Arthur floated with no up, down, left, or right. No ground beneath him, no ceiling above him—just an endless void that swallowed every direction. It was like being a planet that had lost its star, drifting through space without anchor or orbit, left to rot between nothing and nowhere.
There was no sound except the private noises trapped inside his skull—his breath, his pulse, the wet click of his throat swallowing saliva. The silence was so complete it felt predatory, the kind that gnawed sanity the longer it existed.
"Okay—okay! What the hell just happened? Where the fuck am I? I can't see shit! Did I go blind!?"
He reached out, arms sweeping through emptiness. His fingers grazed nothing. He kicked out and felt the same hollow response—no resistance, no surface, no floor. He was completely suspended, like someone had deleted gravity and forgotten to reinstall it.
Panic crawled up his spine with jittery little claws, but like always, he tried to strangle it with jokes before it reached his brain.
"If this is the backrooms, I want a refund because I can't even see the moldy carpet. And if this is hell—sorry, but I'm not apologizing for lusting over milfs. I was appreciating God's work. If the bastard didn't want admiration, he shouldn't have made walking sculptures!"
Silence answered him with the enthusiasm of a dead fish.
He tried to slow his breathing. Tried counting to ground himself. One—two—three—except time didn't behave here. The numbers stretched and warped like rubber bands. Time wasn't passing; it was holding a plank and refusing to move.
'What happens if I stay like this?' The thought slithered in uninvited.
'Do I float here until I go crazy? Or do I starve and die in slow-motion silence? No water. No food. No porn. Just floating and losing my goddamn mind.'
Both possibilities were horrifying enough that he cut the thought off like yanking a plug.
But as what felt like hours crawled by—no change, no shift, no new sensation—the fear began to feel real. Tangible. Heavy.
"No, man… no fucking way. It can't end like this, dawg! I don't wanna be stuck in this boring void forever!" he shouted into the nothing, his voice sounding like it was trapped in cotton.
More time passed—or not. It was impossible to tell.
Then—something changed.
The darkness flickered—the faintest shift, like a shadow turning translucent. A dot appeared ahead of him. A pinprick. A speck of light so small he almost thought his brain invented it for entertainment.
It swelled.
With it came sensation—the faintest pull at first, then a steady tug, like someone had hooked a finger behind his sternum and started reeling him in like a dog on a leash.
"Wait! I see light! Finally! I'm moving somewhere!" Relief cracked through his chest like a burst dam. The light grew, brightening in increments, stretching outward like a glowing wound in reality.
With the light came a whisper of sound. So faint it made silence seem loud.
He squinted—if he even still had eyelids here.
"That's… that's a very mature and refined feminine sound," he breathed, neurons firing like fireworks. The voice—or whatever the sound was—wasn't girlish or squeaky. It was rich. Smooth. The kind of tone a woman got after years of experience, and great tits.
His spirit perked up like a dog hearing the rustle of a treat bag.
"Right! How the FUCK did I forget? I made a wish!" he laughed into the void, pure excitement hitting him like a drug. "I wished for milf domination! The gods finally came through for once!"
He straightened himself—somehow—and grinned wider than your mama.
"I'm coming! I'm here to conquer milfs and repopulate kingdoms!"
The dot of light wasn't a dot anymore. It became a slit. Then a window. Then a gaping opening like reality was dilating to give birth to his dumb ass.
The pull hardened into a grip, yanking him faster. His stomach plunged like he missed a step at the top of a staircase.
Then—
Silence shattered.
Sound flooded in all at once—wind whipping past his ears, distant shouting layered with metallic clanging, the murky echo of movement and chant. Light detonated behind his eyes, color slamming into existence—gold, white, dark leather, molten blue.
He crashed down on his knees with enough force to drive the breath out of him. His palms slapped cold stone—smooth, polished, expensive. Marble.
Air rushed back into his lungs like he'd been drowning. He coughed, breath hitching as the world snapped into place.
"—another one—"
"—be careful, the lines are still hot—"
"—gods, look at him—"
He blinked, vision sharpening through the haze.
He was in the middle of an immense chamber.
A glowing circle of sigils surrounded him, still fading from electric azure to powder blue, then to chalk, then to nothing but faint ash on marble. The symbols looked foreign, complex, structured—like someone had designed an ancient circuit board.
Iron stands held tall candles burning with steady amber light, each flame casting restless reflections across the floor.
Beyond the ritual circle, people crowded the room.
Knights stood in formation, breastplates gleaming, muscles filling the steel like it was tailored to their biceps personally. Their halberds rested in a pose that said "we're relaxed, but we'll murder you efficiently if given a reason."
Banners loomed behind them, hanging with authority—each emblazoned with embroidered beasts that looked like they'd eaten peasants recreationally.
Men with scrolls and ledgers muttered to each other, scribbling the event. Women with ornate fans whispered behind sleeves, jewelry glinting with the kind of money that could fund kingdoms.
And then there were the milfs.
Arthur forgot to breathe. He had to manually drag air into his lungs to avoid collapsing—and not because oxygen was important, but because he needed to be conscious enough to mutter "holy shit."
Noblewomen stood in dresses that adapted to the shape of their cleavage and curves. Some gowns hugged torsos so tightly the bodices looked like they were two breaths from blessing the world.
A sorceress lounged near the edge of the circle, ink-dark hair cascading over one shoulder, a jeweled collar hugging her throat in a way that suggested both authority and glorious choking potential.
A matron sat further back, slightly elevated—not crowned, but significant. The sort of woman whose frown could command executions and whose thighs could command erections. Her lips were trained into that expensive not-smile nobles wore when they knew everyone beneath them was replaceable.
A towering woman in officer-blue armor stood with confidence coiled beneath her stance. She wore authority like a warlord—and probably wore perfume under it that could turn men into property.
'I'm at a convention,' he thought, dazed. 'A convention of dangerous, high-tier cougars and milfs. I've been summoned into Pornhub: Medieval Expansion Pack.'
"Subject is stable," someone said crisply, probably a mage or a doctor of magic bullshit. "Proceed with secondary evaluation."
Arthur finally looked down—and realized he was still kneeling in the summoning circle.
His brain, at that moment, had only one functioning thought:
'Please let the evaluation involve thighs.'
*****
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