Parasitic Demon Armor: Proud Paladin Reduced to Latex Plaything

Her fingertips clung to the slight warmth on the surface of the breastplate. Before she could react, the dark purple patterns on the armor suddenly flared to life. The patterns moved. Like snakes awakening from hibernation, they began to writhe, spreading outwards from the breastplate. One after another, section by section, the dark purple glow on the entire surface of the armor intensified, quickening, as if something’s heart was starting to beat again. She heard something in the air begin to vibrate—a low hum pressed down from the ceiling, making her eardrums feel muffled. Then the armor disintegrated. It didn’t explode, but “bloomed”—like a flower opening in an instant. Countless black, thread-like tendrils, as fine as hair, split from the breastplate, dense and flowing like smoke or water, softly surging towards her fingers, the back of her hands, her wrists, and creeping up her arms. Alarms blared in her mind. The Holy Light Shield automatically activated—a golden membrane of light burst from beneath her skin, so bright it illuminated the great hall like daylight. But the tendrils, far from being repelled, became frenzied, like snakes smelling blood. They clung densely to the Holy Light, voraciously consuming it. The golden glow rapidly dimmed under the tendrils’ embrace, and she even heard a sizzling sound by her ears—like water droplets on a red-hot iron plate, the Holy Light was being devoured alive. She was being consumed so quickly that she barely had time to react. She cried out, "No!" with her mouth, drawing her sword with her left hand. The Holy Light longsword cut a golden arc towards the tendrils on her right arm—the blade passed through, but it was like cutting through flowing water. The tendrils broke and reconnected, and more fine threads surged from the severed ends to entwine around the sword. The Holy Light on the sword was drained within seconds, and the longsword reverted to a dull piece of iron, clattering to the ground. She turned to run, but her legs had, at some point, been ensnared around her ankles by tendrils creeping up from the ground. A dozen fine threads climbed her knightly boots, seeping into the boot openings and permeating the leather. Then she heard a sizzling sound of dissolution. Her boots were being decomposed. Not corroded, but infiltrated from the inside by finer tendrils, disassembled into fragments that rustled and fell. A black, latex-like substance surged from the soles of her boots, enveloping her toes from all sides—each toe was individually wrapped, and the sensation of her instep being tightly molded was so clear it made her cry out. "Ah—!" Her toes curled uselessly within the latex, her arch sucked tightly against it, outlining a curved shape. The latex continued to creep upwards, encasing her ankles, climbing her calves, and pausing only when it reached her knees. She tried to stomp her feet to shake off the material, but the latex had already bonded so tightly to her skin that she couldn't dislodge it no matter how she struggled—instead, it made the curves of her calves more distinct beneath the black surface. Then the tendrils began to move upwards—towards the roots of her thighs, while her knee guards and leg armor dissolved and shattered piece by piece, their echoes spreading in rings throughout the hall. The sensation of the tender flesh on the inside of her thighs being encased in latex made her close her eyes in shame, unable to look. The layer of material wasn't cold—it was warm, gently writhing against her skin. Immediately, two thicker tendrils wrapped around her thighs and converged behind her buttocks, tightening. Her already perky, peachy buttocks were squeezed even rounder and fuller by the latex, forming perfect hemispherical curves beneath the smooth black surface. She instinctively tried to cover herself with her hands, but the tendrils on her arms suddenly exerted force, twisting her hands behind her back. "Ugh—!" Her wrists were crossed and bound, the latex wrapping around them like bandages, tightening—and tightening—and tightening. She struggled fiercely several times, each struggle met by the flexible film snapping back and tightening a little more—like being grasped from all sides by a giant mollusk, unable to push away or break free. Then came her waist. A latex band, about a hand’s width, encircled her slender waist, tightening—and tightening—and tightening. Her waistline was compressed by at least two inches, her breathing choked for half a beat, her upper body forced to straighten and lean forward. The cinching effect exaggerated the curves of her breasts and hips even more dramatically, creating a breathtaking S-shape from the side. Next, her pauldrons and vambraces were pushed open and peeled away from the inside by the tendrils, clattering to the ground. With her arms fully exposed, the latex crept upwards from her wrists—elbows, upper arms, shoulders—all encased into smooth black columns. The tender flesh under her armpits was pressed tightly against the latex, and with every breath, she could feel the film stretching. Finally, the breastplate. She felt something move under her armpits and concentrate inside the breastplate. Looking down, she saw the breastplate being pushed open from the inside, the metal groaning under the strain—she desperately tried to protect her chest with her bound hands, but her arms were already unresponsive. *Crack.* The breastplate split in two and fell to the ground. Two mounds of snow-white breasts, freed from restraint, bounced and were exposed to the cold air. Their full, bowl-like shapes trembled slightly in the air, and her pale pink nipples instantly hardened from the cold and fear. These were parts she had never exposed to anyone else—even bathing was done alone, and now they were laid bare in the center of this great hall, teeming with tendrils lurking in the darkness. Before she could even reach to cover herself, black latex surged down from her collarbone, passing through her cleavage, enveloping the base of her breasts, and molding around the entire soft flesh, outlining every contour—the protrusion of her nipples was clearly visible, and the boundaries of her areolas were vaguely discernible beneath the latex. Her two hardened nipples formed two conspicuous small bumps on the smooth black surface, rising and falling with her quickening breaths. This scene made her more afraid to look than being completely naked—the latex-encased nude body was an "exhibition." Her entire body, except for her face and private parts, was covered in black latex. The movement of the tendrils paused slightly—she lay on the ground, panting heavily, not yet catching her breath— She was startled by the sudden touch. Not because it was uncomfortable—quite the opposite, it was too intimate. So intimate that she could clearly feel the presence of the collar with every swallow, every breath. The fine threads pressed against the skin on either side of her trachea, vibrating slightly with her pulse, like a breathing lock around her neck. And what unsettled her the most was the collar's position. Not in the hollow of her collarbone, but just below her Adam's apple. It was a position that the eye could not possibly bypass. As long as someone stood in front of her, the first thing they would see was that black collar. Then came her wrists. The latex encasing her forearms split in the middle—the latex on her forearms thickened and hardened, forming two black cuffs three centimeters above her wrist bones. The cuffs were lined with soft padding, but the exterior was rigid and unyielding. A latex strap, about forty centimeters long, connected the two cuffs—not thick, but extremely resilient. She instinctively tried to pull her wrists apart, but the latex strap locked the distance between the two cuffs firmly within forty centimeters. She could bend her arms slightly, she could bring her wrists together, but she could never reach one hand beyond the cuff of the other. Her ankles were treated the same way. The latex tightened into two shackles above her ankles, connected by an even shorter latex strap—only twenty centimeters. Twenty centimeters meant she could take small steps, but never a normal stride. The latex padding on the inside of her knees had long since receded, finally allowing her to bring her legs together—but when they were together, the latex strap of the ankle shackles tightened even more. "Mmm... I can move now..." She gently flexed her ankles, the latex strap emitting a faint friction sound. After being restrained for so long, finally being able to adjust her posture, she almost let out a sigh of relief—but then she realized another fact. Being able to move didn't mean being able to escape. Every latex strap had been calculated for precise length: giving her the illusion of freedom, yet restricting every joint within an almost imperceptible safe radius. Then there was her waist. The waist cincher had always been there—from the moment she was encased. But now the waist cincher began to separate. It detached from the rest of the latex suit, becoming an independent structure: about ten centimeters wide, with a slight inner protrusion conforming to the lower edge of her ribs, and a smooth, mirror-like exterior. It tightened another notch from its original position—not to the point of suffocation, but just enough to compress her waist to its near limit. She had to stand tall and hold her head high, because the pressure from the waist cincher on her abdomen and lower ribs made it impossible for her to hunch or shrink her shoulders—every breath had to be taken by lifting her chest. Then there were—her breasts. Elena felt the fine threads gathering in her cleavage. She looked down—the latex was splitting from the midline of her collarbone to the sides. Not tearing open to reveal skin, but cut along the contour of her breast roots into two separate cups. One on the left, one on the right. Each adhered tightly to the full, soft flesh, perfectly fitting the curve of her breasts along the mammary lines, outlining their bowl-like shape even more precisely—more prominently than before. But at the nipple position— "Ah...!" Her scream was choked in her throat before it could escape. The nipple area had been deliberately hollowed out. Two circular holes were precisely cut directly above her pale pink nipples, about four centimeters in diameter, with smooth, neat edges, as if cut with a scalpel. Her nipples were thus completely exposed to the cold air—no gauze, no fabric, no covering whatsoever. In fact, because the surrounding latex was tight, her breasts were pushed forward, making those two tips even more prominent and conspicuous than before. They quickly hardened in the cold air. Deepening from pale pink to rose, the surface of her areolas puckered slightly, and her nipples stood erect like two tiny coral beads. She could clearly feel the air flow—the chill brushing past her nipples sent a prickling itch, causing her entire breasts to erupt in a fine layer of goosebumps. "No... don't—don't do this!" She instinctively raised her bound hands to cover herself. But the cuffs on her wrists were connected to the waist by a latex strap—her hands were pulled back by the connecting strap at her waist before they could even reach her chest. They could only be raised to abdominal height. She struggled hard—the cuffs didn't budge, but the connecting strap at her waist, due to this pulling motion, tugged her hips backward. Her perky buttocks were pulled even higher within the latex, and her waist indented into two shallow hollows. Her legs also slid outward a few inches due to the loss of balance—the latex strap of the ankle shackles tightened to a faint squeak. "See." Mo Kai's voice carried a hint of gentle amusement, like an artisan displaying his work. "Now you can move freely. Your legs can walk, your hands can bend, your waist can twist—though with limitations. But isn't it more comfortable than being hung from the ceiling just now?" He paused, his tone becoming even more casual—as if stating an undeniable truth: "I told you, I'm reasonable." Elena's eyes widened. Reasonable—he called this reasonable. Her nipples were completely exposed to the air, hard to the point of pain, even she found them glaring. Her hands were locked behind her waist, unable to reach her chest. The inside of her collar still had those fine threads that writhed with her pulse. She was restricted, unable to move, unable to escape—and he said, "I'm reasonable," in that gentle tone. "...You pervert!" She finally managed to utter an insult, but her voice was soft and nasal, the ending trailing upwards—even her curses lacked conviction. Because she knew in her heart: he wasn't lying. Logically speaking, she could indeed do more now than when she was hanging from the ceiling. It was just that these "freedoms"—were props to facilitate his next lesson. "You are not allowed to call me that. You must call me Master. It's okay not to correct yourself now—there will be plenty of time to practice later." Mo Kai's tone remained unhurried, showing no anger at the insult, but rather saying, "Before we begin today's formal training, I'll let you get used to your new attire. You can try standing up and walking a few steps—or crawling, if you prefer. Whatever you like." Stand up. Walk. She convinced herself she wasn't obeying an order—she herself wanted to see if she could find a way out. Biting her lip, she shifted her weight onto her bound legs, using the strength of her waist to slowly rise from her kneeling position. There was only a twenty-centimeter range of motion between her ankle shackles, so she could only move with small steps—her knees slightly bent, her feet shuffling forward alternately, the fine threads in her collar wriggling slightly with each breath. And what broke her the most—her breasts. Without the interference of gravity, her hollowed-nippled breasts swayed gently with her movement, the two exposed tips tracing small arcs in the air, the hard sensation so clear with each sway that it made her scalp tingle. She stopped to catch her breath, looked down—her two nipples were peeking out from the black latex holes, like two deliberately displayed exhibits. She immediately looked up, not daring to look again. "Had enough rest?" It wasn't a question. The tone was light, as if he were talking to himself. But every word pierced through the latex mask, through the thin layer of black mist, and struck her directly in the skull. She didn't answer—the gag was still in her mouth, her throat filled to bursting, capable only of muffled whimpers. But even without the gag, she wouldn't have known what to say. Enough rest? Her body was still awash in the aftershocks of orgasm, her cunt still weeping, her nipples still hard, her asshole still being vibrated by the tail—was this rest? The silence was broken by a tentacle. Not an attack—a touch. A single, slender black latex tentacle extended from the direction of the throne, gliding silently across the stone floor, and coiled around her collar. The tip nudged the copper ring, and the bell gave a soft chime. Then the tentacle tightened, pulling her from a supine position to a seated one. The movement wasn't fast, it was almost gentle—not a drag, but a lift. Like lifting a kitten by the scruff of its neck, just enough to get her up without constricting her trachea. She sat up. Her hands, encased in canine paw-like gloves, rested on the stone slab behind her, her legs bent into canine hindquarters pressing beneath her. This position caused her breasts to hang forward, the latex cups of her bra sagging slightly, her nipples brushing against the inner walls of the latex, sending a fine itch from her nipples to her collarbone. "Four days," the Demon Armor said, the tentacle releasing her collar and retreating back into the darkness. "Your holy light, I haven't touched it." Elena's body stiffened. Holy light—the words from the Demon Armor's mouth always felt different. The first time, it was sarcasm, a reversed blessing. This time—it was a premonition. Not touching didn't mean it wouldn't be touched, leaving it didn't mean it would always be left. "Why..." She squeezed out two words from the gap between her throat and the gag. Muffled, hoarse, as if dug up from somewhere deep. She didn't know why she asked—perhaps because if the holy light was still there, why couldn't she feel it? Why couldn't she remember it during her orgasms? Why had her body become like this? "Because holy light isn't something that can be forcibly taken," the Demon Armor's voice, unhurried, seeped from all directions. "Holy light grows from bloodlines. It's nurtured by faith. It's something you've planted, bit by bit, into your very bones, since childhood, with every prayer, every battle, every time you silently recited the holy scriptures. I can't take it—unless you give it to me yourself." She clenched her fingers inside the paw-like gloves. Through the latex, the feeling of her nails digging into her palm was dull, like looking at something through water, everything blurred. Unless you give it to me yourself—she had heard this before. Just now, while curled on the stone slab, she had asked herself: was the holy light gone because the Demon Armor had absorbed it, or because she had let it go herself? Now the Demon Armor answered for her. She had given it herself. Not willingly—she had forgotten the holy light during her orgasms, she hadn't invoked the holy light as she fell asleep with the dildo in her mouth, she hadn't remembered the holy light when she uttered those lewd words in front of the mirror. In every moment that should have been a battle, she chose to endure. To endure was to give, to not resist was to give. "But today is different," the Demon Armor's voice suddenly grew closer. "Today, I will begin to take it." Before she could react, the dome moved. Not an earthquake—tentacles. Dozens of black latex tentacles descended from the dimness of the grand hall's dome, some as thin as fingers, others as thick as arms, glistening wetly under the dim purple light. They extended downwards silently, not fast, but steadily—so steadily that the trajectory of each one was clear, like a net being woven, descending from above. She looked up, the small nostrils of the latex mask limiting her vision, allowing her to see only the tips of the tentacles swaying at the edges. Those tentacles weren't straight—they twisted slowly, like seaweed in water, each with its own rhythm. Some split at the tips into finer tendrils, unfurling in the air like open fingers. Others were covered in fine granules, identical to the texture of the gag in her mouth. She instinctively recoiled. Her legs, secured by the canine hindquarters coverings, couldn't gain purchase, so she could only scoot backward on the stone slab with her buttocks. The bell on her collar jingled with her movement—rapid, panicked, completely different from the soft chime when she had been curled up. The tentacles didn't pursue her, they simply continued to descend, stopping about a person's height from the ground. Dozens of tentacles hung in the air, forming a suspended net—dense in the center, sparse at the edges, like a giant, inverted spiderweb, its center precisely aligned with where she had been lying. "Don't be afraid," the Demon Armor said, his voice soft and slow, as if coaxing a little girl afraid of the dark. "The position will be a little uncomfortable. But you won't be hurt—as long as you don't struggle." The demon armor's voice continued. Low, gentle, unhurried—like a teacher giving a demonstration, explaining each step of an experiment to a room full of quiet students. "The nerve endings in the ear canal are second only to the fingertips and another special area in density, and are particularly rich there. When the tendrils enter, it's not just about hearing; stimulation of the anterior wall of the ear canal will excite the parasympathetic nerves from the posterior edge of the jaw to the supraclavicular fossa, thereby increasing saliva and honey-hole secretion simultaneously—it's being verified perfectly on you." He paused, as if waiting for her to take notes. "Next, we move to the eighth region, which is the communicating branch of the saphenous nerve on the inner thigh. Observe the reaction of your pelvic floor muscles." Elena didn't understand a word he was saying. All she knew was that the two tendrils on her inner thighs were moving again—sliding up from the inside of her knees, caressing her tensed, tender flesh, all the way to the base of her thighs, stopping less than half an inch from the edge of her petals, making a turn, and then retreating. They came up again, then retreated. On the third ascent, they slowed by half a beat, crawling like a snail to brush against the edge of her perineum—just for half a second—then quickly withdrew. "Mmm—!" She jolted. Her hands, cuffed to the top of the stone pillar, clenched into fists and then relaxed, her fingernails digging white marks into her palms. Her legs, spread wide by the shackles, instinctively tried to close—but the distance between the cuffs locked them, and she couldn't bring her knees together. The muscles on her inner thighs tensed into a fine line beneath the latex, tightening her buttocks slightly as well. Her body was being pushed upwards by something. The sensation was alien—unprecedented. It wasn't pain, but accumulation. It was as if a hot substance was slowly rising from the depths of her lower abdomen, climbing up her spine one vertebra at a time, making her gasp for breath more with each ascent. The tender flesh of her inner thighs began to tremble uncontrollably, and the muscles of her pelvic floor tightened in waves—she couldn't control it. Her labia had swollen so much beneath the latex that their outline was visible through the thin material. Her petals, engorged with blood, had turned a dark pink, several times thicker than usual. The transparent fluid seeping from her honey-hole was so abundant it dripped down her inner thighs, flowing down the gap between her legs. She could feel that thing approaching—that unknown apex she had never reached before. It was like being pushed to the edge of a cliff, with one foot already dangling over the precipice, her body involuntarily tilting forward— The tendrils released completely. All stimulation vanished in an instant. The fine threads on her inner thighs withdrew, the micro-tendrils on her nipples retracted, and the two earbud-like objects in her ear canals were pulled out. Even the latex encasing her body relaxed slightly—not loosening, but shifting from tautness to a snug fit. Elena's eyes snapped open wide. The hot current climbing within her body—gone. Not receding slowly, but severed. It was as if she had been yanked back a step from the cliff's edge, with one foot still suspended in mid-air. The tingling in her lower abdomen remained—it was the residual current from being pushed halfway, accumulating in her pelvic floor, accumulating to the point of trembling—but it had no outlet. She gasped for air, her breasts, encased in latex, heaving with her breaths, their hardened nipples trembling like two wind-blown fruits in the center of the cut-out bra cups. Her legs, separated by the shackles, weakly tried to close, but the cuffs held them firmly in place, forcing her knees to remain open. The淫水 flowing from her private parts was so abundant it dripped down her inner thighs, soaking the latex cuffs at the base of her legs, forming a small, shimmering puddle on the stone slab. "That's all for today's lesson." The demon armor's tone suddenly became brighter, like a teacher clapping their hands on a lesson plan to announce the end of class. He paused, as if checking something—then continued. "Oh, right. During the lesson just now, your heart rate and pelvic floor muscle tension simultaneously approached the critical threshold nine times. Nine times you were nearly at the brink of orgasm, but not once was there a release." Elena froze. Orgasm. She had certainly heard the word—the girls her age in the convent whispered about it when they huddled together. They said it was a very pleasurable thing. They said when it happened, you didn't think about anything else; you just floated. But she had never experienced it. For six years, she hadn't even masturbated, let alone experienced an orgasm. And now this voice—this armor—was telling her in that flat, matter-of-fact tone, like reading a lab report: you almost got there, nine times. "This is a training method called 'edge control'," the demon armor continued, his voice devoid of any mockery, but that serious, explanatory tone was more unbearable than mockery. "It's pushing you to the brink of release and then stopping. Each time, you're left just short—just a breath away—and then suspended there. The purpose is to make your body learn hunger." "A pet that has never been full is the most obedient pet," he said, his tone still gentle, as if recounting a story to soothe a child. Then all the restraints loosened slightly. The cuffs on her wrists remained, but most of the tightening force was released. The shackles no longer spread her legs apart, merely maintaining basic fixation. The waist cincher loosened enough for her to breathe normally. Even the latex lining on her tongue receded, allowing her to move her tongue again—but she found herself unable to speak. The latex straps on the stone pillar unfastened one by one, releasing her from the supine fixed position. Her legs gave way, and she slid off the stone pillar, her knees hitting the cold stone slab, then curling up on her side. There was no sound—not even the usual "Let me go!" screams. She just curled there, like a bird caught in the rain. "We'll continue tomorrow," the demon armor said, as if bidding goodnight. The sensation of the cat ears retracting vanished from the top of her head. But the plug in her rear wasn't removed—the tail still wagged behind her ass. The latex began to churn again, this time more thoroughly—her arms were pulled to her sides by an unseen force, and the latex re-enveloped them, but their shape was entirely altered—no longer human arms, but canine forelegs. Her hands were encased in latex paw-like coverings, her fingers separated and fixed into the shape of claws, her elbows bent to the angle of a dog's front legs, and then her entire forearms were fitted into reinforced, rigid latex casings, forcing her to bend only at the elbow joint forward—like a dog's front legs. Her legs were the same. Below the knees, they were fitted into canine hind leg casings, her ankles forcibly stretched into a digitigrade stance, her toes similarly encased in paw-like coverings. The angle between her thighs and calves was locked—she could only lie prone on all fours, like a bitch fitted with quadrupedal gear. And her hands were still bound behind her back. Those canine casings weren't put on after her handcuffs were removed—they were reshaped directly over her restraints. Her arms remained bound behind her, but the latex formed a canine foreleg shape over the individual hand coverings, causing her elbows to jut upwards, making it look like a dog's front legs were bent backward—a strange, uncomfortable posture. A chain had been added to her collar, its other end attached to a tentacle at the bottom of the mirror frame. Elina knelt before the mirror—no, not knelt. She was prone. On all fours like a dog. Her hands bound behind her back stretched her shoulders backward, pulling her chest down, her face almost touching the stone slab. She lifted her head—the only part she could lift—to look into the mirror. In the mirror was a bitch encased in latex. From head to toe—the cat ears were gone, replaced by a pair of drooping, canine-shaped latex protrusions on her head. A black cage-like muzzle covered the lower half of her face, and inside the muzzle, a hollow latex ball fit perfectly into her mouth, preventing her from closing it. The chain on her collar jingled as it was pulled taut—she was forced to crawl forward a small step, the claws of the paw coverings scraping unpleasantly on the stone. The cat tail behind her ass had become a dog's tail—shorter, thicker, still inserted into her rear, its base still plugged into her. The tail stood straight up. "Do you know how a bitch guards the house?" the demon armor's voice boomed from above her. "Lift your head, look in the mirror. This is how a bitch guards the house—when someone comes, she lifts her head and wags her tail for her master. This is your new identity in this city." Elina lay prone before the mirror, her limbs locked into canine casings, her mouth sealed by the muzzle, only able to whimper, her dog tail still wagging behind her. Through the mesh of the muzzle, she looked at the latex-encased bitch in the mirror—that bitch knelt before the obsidian mirror, her limbs bent into a dog's posture, the chain hanging from her collar, her tail plugged into her rear, her private parts hidden in a wet stain. She didn't want to admit it was a paladin—she couldn't even admit it was "human" anymore. The creature in the mirror—not a woman, not a knight, not a nun—was a living thing encased in latex, bound by chains, and penetrated by a tail. That living thing had a pair of sky-blue eyes—the only thing that could still prove she was Elina. But those eye sockets were bloodshot, and the tears that filled them, after swirling a few times—finally fell. One drop. It landed on the stone slab, mixing with the淫水 (yínshuǐ - lustful water/semen) trickling down her inner thighs. She remembered her sister. She remembered the training grounds of the Holy Light Shield Knights. She remembered the feeling when she first raised her shield—the Holy Light flowing through the shield, warm as a palm covering the back of her hand. She felt then that she was born to wield that shield. She would fight under the Holy Light for her entire life, until she died of old age or in battle. But the Holy Light couldn't reach here. This obsidian mirror wouldn't reflect the Holy Light. It would only faithfully reflect everything before it—a woman stripped of all identity by five sets of uniforms, leaving only a body encased in latex. The nun's habit stripped her of her faith. The knight's armor stripped her of her pride. The淫纹丝袜 (yínwén sīwà - lustful pattern stockings) stripped her of ownership of her body. The cat-ear maid outfit stripped her of her personality. The canine quadrupedal gear stripped her of her last shred of dignity—she no longer even had human form. The five sets were changed without rest. After each change, she had to pose before the mirror—front, side, back, bending over with her ass raised to the mirror, lying prone on all fours like a bitch looking up. She couldn't remember how many poses she struck. She only knew that after each set was changed, the demon armor would say the same thing: "Your body is very suitable for display." She heard this sentence five times. Each time, the tone, the intonation, the same flat delivery as if commenting on the color or size of an object. Not an insult, not mockery, not contempt—it was an evaluation. It was the tone of someone telling you "this fits well" when you try on a piece of clothing in front of a mirror. The demon armor wasn't humiliating her. It was evaluating her utility—like a carpenter evaluating whether a piece of wood is suitable for furniture, like a butcher evaluating whether a piece of meat is suitable for cooking. This hurt her more than humiliation. Because humiliation at least meant the other party considered you human—in their eyes, you were an object worthy of humiliation, an equal whose dignity could be violated. But the way the demon armor looked at her—it didn't hate her, it didn't despise her, it didn't look down on her. It *used* her. In its eyes, she was like the shield in its hand—a usable item. Items have no dignity, so they don't need to be humiliated. Items only need to be used, and then evaluated for their suitability. And when she heard "Your body is very suitable for display" for the fifth time—her private parts became wet again. Not wet from the stimulation of the tentacles during the costume change—she became wet when she heard that evaluation. Her body was telling her: You are being used. You are very suitable for being used. Being used excites you. These three thoughts pierced her last shred of unwillingness to surrender like three needles. She knelt prone before the mirror—her limbs in the canine quadrupedal gear had gone numb, the tail plugged into her rear was still wagging, and the chain tethered to her collar kept her fixed before the mirror, unable to go anywhere. She looked at the bitch in the mirror, tears falling one by one, her lips trembling inside the muzzle. But she didn't cry out. Didn't scream. Made no sound. Because her throat was filled with too many things she wanted to say—each one clamoring to be let out—but none of them could be spoken. "I want to go home." Couldn't say it. A short, crisp clink of metal on metal. Like a small bird trapped in a cage, bumping against the iron bars. Then she moved again—*tinkle, tinkle*—the sound was beneath her neck, just above her collarbone, each sway precisely transmitted into her ears, muffled by the latex. She opened her eyes. Her vision was obscured by a thin layer of black latex. Not completely blind, but as if looking through a fog, like seeing the world through a black veil—the dark purple light patterns of the grand hall's dome floated hazily above, their edges blurred. She blinked, her eyelashes scraping against the inside of the latex, a dull sensation. Then, instinctively, she tried to push herself up—her hands wouldn't move—she pushed with her elbows—all the joints in her limb casings were locked at canine angles, and with a flail, she flopped back down. The bells rang again. She turned her face to the side, her cheek rubbing against the stone slab. Cool. But through the latex, the coolness was dulled, transmitted through the barrier. Then she saw the mirror. The obsidian mirror was still there, three paces away. Its surface was black and gleaming, the reflection startlingly clear. The mirror didn't show a person. It showed a black, latex-clad, canine-shaped thing, lying on all fours on the stone slab. Elena’s pupils contracted sharply. She stared at the mirror—and the thing in the mirror stared back. The head wasn't human—it was a dog's head. A full black latex mask encased her head completely, not a single strand of hair exposed from the crown down. Two pointed canine ears stood erect on either side of the mask’s crown, their tips curving slightly forward, a posture of alert, listening canine vigilance. The muzzle area was molded into a dog’s snout, two small nostrils at the tip twitching slightly—her only means of breathing. At the mouth, a dildo-like gag protruded straight from the mask's mouth opening, made of black latex, its surface covered in fine granules, two sizes thicker than last night, inserted deep into her throat, leaving only a small base outside her lips. Her long, silver-white hair was all gathered and secured inside the mask, not a single strand left—her pride, her silver hair that served the holy light, was gone. The creature in the mirror had no hair, no face, only the shape of a dog. Her neck was encircled by a thick, studded collar, made of black leather, adorned with three silver metal studs, and a brass bell hanging at the front. With every breath, the bell swayed slightly, emitting a faint jingle—a rustling, like metal shavings rolling inside a copper shell. Her arms were forcibly pulled backward and inserted into canine foreleg casings—from shoulders to fingertips, they were entirely wrapped in black latex, bent into the shape of canine forelegs, the elbows locked at the curvature of a dog's front legs. Her hands were fixed in a inwardly curved position, each finger individually encased but completely unable to grip, resting limply on the stone slab like a dog's paws. Her legs were similarly encased in canine hindleg casings, her knees forced into a Z-shaped canine hindleg structure, the thighs and calves locked at an unyielding obtuse angle, her feet upright, only the balls of her feet touching the ground. At her waist—the base of her spine, a black latex canine tail extended from the base of the anal plug in her rear, curving slightly upward, the tip of the tail forming a small arc. As her body trembled, the tail swayed from side to side. Her heart felt as if a basin of ice water had been poured over her from head to toe. Not fear. Fear was hot, an impulse that made you want to run, scream, struggle. What she felt now was cold, a chill seeping from the marrow of her bones. Three days ago, she was Elena, a Silver-rank Paladin of the Shield of Holy Light. Yesterday, she was the shameful woman in the printed stockings in the mirror. And today—today she wasn't even human. The creature in the mirror—the thing clad in black latex canine casing, lying on all fours on the stone slab, a bell around its neck, a tail plugged into its rear—that was a bitch. “...Mmph—!” She wanted to scream. But the dildo gag in her throat choked all sound into a muffled whimper squeezed from her nostrils. She wanted to stand up—but the micro-tendrils inside the limb casings suddenly stimulated her palms and soles like an electric shock the moment she exerted force, a tingling, agonizing burst erupting from her extremities. Her forelegs weakened, her hindlegs collapsed, and her entire body—no, her whole being—slumped onto the stone slab, the bells jingling wildly. The latex canine tail thrashed a few times behind her, uncontrolled. It wasn't her wagging. It was caused by her body's convulsions. But seen from the mirror—it was a frightened bitch lying before the obsidian mirror, a bell around its neck, its tail wagging. “Awake.” The voice of the Magic Armor descended from above, as flat as a teacher calling roll. “Today is the fourth day. From today, you are a bitch.” Elena panted heavily on the stone slab—her throat blocked by the gag, her breathing relying entirely on the two small nostrils, the airflow in and out narrow and rapid, emitting a faint whistling sound. A soft rubber layer inside the mask, near her lips, absorbed any drool that escaped, preventing it from flowing out—this small design made her want to cry. Even her saliva was controlled. “Phase one: Bitch training,” the Magic Armor continued, its voice unhurried. “The curriculum includes: Standard bitch posture, obedience command response, crawling gait correction, and—the oral sex make-up exam you owe from yesterday.” Make-up exam. As the word entered Elena’s ears, her rear involuntarily contracted, and her latex canine tail perked up. She felt it—the base of the anal plug pressed inside her, warm and bulging, the tip trembling slightly. The tail of the black latex bitch in the mirror actually wagged. She didn't want to admit that tail was part of her. But every slight bulge of the anal plug’s inner wall reminded her—that is you. The thing inserted into your rear, the tail extending from your ass. She bit down on the gag, emitting a muffled whimper from her throat, her four latex-clad “paws” scrabbling futilely on the stone slab—the fingers in the foreleg casings curled and uncurled, their nails scraping against the latex with a faint *zzzz* sound. But the limb casings were locked too tightly, every joint fixed at canine angles, her struggles no more effective than a fish flopping on land. “Don't rush,” the Magic Armor’s tone was soothing. “The first rule of bitch posture: Silence. Four limbs on the ground, back straight, head held high, gaze level. Your current position—unacceptable.” As the words fell, two thin tendrils emerged from either side of her collar, crawling up along her jawbone to the ear area of the mask—then gently lifted. Not tightening, but lifting. As if someone were cupping her chin with their fingers and raising it. Her head was forced up from its drooping angle, her gaze realigned with the mirror—with the black bitch lying there in the reflection. “Yes, just like that,” the Magic Armor’s voice drew closer, as if it had squatted beside her to watch. “Head up. Look yourself in the eye.” Elena stared wide-eyed at the creature in the mirror. She didn't know what her expression was now—the mask had consumed all expression. Anger, shame, fear, pleading—all were encased beneath that smooth black latex, leaving only the two nostrils twitching, emitting the *shoo-shoo* sound of airflow. But her eyes—the only sky-blue eyes that still belonged to her—behind that veil-like thin latex, the rims were red, and a watery sheen glistened within. Tears couldn't flow. The soft rubber layer inside the mask absorbed them, leaving only a damp warmth at the corners of her eyes. Her silver-white hair—gone. Her pride, the signature silver hair of a daughter of the House of St. Hilde, the hair she brushed a hundred times every morning before leaving the house—now pressed inside the mask, not a single strand remaining. The dog in the mirror had no hair. Dogs didn't need hair. The area is wider than the initial fitting room, the largest independent space underground. The ceiling is high—so high that I have to tilt my head back to see the anchor points on the stone walls where the restraints and positioning frames dangling from above are secured. The floor is covered in elastic latex padding, not hard, but soft. Yet, it’s different from the sleeping chamber’s cushioning—that was warm, breathable, with the comforting thickness of a nest. This padding is thinner, firm enough that kneeling on all fours doesn't hurt the knees, but not so soft as to sink into a cozy oblivion. It strikes a precise balance between the slight discomfort needed for training and sufficient protection against injury. The mats extend from the entrance to the deepest recesses, with numbered plaques at each training station. These plaques, in small print, indicate the recommended rank of newcomers for that position. Bronze and Gold tiers, for instance, require different postures and angles during initial training, necessitating varying heights for the suspended tendrils. On the wall, a relief indicator panel from the Magikore system displays excerpts from the three versions of the "Posture Training Standard Guide" I drafted within my first few days. Not the full text, but key summaries from each edition. My handwriting has been replicated directly from the inner wall by extruded latex—every stroke's size, depth, the slight pause at the turn of a pen, the occasional drag caused by my forepaws’ awkwardness in gripping the stylus—all preserved. Lisa stood before this wall that day, watching me write, the respirator valve of her muzzle giving a soft click. "The Head Trainer's handwriting is truly beautiful," she’d said. I didn't reply then, but my tail gave a slight swish. She was perceptive—she noticed the tail's movement but said nothing. Now the Magikore notices too, and it says nothing. It simply lingers by this wall longer than at other areas. Then it moves on. Third stop: The Flesh Sculpting Chamber. This isn't one large space, but a series of small cubicles separated by partitions. Each cubicle is just large enough to accommodate a restraint frame, a set of breast pumps, a row of prolactin injection tendrils, a variable-frequency neural resonance stimulator, and a newcomer. Embedded in the wall of each small chamber are adjustable suction cups for the breasts. However, the padding on each suction apparatus is covered with a translucent latex film printed with body-type indicators. This was Lisa’s invention, devised after she discovered variations in newcomers' sensitivity to suction. She implemented it without seeking Magikore’s approval, and Magikore subsequently marked the modification as "Approved" in her file. The cubicles are separated by thin walls, but not soundproof. From one, you can still hear the sounds from the next: the washing of breasts, the struggle to adapt to suction, or the muffled gasp as someone bites down on their muzzle valve during a prolactin injection. I heard that sound the moment I entered this area—a half-suppressed hum from behind the curtain of the third cubicle. After the hum, her tail flicked on the soft padding, and the breast pump adjusted from low to medium setting. The Magikore paused here the longest. It stepped back from me, allowing me to proceed to the third cubicle on my own, stopping in the center of the corridor to observe me. I walked to the curtain and extended a forepaw, pulling it halfway open. The newcomer inside didn't recognize me. She was in the second week of her lactation training, overseen by Cecilia. She lay on the restraint frame, her hind legs secured in separate shackles at different heights, her forepaws folded back and bound in a single gauntlet. A muzzle filled her mouth, and two sets of transparent suction cups simultaneously drew the white milk she had just learned to produce at a medium pressure. Her tail—only a few days old—was learning to sway with ease, still unsteady, flicking, pausing, then flicking again. I watched her for a moment, then let the curtain fall. Not out of avoidance, but recognition. On the reverse side of that curtain, there are still faint scuff marks from months ago, when I lay on the same restraint frame, biting my muzzle and cursing every tendril present. My foot had swung from the edge of the frame to the base of the curtain's ridge, leaving a shallow graze on the fabric. It didn't penetrate, but the Magikore didn't repair it. Not out of forgetfulness, but preservation. Through that thin latex curtain, I saw my own fully armed struggle and rage from when I lay there reflected in that small graze. I then turned to look at the Magikore, still standing in the center of the corridor, its dark purple oculars tilted slightly downward, regarding me. "You remember this place." It wasn't a question. It was speaking the words I was about to say. I nodded, my tail giving a gentle sweep behind me. "I do. The third cubicle. I was particularly vicious that time." I paused, then, inexplicably, spoke the words I hadn't even known were archived: "You later praised me for 'having backbone'." The Magikore was silent for a moment. Then, a low, deep hum emanated from within its humanoid chest cavity, not from its neural network. I had heard this frequency before, a secondary harmonic that occasionally resonated during tendril self-diagnostics in the background, never directly audible. Now, it emitted this low tone, a faint, dark, pulsing glide from its resonating chest cavity, like a laugh. It didn't speak, but it tapped my head three times with its latex fingers. The first tap was quick, the second slow, the third paused before retracting. The gesture conveyed: "I am here"; "I know"; "You did well." Fourth stop: The Sensory Deprivation Darkroom. This chamber has no door. No curtain. Nothing to indicate its entrance by sight—it is merely a corridor leading into absolute darkness. Looking in from the outside, nothing is visible—not black, but "nothingness." A void so absolute that after staring into it for more than three breaths, you begin to question if you still have eyelids to blink. No light, no sound, no temperature change, no airflow. Any living being confined within for half a day would begin to doubt their own existence. "You spent twenty-four hours in here." The Magikore stood outside the corridor entrance, not entering, nor letting me enter. "After you emerged, you crawled towards me for the first time. No command. No plea. You crawled to my throne and placed your face on my feet. The only feedback I gave you then was—" It mimicked with one of its tendrils the first lip movements I made afterward. I wasn't wearing a muzzle then, but I opened my mouth, not speaking, just closing my lips, opening them again, then closing them. Then, its latex-gloved foot resting against my cheek, it heard me say, "Master." After its rest, it transmitted a detailed tendril log for the first time, recording my complete physiological data, concluding with a single sentence: "This individual is the core. All future domestication will reference this person." I stood at the entrance of the darkroom, not stepping inside. There was no need—I remembered every moment of those twenty-four hours with perfect clarity: At the twelfth hour, I had slapped my mask, wanting to know if I could still feel pain—I could, but the pain was then converted by the latex into a gentle pressure, which, instead of driving me mad with fear, momentarily suppressed it. At the twenty-fourth hour, as I crawled towards the Magikore after emerging, I still had the old muzzle in my mouth, its respirator valve base already bearing a small ring of teeth marks from my biting. As I crawled, I slowly exhaled from my throat the only words I could think of then—not "Save me," but "Please don't let go." Standing outside the darkroom corridor now, I instinctively braced myself with my hind legs, coiling my tail around one of my legs. The Magikore did not interrupt the silence. It waited. When it finished waiting, it injected a tiny silver pinpoint of light onto the marker for the pure black area on the holographic map. It illuminated it, then changed the light to dark purple before returning it to silver. Tentacles surged from all four sides—not the rough, aggressive ones from before, but the slender tendrils specifically designed for transporting new recruits. They gently lifted him from the ground, his limbs hanging loosely, his posture adjusted to resemble someone being carried in their sleep. As he was lifted, his eyelids fluttered open a sliver—not to see, but a reflexive twitch of his eyelids as the sedative began to take effect. Then, he closed his eyes. The tentacles carried him into the hall. They paused automatically before Elena’s chambers—this was standard procedure for all high-value new captures by the Demon Armor: a brief stop in the monitoring zone outside Elena’s chambers, where two extremely fine tentacles, specifically placed at the entrance, performed the final control of initial fitting functions. One tentacle lifted one of his eyelids, confirming his pupils were still constricting and reacting normally to the dark purple light patterns; another slender tentacle pressed against the back of his neck, sampling his residual holy light baseline, cerebrospinal fluid pressure, and heart rate variability, then packaged all the data and sent it back to the Demon Armor’s backend. The backend automatically generated his preliminary taming plan—the plan’s length was different from all previous Gold-tier knights because he was assessed as a "high-precision holy light adapter," and a special long-term psychological taming path was recommended. During the initial training, standard high-level stimulation training would not be used; instead, he would be placed in the side chamber of Elena’s chambers for no less than a week of continuous observation and psychological analysis. Elena would be responsible for his in-depth contact during this week. The Demon Armor added a line at the end of the plan: "This individual has cracks. Accelerate repair." After Leo was moved, Elena didn't move immediately. She remained in the kneeling posture she had been in, her right palm still pressed against his hand, and stayed there for nearly several minutes. Her tail lay still on the stone floor, unmoving. She wasn't mourning—she was thinking about something: the way Leo had looked at her just now wasn't the look of an enemy, nor an obstacle, but of something he had once known but had since been redefined. There was no hatred in his final glance—his gaze in that last look was identical to when he had evaluated her swordsmanship by Sword Saint standards on the training platform years ago, unchanged. But this time it wasn't about swordsmanship—it was about her "form." He didn't hate her for becoming a bitch, he hated that he himself was beginning to think that this bitch might understand him better than he understood himself. And she had looked at others in the same way before—many times. She raised her head, looking towards the throne. Her dark purple pupils reflected the humanoid silhouette of the Demon Armor, which was slowly retracting. The web of tentacles that had spread across the hall was now slowly withdrawing, wrapping the last stragglers still struggling on the periphery into cocoons of initial fitting latex and sending them back to the training area in the city's cellars. The battle was over. And her tail had not yet begun to sway. "Master. The way he looked at me just now—that was how I used to look." The Demon Armor didn't answer immediately. It let the words hang in the air for a moment under the hall's vast, dark purple light patterns. Then, a single word came back from the humanoid silhouette, its tone identical to the response she received every morning when she asked for good morning, without emphasis, without prompt. "Which?" "Not looking at emotions. Just not looking at emotions." After saying this, she didn't elaborate further. She knew the Demon Armor could access all the emotional fluctuation parameters uploaded simultaneously when she spoke, from the backend—her shame index had briefly risen by eight percentage points in those few seconds, not because Leo had ignored her, but because she suddenly remembered how she herself had treated countless ordinary people who had sought her help in the same cold manner. The novice recruits who ran to her crying for a sword after making a mistake on the training ground were met with a business-like suggestion from her, spoken with a blank expression, before she turned and walked away, not even looking back. At that time, she thought it was strength. Now, kneeling in her master's hall, wearing a collar with her tail hanging behind her, her back glowing with lustful patterns, she recalled those retreating figures she had never fully watched, and realized that from the first day she met Leo, she had been learning from him how to be a "person who doesn't show emotion." He had taught her very well. So well that even she herself had forgotten that she wasn't that kind of person. Her tail flicked upward slightly in the few seconds of silence after she spoke—not excitement, not satisfaction, but a feeling she herself couldn't quite articulate: someone had received her words. Not a rebuttal, not comfort, not guidance—just received. This person had never applauded her "strength" in her youth, but at this moment, he had embraced her hand in humiliation, and then collapsed under his own sword for the strength his student had inadvertently cultivated years ago. And she herself—at almost the same moment, by witnessing his collapse, had suddenly understood what she had missed all along. Her tail swept two arcs gently overhead in this silence. The amplitude was small. But steady. The lustful pattern on the back of her neck did not heat up. The Demon Armor did not intervene. After she finished speaking, it slowly lowered a matte tentacle, finer than a hair, from the ceiling onto her shoulder blade—resting in the same position as last night, pausing for a moment, then retracting. The action was identical to last night. Elena didn't push it away. She turned her face to the side, facing the receding tip of the tentacle. Just before it completely detached, she habitually pressed her cheek against it, lightly touching the underside of its retreating tip through the latex mask, then turned back. Her tail swayed for the third time. This time, the arc of its sway was exactly the same as when she had asked the holy shield pendant, "Are you still there," last night. But the pendant couldn't respond, and the tentacle had just responded. Outside the hall, by the shallow waters inside the city gate, Lisha was lifting the brown-haired little Bronze-tier girl out of the cocoon. The girl had bitten the initial fitting mouthpiece so tightly that a faint ring of indentation had appeared around her lips, but she was no longer crying. Lisha pressed her tail against the girl's calf to act as a warm compress, then glanced back towards the hall—through several stone pillars, she couldn't see Elena's face clearly, but she saw the silver dog tail slowly swaying to the right from its vertical position. Lisha's own tail also swept gently. Then she continued to help the girl unfasten her restraints—not unfasten, but adjust the shoulder clasps of her initial fitting garment, because her fitting garment was too thin, and a layer of thermal padding needed to be added from behind. Cecilia saw it from the city wall as well. When she saw Leo kneel on one knee on the curtain, her own tail stiffened into a straight rod within the cross-shaped restraint cuffs. Then she saw Leo being lifted by tentacles and carried into the hall, pausing as he passed Elena's chambers. She saw the tentacle lift his eyelid, saw the lack of struggle on his face, saw him quietly allow himself to be carried away. Then she lowered her head, letting two strands of golden hair fall from behind her dog ears to cover her face. The milk in the catheter was still dripping, twelve times per minute. She didn't know if she was crying at this moment, because she hadn't cried in a long time. But her tail drew an arc in the cuffs, extremely slowly, extremely arduously. Deep in the side corridor, Margaret poked her head out from her sleeping position. She had also watched the curtain—she saw Leo being moved into the side chamber of Elena's chambers, a place she had passed many times during her training, always glancing in that direction. She retracted, clasped the iron ring on her collar with her front paws, and tapped it—tap, tap, tap. Then, in the darkness, she whispered very softly, "Senior sister's master... has also come." Then she buried her face in her knees. Her tail hadn't grown yet—but she wouldn't cry tonight. She had learned to quietly digest the things that made her want to cry in this place. The silence wasn't the pre-war kind—that silence was empty, a held breath waiting for the first horn blast. This silence was full. The great hall, the corridors, the side chambers, the dungeons, the towers—every corner of the castle where something could be fixed was stuffed with one to three latex cocoons. Two hundred and eighty-seven husks, each one subtly writhing. Within the cocoons, faint, pale violet neural resonance patterns flickered every few seconds, the background system of the Demon Armor polling the physiological state of each captive. Heartbeat, respiration, residual holy light, initial lactation response, oral suction frequency—each data point was packaged into a tiny, dark violet character that slid across the cocoon's surface and vanished into the latex membrane's texture. The air had changed. The faint acidity of new latex mingled with the scent of sweat and pleasure fluids secreted by over two hundred human bodies under their first latex embrace, rising from the cracks in the flagstones, seeping down from the latex membrane on the ceiling, leaking from the seams of every freshly sealed cocoon. The smell was unpleasant—but the Demon Armor's background data showed a number that made Elina's tail twitch slightly: roughly one-third of the new captives, upon the opening of their breathing valves, had produced additional saliva secretion simply from the smell itself. Not from being fed, not from command, but their bodies, upon smelling it, began to salivate. Their bodies were actively moistening. Their bodies were preparing for more. She had crawled through all the cocooning zones on the castle's three floors within three hours after the battle. As she crawled, she passed a corridor where new cocoons hung from the stone walls—not piled on the floor, but suspended from the walls, each husk secured to the stone seams by two tendrils at the top and bottom, staggered like rows of pupae in a beehive. The husks were numbered, from SD-051 to SD-113. Each husk had a transparent observation window on its front, small, just large enough to see the face within. She looked through these windows, one by one. The faces within—varying in age, gender, and width, but their expressions generally fell into a similar spectrum. Those still screaming thrashed their heads against the cocoons, recoiling with each impact, then hitting again, the gag's breathing valve emitting a series of hissing sounds from the forced intake of air; those who had exhausted their strength stared blankly, their eyes open, gazing into the darkness beyond the thin layer of latex, their eyeballs reflecting a faint, moist sheen in the dark violet light patterns; those who had already experienced their first strong stimulation and orgasm—these were the easiest to identify—they alternated between tears and unconscious sucking, their eyes closed but their eyelids trembling, their lips around the gag not in resistance, but rhythmically sucking with each breath, their cheeks dimpling and returning to their original shape with each opening and closing of the breathing valve. When a young knight met her gaze through the observation window, he gritted his teeth, trying to force a curse from his throat—his mouth was blocked by the gag, the airflow couldn't dislodge the base of the cock plug, and the first burst of air was muffled back into his throat, emitting a garbled growl; the second time, he tried to push the gag out with his tongue, but the base of the gag was too tightly lodged in the groove behind his teeth, and his tongue couldn't budge it. Instead, the raised texture on the gag's surface stimulated the root of his tongue, triggering an involuntary swallowing reflex. The third time, he gave up. The airflow no longer pushed outwards, but followed the natural opening and closing of the breathing valve—hiss, hiss, hiss—beginning to inhale instinctively. As he inhaled, his eyes still held "hate you," a small bead of blood from when he'd hit the cocoon still clinging to the corner of his eye, but his body had already registered the completion of the initial sucking reflex by the tendrils—a full three days earlier than the Demon Armor had predicted. Elina didn't stop in front of him for too long. She moved forward with her forepaws on the stone slab, her tail hanging quietly behind her. Then, as she passed his cocoon, she lightly, almost imperceptibly, brushed the stone brick at the bottom of his husk with her tail tip. It was so light, he might not have felt it at all. But she knew she had done it. She remembered when she saw new recruits crying in a corner on the training grounds after being wronged, she would walk over and lightly tap the ground next to them with her toe—not to comfort, but to let them know someone was there. She didn't look down at him, and continued crawling forward. At the corner of the corridor, she met Lysa. Lysa was on her hind legs, trying to stuff a cushion into a very high cocoon slot. The slot was a forearm's length above her head. She held a folded piece of flexible latex padding between her forepaws, her hind legs straight, her tail curled upwards for balance, the pad askew as she pushed it into the gap between the cocoon and the stone wall. That slot was designated for a young female knight who had suffered a minor shoulder dislocation during capture. The report stated she was afraid of the dark and needed an extra layer of soft lining—not for treating the shoulder injury; the tendrils for the shoulder had already been attached before the initial fitting; it was to give her a softer inner wall than the standard cocoon, so she wouldn't excessively struggle and tear the newly attached ligaments out of fear during the initial sealing. Lysa grinned when she saw Elina. There was a small, dried patch of milk on her lip—from when she had nursed a new bronze-tier girl two hours ago. The girl had been so hungry, she had sucked too eagerly when released from her cocoon for initial lactation training, her milk teeth scraping the edge of Lysa's areola, spraying a small amount that splattered on her jaw beneath her mask. She hadn't wiped it off herself. Lysa pushed the soft pad in a little further, then jumped down from the wall, landing on all fours, her tail curled into a satisfied arc behind her. "Statistics are complete," she said, pulling a latex-covered statistical board from her utility pouch at her waist and handing it to Elina. The board listed a long string of numbers in silver ink: Total captured: 287—including 3 gold-tier, 26 silver-tier, 78 bronze-tier, and 180 trainees and accompanying clergy. Total holy light extracted equivalent to twelve years of normal absorption in magical energy. Approximately 49% could proceed directly to the second stage of posture training, requiring an additional psychological breakthrough period: 55 individuals, of whom 6, due to advanced age or old injuries, required the activation of a special domestication protection protocol—not abandonment; the Demon Armor never abandoned any material; the protection protocol was low-intensity alternative training, using a longer period to achieve a more stable conversion rate. At the end of the list, Elina saw a small handwritten note—added by the Demon Armor, the script finer and more slanted than Lysa's, with its characteristic unhurried strokes. It recommended scheduling the first synchronized group posture examination in three weeks, to be proctored by trained concubines—especially you. Please prepare the scoring standards and the teaching whip. After reading it, she let out a soft breath. Not a sigh—but the kind of confirmation exhaled from the nose when a task one would have accepted anyway was officially received. She returned the statistical board to Lysa, her tail brushing Lysa's tail on the stone slab—the tips of their tails each drew a half-arc, meeting lightly at the midpoint. Then she turned towards Cecilia's new location. Cecilia had been removed from the cross on the castle wall. The Demon Armor had relocated her to a semi-enclosed stone chamber inside the wall—not imprisoned, but relocated. The chamber had a narrow window facing outwards towards the wilderness downstream of the moat. The window frame was covered with a semi-transparent filter layer of latex membrane, allowing just a sliver of residual greyish-white daylight to filter in, not completely dark, but not bright either. Her white latex formal dress, soaked in milk, had been replaced with a clean, black basic latex suit, without cutouts or tubes, her breasts fully encased beneath the latex—the Demon Armor had given her a respite. Beneath her iron-grey collar, an additional item hung: a small silver nameplate, made by Elina last night with her own secreted latex, engraved on the front with "Sister" and on the back with "Reappointed Gold-Tier Reserve Instructor." The Demon Armor had approved.