The Paladin Ranch: Days of Raising Paladins into Cows

Thirteen years ago, her mentor was dragged into the darkness before her eyes, never to return. She was only twelve that year. She had promised herself she would never let anyone close to her be dragged away again. She charged forward recklessly, her holy power burning to its limit, her sword light cleaving through layers of vines, finally grasping Leah's wrist. But the vines were too many, too dense. As soon as she held that hand, the ground beneath her feet gave way—it collapsed. She plunged into a massive pit, and the spiritual gel from above poured down like a waterfall, submerging her entirely. The spiritual gel touched her holy power and frenziedly wrapped around her. It seeped through the gaps in her armor, clinging to her skin and tightening. Piece by piece, her armor plates detached, revealing the sweat-soaked undershirt beneath. The undershirt was quickly gnawed open by the gel layer. Her holy power drained from her body like a receding tide, her limbs growing heavier and softer, until she couldn't even lift a finger. The gel layer climbed from her ankles, up her calves, over her knees, and across her thighs, slithering over her like a snake. She had never been touched like this before; not even the closest Leah had touched her waist. Yet, this mass was caressing her from head to toe. She struggled desperately, a hoarse growl escaping her throat, but the more she struggled, the tighter the spiritual gel wrapped around her. It tightened until her body was completely molded, until the gel layer traced her waistline, her chest, her thighs, outlining every curve of her body. Those things she had hidden for over a decade—her slender waist, her full breasts, her firm, long legs—were all clearly defined by this transparent layer. The gel tightened her waist, forcing the soft mounds of her breasts to bulge high, their tips hardening through the gel. She was so ashamed she wished she could burrow into the earth, but she had no control over her own body. Her thighs were also constricted. She tried to press her legs together, but the force slowly parted them, as if measuring every dimension of her body. She bit her lip, tasting blood, and managed to suppress the fatal whimper in her throat. Shame arrived before fear. She had never been treated like this in her life. She was the Shield of the Continent, the Sword of the Church, a hero admired by thousands. But now she lay at the bottom of the pit, like a fish frozen in gel, her strength to struggle almost gone. She desperately told herself: "Pull yourself together, Elsa Dawn. You are the Shield of the Continent. This won't hold you." But her body wouldn't listen, and her holy mark wouldn't listen either—the mark on her waist, it lit up. The resonance came without warning, more violent than any on the battlefield, like magma, like thunder, exploding from her waist and surging through her entire body. Her body trembled uncontrollably within the gel layer, her spine tingling, the muscles in her inner thighs spasming and clamping shut. Fear and that strange, surging thing she had denied for thirteen years washed over her, drowning her. Her waist burned fiercely, so hot it made her eyes water. She remembered that feeling when the holy light descended during her baptism—she had lied to herself then, saying it was a gift from the holy light, and had continued that lie for over a decade. She opened her mouth to curse, to pray, but only a broken gasp escaped. In the darkness, a pair of silver-gloved hands reached down from above. Their fingers were long and slender, gleaming coldly in the faint light of the spiritual gel, like a precious artifact. They gently brushed aside the messy silver hair from her forehead. The owner of that hand slowly leaned down, black hair cascading, a dark red rose pinned to his cuff, emitting a faint, spectral glow in the dim light. A pale, serene face, a pair of purple eyes, gazed at her intently, as if looking at a treasure finally acquired. He watched her for a long time, so long she almost thought he would speak, before he straightened up. His voice was not loud, very soft, as if coaxing someone, or stating a matter of course: "What a fine Dawn-colored holy milk cow." "The Church has sent its best breeding stock." She glared at him, the fire in her eyes almost burning out. He met her gaze, as serene as if observing an untamed wild creature. She wanted to retort, to say she was a Paladin, here to flatten the Demon King's castle—but the spiritual gel had already risen past her chin, past her lips, sealing her last bit of sound. In the distance, Leah's cries could be faintly heard in the night wind, soft and quickly swallowed. She wanted to respond, to shout "I'm here," but she couldn't even move her lips. She was carried through a city gate. The gate stood wide open, the city within empty. No guards, no lights, not even a dog barked. It was as silent as a tomb. The city was unnervingly clean, as if even the dust in the corners was swept daily. Elsa strained her eyes, trying to get a look at this Demon Lord's castle, but she was encased in a sticky resin, only able to see the dark, vaulted ceiling above and the stone walls flashing by on either side. Where were her knights? Scattered to the winds? Where was Lyra? She parted her lips, but only a faint hiss escaped her throat. Her carriers didn't stop. She swallowed the breath in her throat. Whatever this place was, she had to get out alive. She had to find Lyra. She had to bring home those she had promised to protect. Her armor was long gone. The Shield of Faith armor, custom-made for her by the Holy See, the shell she had worn for over a decade, was now reduced to a few scraps of torn undergarments and a layer of viscous, binding resin. A sudden chill seized her, a profound cold. She tried to move her legs, but they felt as heavy as lead. The stairs descended, and a scent gradually permeated the air. It was sweet and foul, a mixture of milk and fodder, growing stronger with every step down. Elsa's brow furrowed. The smell reminded her of the livestock pens in the countryside, of milking mornings. She didn't know what lay beneath the Demon Lord's castle, but the unease in her heart sank with each descending step. At the end of the stairs, the firelight flared suddenly. A vast "Holy Pasture" unfolded before Elsa's eyes. Rows upon rows of pens stretched as far as she could see. Brass plates hung from the wooden bars, and within the pens, women knelt. They had once been knights, saints, sorceresses. Now, they wore bridle bits in their mouths, their limbs on all fours, heads bowed as they gnawed on the fodder in the troughs. At the sound of footsteps, they would only flinch instinctively, not daring to lift their heads. The pens were quiet, filled only with the sounds of chewing, the clinking of chains, and the occasional low whimper. The brass plates were inscribed with neat lettering, like entries in a ledger: "Breeder Stock," "Dairy Cow," "Flesh Tool," and other names she didn't recognize. Elsa recognized a few of them. The saint who had joined the crusade three years ago and never returned. The sorceress who had disappeared from the capital two years ago. The knight who had vanished from the border chapel just last month—their faces had once adorned missing person posters throughout the capital of the Holy Light. In the pen closest to the stairs, a red-haired woman knelt. Elsa recognized her. A knight who had joined the second crusade two years ago, whom everyone had said died in the swamps of the Eternal Night. Now, she kept her head bowed, her face buried in the fodder, revealing only a circle of polished iron chain around her neck, as if she didn't recognize her own commander at all. Further inside were more pens, with strange wooden frames and leather restraints set up beside them. The milky scent in the air grew stronger, cloyingly sweet. In some pens, women were suspended from wooden frames, their limbs spread apart by leather straps, like goods hung on display. In others, women wore transparent domes over their breasts, connected by tubes to bottles containing a milky white substance at the bottom. Elsa's stomach churned. She instinctively reached for the sword at her waist, only to find it gone. She had lost it when she fell into the deep pit. She gritted her teeth, almost to the point of shattering them. But then, the holy mark on her side burned fiercely. The resonance came without warning, more violent than any on the battlefield. Gazing at the bodies bound by bridles, at the chains and nipple rings on their necks, a hidden excitement, one that made her whole body tremble, surged from the depths of her being. She hated this excitement, hated it with a trembling fury. She recited her prayers, fast and frantic, as if warding herself with a spell: This is a demon's illusion, this is corruption, this is filth. But the trembling grew clearer, crawling along the lines of the holy mark into every limb, like a hand she couldn't grasp. Cold sweat trickled down her temples, her face pale. Her gaze fell upon the nipple rings, the chains, the bridle bits, clinging to them, unable to tear away, as if ensnared. She couldn't even tell if she was afraid, or something else entirely. The night deepened, and the spirit-gel suit began to tighten. First around her waist, then her legs, then her arms. It tightened to a certain point and stopped, clinging to her skin, warm and soft, like a living thing. She tried to struggle, but the spirit-gel suit didn't budge. In this ranch, there was nothing she could break free from—the grass vines, the chains, the spirit-gel suit. They were all the same, clinging to her skin, slowly, wrapping her into something that could breathe. She lay within that thing, the spirit-gel suit, which had once been spirit-gel cloth, which had once been a spirit-gel cocoon, which had once been—that mass of gel that had wrapped her at the bottom of the pit. It had clung to her all the way, from the bottom of the pit to the ranch, from the ranch to the stock pen. She had fled so far, only to find herself cradled in its embrace all along. She had long heard the rules of confinement from the voices of the ranch: the spirit-gel suit would automatically tighten at night, and the magic-patterned contact points would provide continuous stimulation, helping the sacred livestock "maintain their condition." Back then, when she heard the words "maintain their condition," she had found it absurd—she thought maintaining one's condition meant maintaining the condition of a paladin. Now, lying here, she understood the meaning of those words: to maintain the condition of livestock. The magic-patterned contact points were rhythmic, like ripples, spreading outwards in circles from her waist, grinding over her most sensitive spots. She gritted her teeth, trying to endure with sheer will—she had endured electric shocks, branding irons, hunger. The instructors at the Holy See had said her will was forged of iron. But the contact points weren't in a hurry; they receded, then surged forward again, grinding over her breath, her knees, the places she most wanted to hide. Her body remembered these places—on the quarantine table, during physical examinations, they had been marked, called out. Now they were found again by these contact points. Her body was more honest than her mind; it softened first. She curled herself into an even smaller ball, her forehead pressed against her knees. She counted the contact points, and as she counted, she became afraid to count—she feared that as she counted, she would begin to wait for them. She feared the word "wait." To wait meant she was anticipating something. She didn't know what she was anticipating—the dawn? For the contact points to stop? Or something else? She dared not think. Her breathing grew ragged, her body curled tighter, her knees clamped together, and a soft hum, unnoticed even by herself, escaped her throat. She snapped her eyes open, burying her face in the dry hay as if scalded—that soft hum, and the whimpers from afar, were the same kind of sound. She was suddenly terrified. She feared confinement, feared the darkness, but what she feared most was that one day she would grow accustomed to this night, accustomed to this soft hum, accustomed to moaning like them. She had never feared pain, never feared death, never feared the clash of swords on the battlefield. What she feared was "habit"—because habit was a surrender without wounds. She had once read a book that said the first step in taming a beast was to make it accustomed to the cage. Back then, she had thought, how could a beast grow accustomed to a cage? A cage was a lock, a wall, a despair from which there was no escape. Now, lying here, she understood—what the beast grew accustomed to was always the dry hay in the cage, the water delivered on schedule, the bell that rang every day. It was those small things that made her feel, "It's not so bad, after all." She remembered the beast-like demon servants – goat faces, wolf ears, sharp claws. The way they looked at her was like looking at a piece of meat. If they were to pry open her mouth, they wouldn't be patient. They would force her jaw open, shove the bit in, and hold her head down with their claws. She would rather do it herself than have those claws touch her. She opened her mouth. As she opened her mouth, she could hear her teeth chattering. She tried to open it as wide as possible, as if telling the demon: See, I'll open it myself, I don't need your servants. But she knew this wasn't bravery – it was like livestock lowering its head before the trainer raises the whip. The moment the bit was inserted, the coolness of the consecrated silver pressed against the root of her tongue, the barbs scraping against the inner walls of her mouth, tearing tiny cuts. A force surged into her body through her clenched teeth, like a gate, slamming shut. She heard the sound of it closing, like a door shutting. Behind it was the holy power she had accumulated for days, now locked inside, separated from her by a gate. She felt her holy power receding from her limbs, inch by inch, retreating to the depths of the holy mark on her waist, curling into a small ball. She desperately tried to grasp some of it, but it shrank too quickly, and she couldn't hold on. She only managed to feel its last struggle before it retreated into the mark, motionless. Her body stiffened. For the past few days, her holy power had been slowly returning. Every night, she would cautiously test it, like tending to a well slowly filling with water. She thought that with a few more days, she would have enough water to escape. Now, with this bit in her mouth, that well was sealed. That holy mark had now become the only dwelling place for her holy power. She didn't know that this step was also part of the ranch's plan. Perhaps from now on, she wouldn't even have the strength to gather water. Lying on the stone slab, for the first time, she felt that she might truly never escape. When this thought surfaced, she was startled – she quickly suppressed it, burying it deeper than her holy power. She pressed down with all her might, so hard that her knuckles turned white. She told herself: Elsa Dawn, you can be without holy power, without a mouth, without hair, but you cannot be without this one thing – you must bring Leah home. She wanted to say, "I will kill you," but all that came out was a muffled whimper. Those two words – kill you – tumbled in her mouth, crushed by the bit, turning into a jumbled sigh, falling back into her belly. Saliva secreted uncontrollably, flowing down through the gaps of the bit, dripping onto the stone slab with a faint sound, drop after drop. Elsa froze. In her entire life, she had never drooled in front of anyone. When her mother scolded her for being "ill-mannered" as a child, she would turn away and wipe her mouth with her sleeve before turning back. Back then, she thought drooling in front of others was a terrible disgrace. She remembered when her mother taught her manners, the first rule being: when something is in your mouth, you cannot speak, you cannot laugh, and you certainly cannot drool. She practiced for many years, until she could hold a mouth full of water without spilling a single drop. She once thought this was her proudest skill. Now, this bit effortlessly rendered her skill useless. Now she lay on this stone slab, in front of the demon king and his female attendants, like a beast unable to swallow, letting saliva drip in a line. If her mother saw her, she would probably scold her for being ill-mannered. But she didn't even have the right to turn away. She wanted to swallow, but the bit pressed on her tongue, and she couldn't. Saliva accumulated, overflowing from the corners of her mouth, trickling down her chin. She desperately tried to control it, but she had never been able to control what was in her mouth. The saliva dripped onto the slab, drop after drop, as if counting something. As she listened to the sound, her ears burned. She wanted to wipe her mouth, but her hands were chained. She wanted to bury her head in her arms, but her head was held down. She could only lie there, letting the sound continue. She listened to the sound, drop after drop. She found herself starting to get used to it – this realization scared her more than the saliva itself. She thought of Leah. If Leah saw her like this, she would probably cry and rush over to pull the thing out of her mouth. But Leah wasn't here. Leah might be on another stone slab, with another bit in her mouth. She crushed this thought. She wouldn't allow herself to think of it. She only had one thing to think about: how to survive, how to get out, how to bring Leah home. But now she couldn't even speak, how could she think? Shame burned her earlobes red. She bit down on the bit, trying to bite it. The consecrated silver was hard, her teeth were harder. But the barbs went in first – her gums, the root of her tongue, fine spikes piercing the flesh, and the taste of blood immediately spread. She refused to let go, applying more force, and more. She heard her teeth grinding, tasting the metallic tang of blood in her mouth. Blood mixed with saliva seeped out through the gaps of the bit, falling onto the slab, forming puddles. In her heart, she cursed him, cursed the church, cursed this ranch, cursed her own teeth for not being hard enough. She cursed him fiercely and rapidly, as if to bite out all the profanity of her life in this one bite. The harder she bit, the deeper the barbs dug in. She heard her gums bleeding, heard her heart pounding as if it would leap out of her throat. But she wouldn't let go – in her life, she had lost battles, lost cities, lost her hair, lost her freedom. She didn't want to lose this bite as well. Elsa blinked. She had prepared over a dozen retorts, ready for questions about "the Church's troop deployment" or "the location of the Stigmata Experiment Site"—but he never asked those. She was silent for a moment, then replied, "I was thinking, this sword is really heavy." It was the truth—the wooden sword was indeed so heavy she could barely hold it. But that was all she said. She didn't say she was thinking of Leah. She locked that answer away in her heart, sealing it tightly. She couldn't let him see that answer—it was one of the few clean places left within her. She placed this lock in her heart, hiding the key deep within. Her hands trembled as she hid the key. She didn't know how long this door could remain locked. She only knew she had to lock it first. She hung this lock on her heart, like a piece of armor. She didn't know if it could protect her from him. She only knew she had to try. The Demon Lord offered no judgment, tapping the table lightly. "Wrong. First restraint." She heard the tap, like a hammer striking a cutting board. She heard the tap, like a verdict being delivered. She didn't know where this verdict would send her. She only knew she was already standing on the cutting board. She placed this thought of "cutting board" in her heart, like a branding iron. She couldn't let herself be completely dismantled. She had to keep something—with that something, she could piece herself back together. A demon servant emerged from the shadows, fastening a thin silver chain to her waist—not tight, but precisely around the location of her stigmata. The chain was slender, gleaming, like a precious little instrument of torture. She looked at the chain, far more exquisite than those leather restraints—so exquisite it made one forget it was a tool of torture. She swallowed that thought, her throat turning bitter. She looked down at the chain, watching it press against the spirit-binding garment, resting on that mark. The moment the silver chain wrapped around, her stigmata trembled slightly—she heard a half-suppressed gasp escape her throat and quickly swallowed it back. She swallowed it back, her throat tightening. She swallowed that half-gasp back, completely and utterly. She couldn't let him hear—she couldn't let anyone hear that she would make a sound when that mark was touched. Elsa's pupils contracted. The moment the silver chain wrapped around, her stigmata trembled slightly. She understood: this was no interrogation. This was dismantling. What he wanted to dismantle had nothing to do with the Church's secrets. What he wanted to dismantle was her. She placed this realization of "dismantling" in her heart, like a knife. The knife hung above her head. She placed this knife in her heart, weighing it. It was light, as light as a needle. But she didn't know when it would fall. She only knew that when it fell, she wouldn't be able to catch it. She kept this knife in her heart for a while. If it fell, where would it land—on her memories? On her stigmata? Or on Leah's name? She didn't know. She only knew she feared every place. The silver chain rested against her stigmata, resonating with her heartbeat, gently, pulse by pulse. She heard the resonance, like something within her heart responding. She tried to suppress the sound, but couldn't. "Second question: 'Where is the Church's Stigmata Experiment Site?'" She gave a wrong location—the western suburbs of the capital. She thought he would fall for it. He didn't. He simply shook his head, his tone even carrying a hint of disappointment. "Wrong. Second restraint." This one was fastened to her ankle. She watched the chain click onto her ankle, his disappointment likely stemming from her treating him like a fool. She placed this "disappointment" in her heart, chewing on it. It was a little bitter. She would have preferred him to be angry with her, to rage at her—disappointment meant he had invested thought into her. She placed this "thought" in her heart, weighing it. It was heavy. She didn't know how deep this thought ran. She only knew it was so deep she couldn't see the bottom. She placed this phrase "couldn't see the bottom" in her heart, like a well. She peered in, but the well was black, its depths unseen. She didn't know what lay at the bottom. She only knew she didn't want to fall in. "Third question: 'What did your mother say when she taught you about the stigmata bandages?'" Elsa's breath hitched. Her mother... that was many years ago. She opened her mouth to answer, but her throat tightened first. She said, "She said the stigmata is the mark of the Goddess." The Demon Lord shook his head again. "Incorrect. She said one thing, and you remembered it wrong—or, you didn't want to remember it right." The third restraint was fastened to her wrist. She looked at him, her throat dry. She didn't know what she had remembered wrong—she only remembered a few phrases her mother had spoken. What had her mother actually said? She placed this question mark in her mouth, chewing on it. It was a little sour. She had never considered this question before—she had always believed her mother's words were those: the mark of the Goddess, carrying light wherever she went. She had never imagined she might have remembered incorrectly. She placed this thought of "remembered incorrectly" in her mouth, chewing on it. It was a little bitter. She had always believed memories were hers—she could remember whatever she wished. She had never imagined memories could deceive. She didn't know if she had deceived herself, or if something else had deceived her. She looked down. Three chains, one at her waist, one at her ankle, one at her wrist. They weren't tight, but they were all there—like three fingers pressing on three of her softest spots. She tried to struggle, but the chains didn't budge. They weren't tight, but they were wrapped securely—as if they had known she would struggle. She placed this phrase "had known" in her heart, like a mirror. In the mirror, she struggled, cursed, bargained—he had calculated every step. She didn't know which step he hadn't calculated. She placed this "calculated" in her mouth, chewing on it. It was a little bitter. She used to deploy troops on sand tables, calculating enemy moves, calculating provisions—she had never calculated herself. Now, someone had calculated for her, clearly and precisely. She counted her restraints—one at her waist, one at her ankle, one at her wrist. She didn't know how many more awaited her. She placed this thought of "how many more" in her heart, like a set of keys. She couldn't count those keys. She only knew that each one locked away something she didn't want to give up. She clutched this set of keys in her hand, her palms sweating. She didn't know which one would be lost first. She only knew that losing any one of them would hurt. She only knew that with every "wrong" he asked, another chain was added to her.