I remember the church. The one in the frost town where you first arrive, all frozen stone and awkward silences. There is a nun there. Something about the way the text described her, the stiffness in her robes, the cold air. I wanted to corrupt her. Not for a quest. There was no reward marker. I just... needed to see what the writing would do.

The game is Corruption of Champions II, but that title feels too grand for what it actually is. A text box with a portrait above it. The portrait changes, by the way. That is important. The first time you notice the nun’s expression has shifted, her cheeks flushed, lips parted just slightly. You did that. Go back to the button that says Talk and suddenly there is a new option. The word appears in brackets, something blunt, unpoetic. It mentions her habit riding up.

My fingers are not on her. There is no animation. There is just a paragraph, and then another. I am reading about her thighs. About the damp spot on her leggings. The game does this thing where it never lets you forget you are pushing, prodding, coaxing a person out of their own convictions. Her dialogue stumbles. The prose luxuriates in the whimper she tries to swallow. I did not care about the demon war for about three real days. I was in that church, making a nun admit things to herself while another part of the interface tracked whether I was becoming more masculine or feminine from some contaminated water I drank earlier.

And then there was a yeti. A male yeti, very interested in the nun and also in me. The scene layers in without warning. Her shame flickers into something else entirely while the monster’s cock, described with the same clinical precision the game uses for a dropped sword, presses against her back. The writing just keeps going. It will not look away. It gives you choices like Wait and Watch. Choosing Watch gives you a long, terrible paragraph about a holy woman’s ahegao face while being mounted by a thing that was trying to kill you five minutes ago.

At some point I realized my character, a slim catfolk I had built for speed, was essentially a femboy now. Not from a menu. From events. From allowing things to happen. The character sprite looked different. The NPCs addressed me different. The yeti did not care. The nun cared, but not in the way you think. It made me think about how little we truly guide anything here. The game just remembers everything and then uses it later in a brothel scene involving a milky breast pump.

I keep loading my save just to make that one guard at the gate blush when I walk past. He has no name.