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Kill Bull Vol 3 Magical Morning Milking Farm Massacre
3D Render by LoveRealPeopleTitle: KILL BULL: VOLUME 3
MAGICAL MORNING MILKING FARM MASSACRE
In the misty dawn light of the Cambric Hills, the minotaurs of Thornwood Milking Farm stirred from their stalls, lowing softly as the first shift of "technicians" arrived. They were used to soft hands, clinical efficiency, and the promise of relief in exchange for their precious seed—the stuff that fueled half the city's miracle tonics.
But today, one technician was different.
A lone figure stepped through the barn doors, cloaked in simple white linen that caught the sunrise like fresh snow. A young minotaur, broad-shouldered and newly assigned to the morning rotation, paused mid-stride. His nostrils flared at her scent—clean, almost holy.
"You look like an angel sent down to tend us," he rumbled, voice thick with awe and something hungrier. He lowered his horns in shy deference, offering his massive frame as though she might stroke him into bliss like the others.
She tilted her head, lips curving into a smile that didn't reach her eyes.
"I was," she said softly.
Then her back arched.
Twin wings of pure, molten fire erupted behind her—crimson and gold, scorching the air, igniting stray bits of hay in an instant. The barn filled with the acrid stink of burning fur and panicked bellows.
Some minotaurs bolted for the exits, hooves thundering against wooden planks, only to find the doors sealed by shimmering walls of flame. Others lowered their horns and charged, roaring defiance, ancient battle instincts overriding fear.
They all fell.
Claws of living fire tore through hide and muscle. Horns melted like wax. Bodies crumpled in smoking heaps, their final lowing choked into silence. The "angel" moved among them with terrible grace—unhurried, methodical, as though passing divine sentence. Blood hissed and steamed where it met her wings. The milking stalls, once symbols of domestication and quiet humiliation, became altars of retribution.
By the time the sun cleared the horizon, the farm was a charnel house. Dozens of minotaur corpses lay in grotesque poses, their once-proud frames reduced to charred meat and ruin. The air reeked of brimstone and judgment.
When the town's police finally arrived—drawn by smoke signals visible for miles—they could only stand in stunned silence. No weapon marks. No footprints. No sign of struggle beyond the frantic, futile attempts to flee. Just fire-blackened flesh and the unmistakable sense that something had weighed each soul and found it wanting.
The message was clear. This was no random slaughter. It was the opening act.
Somewhere, another milking operation would open its gates at dawn tomorrow. And the angel would come again.
MAGICAL MORNING MILKING FARM MASSACRE
In the misty dawn light of the Cambric Hills, the minotaurs of Thornwood Milking Farm stirred from their stalls, lowing softly as the first shift of "technicians" arrived. They were used to soft hands, clinical efficiency, and the promise of relief in exchange for their precious seed—the stuff that fueled half the city's miracle tonics.
But today, one technician was different.
A lone figure stepped through the barn doors, cloaked in simple white linen that caught the sunrise like fresh snow. A young minotaur, broad-shouldered and newly assigned to the morning rotation, paused mid-stride. His nostrils flared at her scent—clean, almost holy.
"You look like an angel sent down to tend us," he rumbled, voice thick with awe and something hungrier. He lowered his horns in shy deference, offering his massive frame as though she might stroke him into bliss like the others.
She tilted her head, lips curving into a smile that didn't reach her eyes.
"I was," she said softly.
Then her back arched.
Twin wings of pure, molten fire erupted behind her—crimson and gold, scorching the air, igniting stray bits of hay in an instant. The barn filled with the acrid stink of burning fur and panicked bellows.
Some minotaurs bolted for the exits, hooves thundering against wooden planks, only to find the doors sealed by shimmering walls of flame. Others lowered their horns and charged, roaring defiance, ancient battle instincts overriding fear.
They all fell.
Claws of living fire tore through hide and muscle. Horns melted like wax. Bodies crumpled in smoking heaps, their final lowing choked into silence. The "angel" moved among them with terrible grace—unhurried, methodical, as though passing divine sentence. Blood hissed and steamed where it met her wings. The milking stalls, once symbols of domestication and quiet humiliation, became altars of retribution.
By the time the sun cleared the horizon, the farm was a charnel house. Dozens of minotaur corpses lay in grotesque poses, their once-proud frames reduced to charred meat and ruin. The air reeked of brimstone and judgment.
When the town's police finally arrived—drawn by smoke signals visible for miles—they could only stand in stunned silence. No weapon marks. No footprints. No sign of struggle beyond the frantic, futile attempts to flee. Just fire-blackened flesh and the unmistakable sense that something had weighed each soul and found it wanting.
The message was clear. This was no random slaughter. It was the opening act.
Somewhere, another milking operation would open its gates at dawn tomorrow. And the angel would come again.
Kill Bull Vol 3 Magical Morning Milking Farm Massacre
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