untouched curves of her rear. It is a textbook posture of absolute submission, offered entirely by her own choice to preserve what remains of her mind.

"I am sorry for hesitating, Master," Weiss whispers into the velvet cushion, her voice muffled but steady, fiercely clinging to a ****, submissive dignity. "Let me show you my loyalty."

You smile down at the view, completely unhurried as you undo the front of your trousers. Your thick, aching length frees itself into the cool air of the suite, pulsing with anticipation. You step forward, pressing your thighs against her flushed, upturned cheeks, and guide your heavy tip right against her tight, untouched anal entrance.

Without a shred of hesitation, you drive forward in one deep, unyielding thrust.

Weiss lets out a sharp, breathless shriek of absolute agony, her voice cracking as her fingers claw frantically into the upholstery of the sofa. The sudden, brutal violation tears through her remaining bodily defenses, the tight, virgin ring of her anus stretching to its absolute limit to accommodate your supernatural thickness. Her hips shudder violently against your pelvis, her breath catching in a series of ragged, hyperventilating gasps. Yet, true to her word, she does not pull away. She actively forces her muscles to yield to the intrusion, swallowing her screams and absorbing the weight of your body.

You grip her wide, fertile hips with both hands, digging your fingers deep into her flawless skin as you establish a brutal, heavy, punishing rhythm. The wet, slapping sounds of flesh meeting flesh echo sharply through the quiet parlor, punctuated by Weiss's sharp, rhythmic whimpers and the soft, satisfied purrs of the cat eating just inches away from her face. You pump into her without restraint, using your enhanced strength to bottom out against her core with every single stroke, making sure she feels every bit of the reality she chose.

Through the live magical feed in the North Tower, Ruby and Yang are **** to watch the total degradation of their team. The sight of their pristine, proud heiress willingly offering herself to be systematically sodomized while their other partner eats like a cat completely breaks the final remnants of their spirits. Ruby lets out another muffled sob, while Yang's violet eyes go completely hollow, the burning spark of life completely dying out.

Beneath you, Weiss’s head thrashes from side to side, her white braid unraveling against the velvet. Her inner walls desperately clamp down around your length, her immortal body helplessly betraying her mind's terror as the intense, friction-heavy heat drives her toward a ****, overwhelming climax. She is weeping now, tears soaking into the cushions, but her hips keep pushing back against yours, desperately seeking the approval of her conqueror.

"Take it, Weiss," you growl into her ear, the pace of your thrusts becoming urgent, violent, and shallow as you reach your peak.

You drive all the way in, locking your pelvis against her flushing, upturned ass, and unleash your release. A massive, endless torrent of hot, thick seed floods deep into her tight anal depth, filling her capacity to the absolute brim. Weiss lets out one final, trailing sob, her body going completely limp beneath your weight as your supernatural momentum finally slows.

You pull out with a wet, heavy snap, letting her collapse face-first into the velvet cushions of the sofa. Her light-blue silk gown is ruined, her dignity shattered, and her spirit conquered. As she lies there, weeping softly, Bella finishes her meal and contentedly trots up to Weiss, nuzzling against her mistress' hand for affection.

You smile, just as content as Bella. Weiss Schnee is finally, completely compliant—thoroughly prepared to submit her body, her bloodline, and her existence to your will for the rest of eternity, and Blake Belladonna is dealt with. Two down, two to go.