Nico The Demon (Halloween Special - Part 3 (End))

 

PART 9: The Chorus of the Wronged

The ritual chamber wasn’t a real place—it was born of bricks and books and shadows, but under Nico’s command, it had transformed into something ancient. The library's storage wing, once filled with forgotten documents and dusty shelves, now pulsed with low red light cast from the flickering candles arranged in a perfect phallic circle around a cracked pedestal. Nico stood in the center, his monstrous body slick with sweat, glistening like an idol dragged from a fever dream. His horns curled high. His tail dragged across the floor like a predator bored of waiting.

More frat brothers had arrived, dragging behind them the final pieces of the puzzle: nine women, dazed, wounded, but still breathing. Priyanka and Jessica were among them. Their eyes were heavy, but open. When they saw Solana—bleeding, her arms bound behind her back, her face bruised and defiant—their instinct was to reach out, to run to her. But each of them was roped, gagged, knees to the ground. They couldn’t speak. They couldn’t even cry. Jessica tried anyway. Her mouth trembled under the cloth gag. Priyanka’s jaw clenched with a fury she couldn’t voice.

The sight of them made Solana’s breath hitch. They were alive, but they were on display. Like sacrifices laid before a temple, kneeling beneath a false god. Her vision blurred from the pain in her shoulder, but she refused to lower her head.

Nico walked toward her with theatrical confidence. He moved slowly, savoring the silence as his boys resumed the chant—low, guttural, rhythmic. A dead language raised from hell.

He stopped in front of her, his grin sharp, cruel, almost childlike in its glee. And then—without shame, without hesitation—he reached down, took his grotesquely swollen manhood in his hand, and poked Solana’s forehead with it.

Her body recoiled instinctively, but she couldn’t move far. The ropes dug in.

“You won’t win,” Nico said, grinning as he loomed above her. “You think your little club, your little speeches matter? You think we didn’t notice how much you all want to be in charge? Want the power? Want to be men?” He leaned in closer, the stench of blood and sweat thick around him. “Men will always win, Solana. Always. It’s not a choice. It’s our birthright.”

He laughed, stepping back with a satisfied snort. Behind him, the other frat monsters raised their arms in unison, their voices growing louder in the ritual chant. Nico lifted a sword—ancient, rusted, still smeared with black from rituals long past. He held it high above his head, ready to begin the final rite.

Meanwhile, in the adjacent room, Helena stirred.

Her body screamed. Her muscles shook. Pain coiled in her abdomen and between her thighs like broken glass left to settle. Nico had used himself like a weapon. Not just to hurt her—but to mark her. To remind her she was beneath him. Her hand pressed to her belly, tears burning down her cheeks.

“It hurts,” she whispered to no one.

But then her eyes shifted. Through the crack in the doorway, she saw them. The women. The circle. The sword.

And Nico.

And in that moment—through agony, through tears—something shifted inside her. It wasn’t rage. It was deeper. It was grief lined with centuries. It was resistance older than her bones. And it didn’t feel like hers alone.

It felt like company.

Like the hands of every woman who had ever been wronged by AKO, by Richard James, by every man who had called himself a leader when all he ever did was take. Their ghosts weren’t just in the walls of the campus. They were in her skin.

She stood. She should not have been able to. Not with what had been done to her. But she stood.

Outside, one of the younger fratboys—Corbyn—was circling the outer hallway with a ceremonial dagger in hand. He didn’t see her coming.

Helena launched forward like a whisper of vengeance. One sharp kick to the balls took the air from his lungs. He wheezed, stumbled, dropped the blade. Before he could scream, she grabbed his face with both hands and slammed his head into the bookshelf behind him with a crack. The light in his eyes blinked out. She caught the knife before it hit the floor.

She took a breath, held it, exhaled slowly. “Shit,” she muttered, looking at the chamber ahead. “Too many men in there.”

She needed to be smart.

Careful.

Quick.

She moved like a shadow, slipping through the edge of the ritual circle where the chanting blinded them. The frat boys had closed their eyes, swaying to Nico’s rhythm, unaware that the ghost of what they’d tried to destroy was already threading between their feet.

Helena reached Jessica first. The girl was kneeling, bound, her head low—but when she felt the brush of fingers behind her wrists, she stiffened.

“Don’t move,” Helena whispered into her ear. “Don’t speak. Wait until I say go.”

Jessica didn’t blink. Just nodded once.

Helena sliced the ropes cleanly and moved next to Priyanka. She was slower now, each step weighing more than the last, but she didn’t stop. Priyanka’s eyes flew open wide when she saw her, but Helena pressed a finger to her lips before cutting her free.

The chanting swelled.

Nico raised the blade higher.

And none of them saw the bloodied, broken girl behind them, blade in hand, already undoing what they thought was fate.

PART 10: Rite of Retaliation

For a heartbeat, all was still.

The chanting echoed through the ancient chamber like a heartbeat made of dust and fire—low, methodical, intoxicating. Nico stood at the center, sword raised, eyes glowing, his monstrous body looming like a statue cast from nightmares. Around him, his chosen brothers swayed in unison, their eyes shut tight, lips muttering the guttural language of Phallus, hands raised as if blessing the air with testosterone.

They didn’t notice what had changed.

They didn’t see the ropes cut, the gags slipped off, the eyes sharpening in the shadows.

But the girls did.

Solana’s wrists bled from the rope burns, but her fists clenched like iron. Jessica stretched her arms and rolled her shoulders as if shaking off months of silence. Priyanka's lip was cracked, her cheek bruised, but her stance was coiled and deadly. Every woman in that room had been touched, threatened, silenced. Now, they stood free, blades of fury unsheathed.

When the boys opened their eyes, it was already too late.

The ritual room exploded in a symphony of pain.

Jessica moved first. A blur of movement, lean and exact. She spun toward Conrad, who blinked in confusion as he dropped his hands from the chant. He didn’t even get to speak before Jessica’s leg came up, fast and merciless, slamming directly into his groin. The sound was immediate—flesh against flesh, crack against soul. Conrad’s mouth opened into a silent scream before his knees gave out. He collapsed, writhing, clutching his crotch as if trying to hold his entire existence together.

“You always talked too much,” Jessica muttered.

Across the circle, Priyanka had tackled Tanner, both of them tumbling into a pile of ceremonial cloths. He roared, confused, half-transformed, but she didn’t give him time to adjust. She punched him once across the face, stunning him, then rolled on top and drove her elbow down hard into his stomach. He choked, and in that moment of recoil, she brought her knee up and crushed his testicles with a violent, upward thrust.

Tanner’s scream shook the ceiling. He rolled over like a poisoned animal, clawing at the dirt, his horns scraping the floor as he sobbed.

Behind them, chaos spread. The remaining girls struck without mercy, a coordinated assault on every vulnerable inch of the monster-men’s so-called power. One by one, they dropped—tail-wielding beasts reduced to groaning piles of agony. The air filled with yelps, moans, high-pitched cries of betrayal. It wasn’t just a rebellion.

It was a reckoning.

Nico watched it all unfold from the center of the room, his jaw slack, sword still in hand, tail coiled around one ankle like a twitching snake. His eyes scanned the room, seeing brother after brother dropped by precise, brutal strikes to the groin. His voice cracked into a scream—rage, disbelief, fear.

“NO! STOP THEM!” he shouted, voice cracking.

But no one could rise. No one could breathe. The spell was broken. The age of Phallus was stuttering.

And then came Solana.

He didn’t hear her at first.

She moved like a shadow, dragging her injured shoulder, limping slightly, but her eyes were sharp and fixed. She circled behind him, just as Nico turned and raised his sword again, desperate to salvage the ritual.

She didn't say a word.

She struck.

Her foot connected with his balls from behind—sharp, clean, and devastating. Nico’s eyes bulged as his entire body lifted an inch off the ground. The sound he made was not of this world. It was a scream choked on itself, a dying animal's howl, a banshee’s curse. He dropped the sword instantly, both hands flying to his crotch as he stumbled forward, retching.

Solana stood over him.

"You never saw it coming," she muttered.

He collapsed to his knees, shivering, tail limp, horns trembling. His breath came in short, ragged bursts. His mouth was slack with disbelief. His groin throbbed with a pain so ancient it cut into his spine.

Helena emerged from the edge of the room, still bloodied, still battered, but whole. Her fingers curled around the hilt of the sword Nico had dropped. Its weight felt right in her hand—not because it was meant for her, but because it should’ve been meant for justice all along.

She walked slowly, deliberately, until she stood directly in front of Nico, who was kneeling now, hunched, broken, still trying to clutch the last fragments of control.

She didn’t speak at first. She simply raised the blade, steady and quiet, and pressed it against the base of his grotesquely enlarged, twitching manhood.

Nico whimpered.

Helena looked down at him, eyes full of fire, and finally said, “Now I will end you.”

PART 11: The Severing of the Alpha

Nico lay sprawled in a grotesque heap on the marble floor of the AKO basement, twitching with the slow, pathetic pulses of what was left of his once-mighty body. The monstrous form he had claimed — all horned glory and tail-whipping arrogance — had melted down to a shivering shell of a man. He could no longer rise. His limbs jerked erratically, every nerve overloaded from the repeated trauma, his groin pulsing like a curse under moonlight. His tail had slunk back into his spine. His horns had cracked at the base. But the one thing still untouched — still defiantly intact — was the swollen, twitching grotesque mass between his thighs. His so-called legacy. His monstrous manhood.

And Helena stood above him with the blade.

He saw her silhouette framed against the rotting velvet banner of AKO’s founding year, her expression unreadable. Moonlight slashed through the broken window behind her, casting her face in ghostlight. Her arm raised, steel glinting. For the first time since he’d dared to call himself "Alpha," Nico James was completely, utterly helpless.

“No… no… please…” he whimpered. “Please, don’t cut it... Helena, please…”

His breath hitched. His voice cracked like a broken violin string. Tears streamed from his eyes in wet, endless trails, pooling at his temple. His legs twitched, weakly spreading open, not in invitation, but surrender. The twitching mass between them throbbed violently, no longer proud or powerful — just obscene, unnatural, vile.

“Helena,” he whispered again, desperation now thick as blood. “You love me, right? You love me. You said it once, I remember — at the winter formal. You said I was your everything. Please, please… you still love me.”

But Helena’s voice cut through him like the very blade she held.

“What you did to me is vile,” she said coldly, her hand steady. “You used this…” She pointed at the oversized, twitching organ between his legs — malformed, demonic, still pulsing with unholy energy. “You used this manhood to hurt me. To hurt others. It was never about love. It was about power.”

Nico’s mouth opened, but no words came. Only sobs. The kind that choke you on the way out, leaving your jaw shaking, your breath ragged. His hands clawed at the floor, fingers curled like a dying animal’s. His body, once carved like a statue, now trembled like jelly.

And Helena brought the blade down.

It wasn’t quick. It wasn’t clean. But it was final.

The scream that tore from Nico’s throat wasn’t human. It came from a place deeper than muscle or bone — a scream born in the marrow, echoing through his very soul. His eyes shot wide, bulging in terror. His back arched violently, muscles spasming in all directions as if trying to flee his own body. Blood poured in slow, viscous streams, staining the floor in crimson arcs.

“NooooooooOOOOOOO—!” he shrieked, voice splitting apart, too hoarse to hold the agony. “My dick! MY DIIIICK! YOU CUT OFF MY—!”

Helena stood, unflinching, lifting the severed manhood into the air like a trophy, blood still dripping from its twitching root. It twitched once. Twice. Then stopped.

She held it high to the cracked ceiling, to the full moon that watched through shattered glass.

And that’s when the others felt it.

One by one, the remaining frat boys — still transformed, still hiding in corners of the basement and upper halls — howled as fire ignited between their legs. They clutched themselves, howling, screaming, collapsing like dolls with their strings cut. The pain rippled through them not just physically, but spiritually — it was their tether to the curse, and the tether had been cut.

Tanner fell first, writhing on the billiards table, pants soaked as the heat rose beneath his zipper. “IT’S BURNING—OH GOD, IT’S BURNING!”

Conrad screamed next. He was already on his knees, trying to recite one of the ancient chants from the book, hoping to reverse the pain — but it was too late. His eyes rolled back, his groin exploded in a red halo of fire, and he began convulsing, clawing at the ground as his manhood burned from within.

Throughout the house, the AKO boys collapsed. Some screamed. Others whimpered. But all of them were wracked with the same unbearable agony: their manhood — the thing they had built their power around — was betraying them. Punishing them. Ending them.

And then the air shifted.

From the broken walls. From the floorboards. From the space between time and silence — they came.

Spirits.

Souls.

Women, once silenced. Skin scarred by chains. Eyes glowing with justice. The enslaved women of Richard James — returned not for vengeance, but for deliverance. They did not speak, but their presence screamed truth louder than any man had ever dared.

They hovered like mist, then solidified like rage. And with outstretched arms, they touched the frat boys.

“This is the bloodline of Richard James,” the spirits said as one, their voices layered, ancient, unrelenting. “These are the men who followed him. Who built legacies on our pain.”

Each time a ghost placed her hand on a boy, he disappeared.

Tanner reached out, sobbing, “Conrad! Help me! Please!” But Conrad, his face pale and stained with tears, couldn’t move. He screamed as a spirit touched his chest, and his body was sucked downward into a swirling hole of red earth and fire, his final cry snatched mid-air.

Conrad was next.

“No—no, wait—WAIT—!” he yelled, trying to crawl toward the exit, toward any exit. But the floor beneath him opened like a hungry mouth. A hand reached out — not to save him, but to hold him still. And the earth swallowed him whole.

One by one, they vanished. Taken not by death, but by judgment.

Nico, barely conscious, barely human, watched in terror as the room emptied.

He was the last.

He lay in his own blood, eyes wide, groin mangled, shaking from head to toe. And around him — silence.

No more screams.

Just Helena. Just the spirits. Just the truth.

She walked forward, slow and deliberate, the severed manhood still in her grip, gleaming under moonlight like a cursed relic.

“You’re done,” she whispered. “You’re nothing without this.”

Nico didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

He sobbed — wordless, breathless — staring at her, mouthing the words please again and again. But no sound came.

And then, the spirits surrounded him.

He tried to crawl. His broken legs dragged behind him like dead weight. His hands slipped on his own blood. He reached for the wall. For Helena. For mercy.

But the spirits reached first.

They didn’t lift him.

They didn’t drag him.

They dissolved him — piece by piece. His body unraveled into ash and whispers, his cries caught in the void as his form evaporated under their judgment.

Only one thing remained.

The grotesque, twitching severed manhood — still in Helena’s hand.

It didn’t bleed anymore. It didn’t twitch. But it glowed faintly, like it remembered what it had been — and what it had lost.

Helena stared at it a moment longer.

Then she turned.

And walked up the stairs.

Never looking back.

EPILOGUE: The Fraternity Below

There is no dawn in Hell.

Only a red horizon that never changes, bleeding endlessly across a landscape of stone and fire. Time does not pass the way it does on Earth. There are no clocks. No hours. Only agony in motion. Pain that recycles. A cycle of humiliation sculpted with perfect precision — tailored not just to the body, but to the ego of men who once thought themselves gods.

Here, beneath the charred crust of the afterlife, they toil.

Sixty of them — the boys of AKO — now condemned to labor across a jagged field of obsidian boulders. Each one still dressed as they died: in tight-fitting navy blue polos stretched over swollen muscles and stiff blue jeans clinging to sweat-soaked thighs. They march barefoot on burning stone, their chests heaving, skin scorched by heat that offers no reprieve. The scent of ash and regret lingers in the air, thick as smoke.

But that isn’t the worst of it.

No, the worst hangs between their legs.

Each boy is shackled not by iron, but by weight — grotesque, impossible stones tethered by glowing chains to their manhood. The rocks swing low, heavy as sin, dragging with each step, tugging mercilessly with every movement. Their balls — once symbols of pride, now sources of endless agony — stretch under the pressure, throbbing, bruised, and battered by the cruel pendulum of eternal justice.

Every time they shift a boulder.

Every time they stumble under its weight.

The stones pull harder.

The pain deepens.

They cry out — but no one listens. Not here. Not anymore.

Tanner, once the loudest, now moans softly as he drags his stone up the hill for the thousandth time. Each step is a prayer for mercy that never comes. His eyes are hollow. His lips cracked. The memory of what he was — athlete, womanizer, AKO legend — is a ghost flickering in the corners of his shattered pride.

Conrad limps beside him, muttering equations through broken teeth, his once-pristine glasses melted into twisted metal. He tries to understand the cycle. To rationalize the curse. But logic has no place in Hell, and his testicles, bruised and purple, weigh heavier than reason.

They all move like cattle. Grunting. Weeping. Never stopping.

And at the end of each shift — when the boulders have been stacked into meaningless towers, only to be knocked over again by the shrieking winds — the spirits come.

The same spirits who dragged them here.

Women wronged.

Women silenced.

Now flame-clad and wielding blades of molten bronze, they descend without ceremony, surrounding the kneeling frat boys with otherworldly grace.

Nico watches them come.

He kneels at the front of the line — once the Alpha, now the example. Sweat pours down his perfect jawline, and his tail (still there, still twitching) curls inward in fear. His massive form is bent, shoulders hunched, his hands trembling as he cups his balls, trying to soothe the ache of another day beneath the weight.

He knows what’s next. He begs anyway.

“Please,” he rasps, throat raw. “Please, not again. Just… let me keep it. Just for one night.”

The spirit before him doesn’t blink. She raises her blade.

“No mercy for men who built empires on pain.”

The blade arcs downward — a clean, beautiful swing.

And Nico howls as his manhood is severed again.

All around him, the same ritual unfolds. One by one, every frat boy screams as his manhood is sliced off at the root. The fire cauterizes the wounds. The pain is indescribable. They convulse. Collapse. Their screams fill the air like a hymn of justice.

And then, the spirits vanish into flame, taking the severed shafts with them like war trophies.

By the next morning, they’ll grow back — always grotesque, always oversized, always vulnerable. The cycle will begin again.

Labor. Pain. Castration.

Forever.

There is no escape.

Only the echo of Solana’s voice, still drifting through the sulfur air like a curse:

"You built your kingdom with your dicks. Now you’ll carry its weight forever."

And so they do.

In Hell.

Wearing polos.

Wearing jeans.

Dragging their legacy behind them, swinging low, never free.

The fraternity lives on — not in pride.

But in pain.