NOVEL NEXT Chapter 1: Despair
The sky of Equestria, once azure, is now a gray haze, like a shroud that hides the agony of the world. The wind, devoid of freshness and life, brings only the stench of decay and the crunch of bones. The landscape, once colorful and joyful, has become a lifeless desert, strewn with bones and excrement. At the center of this hell, where Canterlot once was, now stands a giant, throbbing hive, like a huge festering wound from which darkness oozes.
Queen Chrysalis, seated on her throne of intertwined chitin and bone, watches over her domain. Her body, freed from the need for disguise, is now the epitome of a nightmare - a chitinous shell studded with spikes and eyes burning with cold, calculating fire. A victorious overlord, she is enjoying the fruits of her triumph.
Her rule is not just suppression, it is total destruction. Equestria has become a vast farm where all races, from ponies to griffins, from yaks to dragons, are now nothing more than livestock, a source of food for an insatiable horde of reborns. The remains of buildings and cities serve only as pens where captives are held to await their fate.
Inside the hive, through the labyrinth of dark passageways and chambers, chitinous guards scurry about, escorting captives to the slaughterhouses. Blood and the stench of decaying flesh saturated the air, creating a nauseating atmosphere of constant terror. The screams and pleas of despair had long ago become the background, part of the daily cycle of violence.
Chrysalis absorbs these streams of fear and pain with pleasure. They nourish her, make her stronger. She has created a perfect system where every scream, every tear, every gulp of flesh only multiplies her power. She revels in power, absolute, unconditional.
In one of the cells, where light penetrates only through gaps in the walls, a group of emaciated ponies languish. Their eyes, dimmed with fear, stare into the void. They remember the days when there was hope, when friendship and magic seemed invincible. Now they are just food, meat on bones, waiting for their turn.
Not far from them, in another cell, the griffins, once proud and independent, languish. Their feathers torn out, their wings mutilated. Now they are but trembling shadows of themselves, awaiting a death that may be deliverance.
Dragons whose strength once inspired awe now beat in agony in cramped enclosures, their fiery breath faded to a pitiful whisper. Their scales have faded, and their once sharp claws are now only pitiful stumps.
Chrysalis watches all of this without feeling the slightest compassion. She has created her own world, a world where there is only hunger and the satisfaction of that hunger. She is bathed in blood, fed on flesh, and hardened in despair. And nothing, it seems, can stop her.
Her horn flashes with an ominous light as she feels the faint echoes of resistance, those that still linger on the fringes of the world. But she is not worried, she is in no hurry. She knows that sooner or later, she will devour every last remnant. Her victory is complete, and Equestria is now nothing more than her personal slaughterhouse.
The smell of rot and despair, thick and nauseating, permeates the air. It is like a fine wine, intoxicating me as I descend into the dungeon. My chitinous limbs clatter softly on the stone floor, echoing in the damp corridors. I savor every sound, every breath of this stench, for it is the scent of my victory.
In the depths of the hive, in the damp and stinking cells, the princesses of Equestria languish. Their magic is gone, their auras faded, their bodies emaciated and their spirits broken. They have become mere trophies in Chrysalis' triumphal procession.
Below, in a deep pit where not a single ray of light penetrates, Celestia rots. A sight worthy of all admiration. She, once majestic and dazzling, is now a pathetic, mangled shadow of herself. Her white fur is covered in mud and slime, and her once golden mane is piled in dirty tangles. The stumps of her wings, the pathetic, bloody remnants of her former pride, hang limply at her sides. But the most beautiful thing, of course, was her horn. Or rather, what was left of it. The smooth, disfigured scar on her forehead is a reminder of her former greatness that I so cruelly took away.
I lean over the pit, my eyes glinting like cold shards of obsidian in the semi-darkness. Celestia lifts her head, her eyes, once full of wisdom and light, are now empty and full of terror. I can feel her fear, it's like sweet nectar, filling me with power.
"How do you like your new home, Celestia?" - I whisper, my voice like the rustling of insects throughout the dungeon.
"Do you like feeling as dirty and insignificant as all your pathetic subjects?"
She answers nothing, only averts her gaze, as if afraid to meet my gaze. But this only increases my satisfaction. She knows I've won, she knows her time has passed.
I think back to the day when her pride was so high, when she, like the sun itself, shone proudly over Equestria. She, with her foolish belief in friendship, love and harmony, thought she could stop me. How naive! She believed that her silly "friendship magic" could stand up to my true power.
I remember tearing off her wings, one by one, listening to her cries of despair. I remember breaking her horn, savoring her agony. And every time she tried to use her weak magic, I only laughed as I saw her power wane.
Now here she is, in this pit, powerless, broken and abandoned. Her connection to Equestria, her responsibility to maintain peace and harmony, all trampled and destroyed. Her hopes and dreams are but ashes that the wind blows across my domain.
Every day her condition worsens. She's rotting like tainted flesh, and it's a process I truly enjoy. She is no longer a princess, no longer a ruler, no longer a symbol of hope. She is just food that rots, but it is also her "rottenness" that I enjoy.
I have broken not only her body, but her spirit as well.
I rise from the dungeon, leaving Celestia in her own hell.
In the dark depths of the hive, among the winding corridors and pulsing chambers, I find my "jewel" - Princess Luna. Her abode is a web of interwoven threads of darkness, sticky and sinister, like a spider's web that has taken over her very being. Here, where once reigned nightly reveries, now dwells only despair, distorted by my will.
I think of her past, her eternal envy of Celestia, her hunger for recognition. She wanted to be an equal, wanted her magic to be appreciated, not to be hidden behind her sister's light. Now, ironically, I had made her the only one to give her any peace, however brief. I gave her what she desired.
Her horn, roughly cut off like a severed branch, is a reminder of her powerlessness. But most importantly, I stripped her of her will, turning her into a conduit for my nightmares. Her dark magic is now just a tool to control me, to increase my power.
"How do you like your new role, Luna?" - I whisper, my voice like the rustle of insect wings penetrating her consciousness. -
"Isn't it wonderful? Your night is now the only oasis of peace in this world. Your shadow has become the last refuge for these wretched creatures."
She doesn't answer, her eyes, once full of joy and mystery, now faded with pain and hopelessness. She realizes that I have turned her dreams into torture, that her desire for redemption has become nothing more than a tool for my amusement.
I watch as her magic, distorted by my web, envelops the world. In dreams, ponies see distorted images, their loved ones, their worst fears that fuel my power. I made her dreams the source of my prosperity.
She wanted to use the night for the benefit of others, and now I have made it so that her night is the time when the tormented peoples of Equestria can forget my domination for even a moment. She is their last hope for peace, and that knowledge torments her even more, for it was I who gave them that "peace." They hide in her darkness as I prepare to strike again, and it is this paradox that nourishes me, makes me stronger.
I remember her words about equality, about redemption. She talked about wanting to be useful, about wanting to help others. I perverted all of that, turning her into a source of despair and control. She wanted her night to be a salvation, and I made it just a brief respite before a new nightmare.
Her suffering is my pleasure, her broken dreams are my victory. I absorb her despair like a hungry insect drinking nectar from a flower.
I walk away, leaving her in her web, letting her continue to agonize. She wanted equality, and I gave her equality in suffering. Her night, her sleep, her magic, it all belongs to me, and I will use it until there is nothing left of her but the shadow of her former pride.
With each step through the dark corridors of the hive I move closer to my "favorite" captive, Princess Cadence. She, with her foolish belief in love and family, is more suited than anyone else to be the object of my sadistic pleasure. Her cell is a glass sarcophagus where she is on display for my judgment.
I remember her, naive and good-hearted, basking in her love for Shining Armor and her kingdom. She thought love could conquer all, but I showed her how wrong she was. Her love is her weakness, and now I use it as an instrument of her torture.
Her horn, cut off like her sisters, is a symbol of her powerlessness. It reminds her that her magic, based on love and harmony, can no longer help her. Her eyes, once full of kindness, now reflect only horror and despair.
"How do you like your new home, Cadence?" - I hiss, my voice like the scraping of metal penetrating her cell. - "Do you enjoy watching love desecrated, your family torn apart?"
Her cell is not just a dungeon, but a stage where my triumph over her ideals is played out.
I remember her when she was still a princess, basking in love and well-being. She thought her feelings could protect her and her people, but I showed her that love is only a weakness that can be exploited. And I would gladly use her weakness to destroy her.
She answers nothing, but tears roll down her cheeks, soaking the dirty floor of the sarcophagus. She knows I'm talking about Shining Armor, her husband. I keep him in a neighboring cell, chained to the wall so that he can't look away. And I take pleasure in imposing on him the role of spectator of her torture. His helplessness is just another reward for me.
Every day, every hour, I bring the reborn to her sarcophagus. They don't just crowd the glass, they climb on it, hoofing it, shouting foul curses, flaunting their perverted lust. Their faces are contorted with lust and their eyes with madness. Cadence looks at them and sees a reflection of their mangled goodness.
They paw at her through the glass, their fingers digging into the cold surface as if trying to reach her flesh. They spit on the glass, leaving dirty marks on it, as if defiling her image. They scream obscenities, telling her what they would like to do to her, and with each word, with each gesture, her soul dies a little more.
The worst part is what happens when the glass is pushed back for a while. A crowd of reborn men pounce on her, their rough hands gripping her body, tearing out wisps of hair. She screams, but her screams are drowned out by their savage howls. They touch her wherever they can reach, staining her body and her soul with their filth. She feels their stinking breath, their foul mouths, their lustful gazes, and it all turns her from a princess into nothing, into an object, into a dirty stain.
And all the while, her husband watches her, tied to the wall, and he can do nothing, can't protect her. His powerlessness is my favorite part of this torture. I see his spirit break, his love turn to self-loathing.
I savor every bit of her suffering, every tear, every moan. I feed off their pain, it makes me stronger, it makes me more powerful. I have made her love a torture, her faith a curse, her holiness a shame.
They see her as a trophy, as the object of their lustful lust, and their behavior is the epitome of my triumph over love. She wanted to protect her people, and I have turned her into an object of violence for them. Her love for her kingdom is now the catalyst for her humiliation.
Her love for her husband was now her torture, her love for her people was now her curse. I have destroyed everything that was sacred to her and turned her life into a perpetual nightmare.
I step away from her sarcophagus, leaving Cadence in her hell, leaving Shining in his powerlessness. I feel a surge of strength filling me to the brim.
I turn to leave the cell, and at that moment a new crowd of male reborns appears in the doorway. Their eyes burn with maddening fire, their bodies tense with lust. They jostle and rush forward like predators smelling prey. Their husky voices fill the room with foul screams and curses meant for Cadence.
I pause for a moment, watching their eagerness. I see Cadence flinch, her body covered in sticky sweat and more desperation in her eyes. She knows what awaits her, and her fear feeds me.
"Enjoy," I whisper to the crowd, and for a moment, the shadow of a predatory smile flickers in my eyes. - "She has more to offer you."
I take a step to the side, letting them into the chamber. Like a pack of hungry beasts, they immediately pounce on the sarcophagus, their bodies crowding against the glass, and I hear them start pounding on it with their hooves. Cadence screams, but her scream is drowned out by their foul roar, and I already know that those screams will echo in here long after I'm gone.
I leave the cell, leaving them alone with Cadence, knowing that their abuse will continue indefinitely. Their lust, their cruelty, their humiliation is just a reflection of my power, just another step towards the total destruction of Equestria. And I savor every moment, soaking up their pain like the nectar of my victory.
In the depths of the hive, outside the cells where the princesses languish, is a special dungeon. Here, at the very heart of my power, I hold Twilight Sparkle, the little unicorn who dared to defy me. Her cell is not a torture chamber, but rather a laboratory where I study the power of her friendship, or rather how to destroy it.
I remember her when she was a rebel leader, the one who fought against me with naive faith. She and her friends thought they could defeat me, that their friendship magic was strong enough. What foolishness! I knew perfectly well that my power was anything but their "friendship magic", but I wasn't going to take any chances. I couldn't let their stupid, illogical power get the upper hand.
Her horn was not severed, but was encased in a special restraining amulet that nullifies her magic. This amulet is my own invention, the fruit of long research and experimentation with her power. She must not become a threat, and I must understand how this "phenomenon" of friendship works.
Right now she sits in the corner of her cell, hunched over and staring at the floor. Her body is gaunt and her eyes are dimmed. She looks as if something very important has broken inside her. Her once bright aura has faded, as has her hope.
I walk over to her cell, and my chitinous feet tap lightly on the metal. Twilight lifts her eyes, but there is no recognition in them, only emptiness. She has become like a broken doll, bereft of life.
"Hello, Twilight," I hissed, my voice like a quiet squawk entering her mind. "How do you like your new abode? Do you like the solitude?"
Twilight is silent, only faintly trembling. Her mind seems to wander in the maze of her own nightmares. I feel her loss, her pain over losing her friends, and it feeds me. She wanted to save Equestria, and I took everything from her.
That's why I separated her and her friends as soon as I captured her. I knew their strength was in their unity, in their friendship, and if that bond was broken, they would become weak and helpless. I was prepared for them to fight against me, but I couldn't let them unite.
Rainbow Dash was put into hard labor in the mines, where her pride and speed was going to slowly break down.
Rainbow Dash, a pegasus whose wings once parted the clouds, was now imprisoned in an endless cycle of torment.
Her body gaunt, her fur covered in dirt and sweat, and her eyes dimmed with pain and fatigue. Her once vibrant mane has become tangled strands stained with blood and dust. She was no longer the Rainbow Dash that proudly flew through the skies.
Her wings, the symbol of freedom and speed, are now chained to a massive wheel. It spins, forcing her to fly without stopping, without being able to take a breath. Every flap of her wings is an unbearable pain in her muscles, in every bone. It's not flying, it's torture.
Rainbow has long since lost track of time. The days have merged into one endless torture, where she is forced to spin the damned wheel, forcing her body to work to its limits. Her legs shake, her muscles cramp, and her breathing becomes ragged and hoarse.
Every time the wheel makes a full turn, a spark of fury slips into her eyes. She tries to push away from it, to try to take off, but the chains hold her tight, preventing her from breaking free. Her strength is running out, but her pride won't let her give up.
Her body is covered in wounds, her wings bleeding, but she doesn't stop. She keeps flying, keeps spinning the wheel, like a broken machine doomed to move forever.
Rainbow Dash, and she will fly, even if it's the last thing she does. She will fly until her heart stops, until her wings break. She will fly because it's all she has left.
Fluttershy was imprisoned in a cage with the worst of the reborn, where her kindness became her curse.
In the deepest depths of the hive, Fluttershy, once the epitome of kindness and gentleness, languishes in her twisted prison. The cage in which she is imprisoned is not just a place of confinement, it is the stage where her personal nightmare is played out.
Her body has shrunk into a lump, as if trying to shrink to disappear. Her fur, once soft and delicate, is now piled in messy tangles, and her eyes, once full of love, are now filled with horror and disgust. Her wings, once light and graceful, are broken and bloody, no longer able to carry her away from this horror.
Fluttershy's cage is not just a cage, it is a panopticon of a twisted nature. Inside are not just reborn beasts, but beasts twisted and defiled by Chrysalis' will. Their gazes are full of lust, their movements crude and vulgar, and their instincts pushed to the limit.
Fluttershy, whose kindness has always extended to all living things, is now forced into intimacy with these perverted creatures. But in this twisted prison, she is not just an observer, she is the target of their lust. These animals she once protected and cherished are now using her body as an object to satisfy their filthy instincts.
At first they simply caressed her, touching her with their claws and beaks, but over time their actions became more and more violent and perverted. They pounce on her, bite her, lick her, and every touch, every caress is an agonizing torture to her soul.
She does not cry, there are no more tears. She doesn't scream, her voice is long since torn. She just waits, waits for this nightmare to end, but it doesn't. It goes on endlessly, from hour to hour, from day to day, from night to night.
Her wings, no longer a symbol of freedom, but a symbol of her powerlessness. She wants to fly, but she can't. She wants to escape, but the cage holds her captive. And all she can do is endure, endure this horror, this pain, this filth, until her soul dies of despair.
Fluttershy, broken and defiled, has become a shadow of herself, a living puppet used to satisfy perverted instincts. Her kindness, her tenderness, her love - all of it has been turned into an instrument of torture, an instrument of her eternal torment. And she doesn't know when or if this hell will end.
Applejack has been forced to work Deep underground, in the dark and stuffy mines. Here, in this abyss of meaningless labor, Applejack and her entire family languish. Earth ponies whose home was once a fertile farm are now slaves doomed to endless labor.
Applejack, once strong and proud, is now hunched over under the weight of an impossible burden. Her body is covered in scars and calluses, her fur is covered in dirt and coal dust, and her eyes are dimmed with fatigue and despair. She is no longer the Applejack who knew how to enjoy life and labor.
Laboring beside her are her little sister Apple Bloom, her older brother Big Mac, and even Granny Smith. All of them, without exception, have become mere laboring units in this cursed place. No one was spared, no one was exempted from this hell.
They are forced to work non-stop, from sunrise to sunset, in unbearable conditions. Their bodies are exhausted, their strength is running out, but they have no right to rest, no right to respite. They must dig, pull, push until they drop dead.
They remember their farm, their apples, their happy days, but these memories only add to the pain. They see their labor being used to destroy everything they held dear, and it breaks their hearts.
Applejack tries to support her family and cheer up her loved ones, but her words are empty and have no power. She can't save them, can't protect them from this hell. She feels guilty, feels helpless, feels like she has failed them.
She sees their bodies wearing down, their souls breaking, and her heart breaks with pain. She knows they will die soon, but there is nothing she can do. They work and work and work until there is nothing left of them but a dirty skeleton, but still, they go on.
Their work is nothing but torture, an exhausting and meaningless labor that destroys them slowly but surely. Their life has become an endless cycle of torment, a hell they cannot leave. They dig, they drag, they push, they give everything they have, but their suffering does not end.
There is no more love or hope in their eyes, only pain and weariness. They are slaves, chained to the ground, stripped of everything that made them themselves. And they continue to work, working to the end, as a laborer should. taking away everything she loved.
In the darkest corners of the hive, behind the walls of the torture chambers and dungeons, there is a room where dead silence reigns, broken only by the muffled clatter of falling tears. Here, in this space of despair, languishes Pinkie Pie. The pony whose trademark was once laughter and joy is now a prisoner of eternal sadness.
Her body is gaunt, her fur has faded, and her eyes have lost their mischievous sparkle. Her pink mane and tail, once lush and curly, now hangs in lifeless strands. She is no longer the Pinkie Pie who knew how to be cheerful and joyful.
Pinkie's room isn't just a prison, it's the stage on which her personal tragedy is played out. She sits in the center of the room, chained to the wall, and all that surrounds her is a faded and gloomy set. Her room is a room where fun is perverted.
She remembers her friends, her parties, how she loved to laugh and give joy to those around her. But these memories only add to her misery, reminding her of what she has lost. Every laugh she makes now hurts her heart, and she fears that her cheerfulness will forever be a shadow of her past life.
Her life is now an endless farce where she is forced to portray a mirth that is long gone. She is forced to participate in humiliating performances, she is forced to sing fake songs, she is forced to dance in ridiculous costumes. She must amuse those who hate her, those who enjoy her torment.
She screams, but her screams turn into laughter that sounds like crying. She cries, but her tears dry up, bringing no relief. She is no longer Pinkie, she is only her shadow, a caricature of joy and mirth.
Her eyes no longer have that boundless optimism, that childlike enthusiasm that once made her so special. Now there's nothing but emptiness and despair. Her fun, her joy, her laughter - all of it trampled, all of it turned into farce, into torture, into eternal and meaningless punishment.
She is Pinkie Pie, and now she is imprisoned in an eternal night where her joy is but an echo of the past and her mirth is but a mask to hide her pain. She knows her torment will never end, but she continues anyway because there is still hope in her. But hope for what? The hope that she will one day be able to laugh heartily again? Perhaps, but that hope hasn't warmed her soul for a long time now.
Rarity... In the depths of the hive, in a room that once held the scents of incense and sparkling sparks of inspiration, there was now only a cold, soulless light. Here, littered with the wreckage of her former greatness, languished Rarity. Her once majestic name had become a curse and her art a drudgery.
Rarity, once the epitome of exquisite taste and style, is now a hostage to her own talent. She is forced to create, to make jewelry, but every stitch, every curve is agonizing labor.
Her hooves, once graceful and elegant, are now covered in thick layers of calluses, the result of endless and uninterrupted labor. Her hooves, which once carried her with ease through the palace halls, are now adorned with bleeding blisters and deep cracks, a reminder of her hard work. Every attempt to raise her head is accompanied by sharp pain.
She is forced to create jewelry for the soldiers - ungrateful and rude, whose views lack respect for her labor. Their screams and obscene words echo through the room, drowning out Rarity's barely audible sighs. The ungrateful creatures see no beauty in her products, only a means to their own satisfaction.
But the worst part isn't just the physical pain. Her beauty, once her pride, has now become a curse. At any point in her work, behind the counter, in her room, even right in her workplace, she can be used to satisfy filthy desires, raw and mindless instincts. These violent acts have become the norm, taking away her freedom and human dignity.
She must ignore, suppress her feelings, hide her pain. Every refusal, every attempt at resistance only intensifies the cruelty and humiliation. Her talent, her desire for beauty, her beauty - all this is turned against her, turned into torture, into eternal captivity.
She remembers a time when her work was a source of inspiration and joy. Now she feels only pain and despair. Her silk fabrics, once symbols of elegance, are now mere matter used to indulge other people's desires. Each of her creations is a drop of blood, each stitch a sob.
She forces herself to work, forces herself to create, but her movements become increasingly mechanical, her inspiration extinguished like a candle flame. Her soul slowly fades like a flower left without water. Her beauty, once her pride, has become her stigma, her curse.
and, of course, a pesky little dragon.
In the main square of the hive, where the voices of victory once resounded, there was now a dead silence. Only an ominous silhouette towering over the crowd of reborns breaks the silence. Here, on a makeshift cross, nailed to an ignominious death, hangs Spike. The little dragon, whose loyalty and friendship had once been his greatest assets, was now a ghastly reminder of powerlessness and defeat.
His body mutilated and bloodied. His skin, once shiny and supple, had been ripped from him alive, exposing bone and muscle. These flaps that once made up his shell were now used for his own murder, coiled on crude spikes and driven into his body, nailing him to the cross.
He was crucified so that his suffering was visible to all, so that everyone could enjoy the spectacle of his torment. His little legs hung helplessly and his head was bowed sideways as if from helplessness. His eyes, once full of youthful fire, were now rolled back beneath his eyelids, and death was forever dwelling in them.
His body, devoid of all life, became prey for scavengers. The black birds that pecked at his flesh were oblivious to his pain. They tore his body apart, gouging out his eyes, looking for easy prey.
The entire square is filled with the smell of rotting flesh, but no one dares to remove his body. It is left hanging on the cross as a warning, as a reminder of what awaits anyone who dares to speak out against Chrysalis.
Spike, once Twilight's friend and comrade-in-arms, has become her shame. His death is not just murder, it is a desecration of all the values he once upheld. His crucifixion is a spit in the face of friendship, loyalty, and hope.
He was put on display for all to see that even the most loyal and sincere can be trampled, that even the weakest can be victimized by cruelty. His death is a lesson to all who would dare disobey Chrysalis' will.
His body remains on the cross until there is nothing left of him but bones.
But Twilight was special. Her intelligence, her magic, her leadership skills-all of it posed a threat to me. She was too dangerous to simply break her. I had to destroy her from the inside out, stripping her of her faith in what she was doing. I had to show her that her friendship was only an illusion.
I make her revisit her memories, twisting them, turning them into nightmares. I show her how her friends are suffering, and each time her faith in herself and in friendship weakens.
And I keep watching, keep studying, keep destroying until there is nothing left of her friendship.