Queen Anne Stuart of Great Britain sat stoically on her throne in St. James's Palace as Sam systematically eliminated her royal guards. The last Stuart monarch, her forty-four years had brought considerable physical suffering—seventeen pregnancies yielding no surviving heirs, devastating gout that left her largely immobile, and obesity that further compromised her health.
Yet despite her physical limitations, Anne displayed courage her Spanish counterpart had lacked. She remained seated, back straight despite obvious pain, her elaborate court dress with its enormous farthingale and intricate embroidery creating an illusion of grandeur around her suffering body.
"England has withstood the Spanish Armada, the Great Fire, and plague," she declared, her voice stronger than her frail appearance suggested. "We shall withstand you also, creature."
Sam approached, tilting his head with genuine curiosity. "Well, well... you're made of sterner stuff than Philip was. I'll give you that." He stepped over the body of a fallen guard, silver eyes gleaming with amusement. "Same god, same divine right nonsense, yet completely different reaction. Humans are full of surprises."
Around them, the throne room lay in ruins. The Duke of Marlborough—Anne's greatest general and architect of victories against France—lay dismembered nearby, his renowned strategic brilliance proving woefully inadequate against Sam's abilities. Sarah Churchill, the queen's once-favorite lady now turned political enemy, had died attempting to shield Anne despite their bitter estrangement.
"In God's name, what do you want?" Anne demanded, maintaining remarkable composure as Sam reached her throne.
"I'm conducting a little experiment on this whole divine right business," he explained, stopping before her. His mouth curled into a half-smile. "You Stuarts claim God personally picked you to rule, right? Funny how not a single shred of evidence backs that up."
The Queen's eyes narrowed. "Faith requires no evidence. That is why it is faith."
"Oh, that's rich!" Sam laughed, the sound echoing unnaturally through the blood-spattered chamber. "Circular logic at its finest. 'I believe it because I believe it.' Not exactly compelling, Your Majesty."
Outside, London's defenses had mobilized. The Tower's cannon fired continuous volleys against St. James's Palace. Regiments of redcoats established defensive positions throughout Westminster. Church bells rang in continuous alarm as clergymen led public prayers for divine intervention.
"Your soldiers are so predictable," Sam observed, glancing toward the windows. "Though I must admit, you're showing more backbone than expected. Most divinely-appointed rulers soil themselves by this point."
Anne's fingers gripped her throne's armrests. "I will not cower before the devil. A Stuart dies with dignity."
"Dignity?" Sam's eyebrows rose as he savored the word. "Now that's fascinating. No way to measure it, no objective criteria... just a performance for others to witness." He leaned closer, silver eyes glinting. "Let's test this dignity concept of yours, shall we?"
With a casual flick of his wrist, he telekinetically dissolved the Queen's elaborate clothing—layers of silk, whalebone, and embroidered fabric disintegrating into component threads. Anne gasped as she sat suddenly naked on her throne, her sagging, obesity-marked body exposed to the cold air.
To her credit, she quickly composed herself, crossing her arms over her breasts but maintaining eye contact. "My physical form does not define my sovereignty," she stated firmly. "God sees the soul, not the body."
"Impressive recovery," Sam admitted with a growing smile. "Though your body tells a different story than your words. Racing heart, flushed skin... all those little biological tells."
Indeed, Anne's body betrayed her—skin flushing with embarrassment, pupils dilating with fear, respiratory rate increasing with stress. Yet her expression remained determined, chin raised defiantly.
"This dignity of yours," Sam mused, stepping closer. "If it's real and not just a convenient fiction, it should withstand a bit more... testing, don't you think?"
He reached out, placing his hand against her bare shoulder. Anne flinched but didn't pull away, her expression remaining defiant despite obvious revulsion.
"Oh, now this is interesting," Sam murmured as his touch transmitted carefully calibrated energy. The nanites in his bloodstream had long since optimized his ability to manipulate nervous systems through direct contact.
Anne's eyes widened as unexpected sensations flooded her body. Sam's fingers trailed down from her shoulder to her breast, the contact sending waves of unwanted pleasure through neural pathways unused to such stimulation. Her nipple hardened involuntarily beneath his touch.
"Stop this," she commanded, though her voice wavered. "This... this indignity changes nothing."
"So you think sex is undignified? How utterly predictable," Sam laughed softly, continuing his methodical exploration. His fingers traced patterns across her skin, each touch transmitting energy precisely calibrated to her unique nervous system. "Just another natural biological function your religions have turned into something shameful."
Anne's breathing quickened despite her obvious effort to control it. When Sam's hand moved between her thighs, her body betrayed her completely—responding to expert manipulation with unmistakable arousal.
"Look at that," he observed with fascination. "Your mind says no, but your body says yes. Which one is the real you, I wonder?"
"Damn you," Anne gasped, her hips moving involuntarily against his hand. "This proves nothing about divine right."
"Maybe not directly," Sam acknowledged, continuing his methodical stimulation. "But it sure shows how hollow your concepts are when they crash against biological reality."
His fingers moved with inhuman precision, targeting nerve clusters with enhancement that amplified sensation beyond normal parameters. Each touch transmitted carefully controlled energy directly into her nervous system, bypassing ordinary physiological limitations.
Anne fought against her body's response, jaw clenched, eyes shut tight, hands gripping the throne until knuckles whitened. But her resistance proved futile against precise manipulation of her neural architecture. Waves of unwanted pleasure built inexorably as Sam systematically deconstructed her dignity through biological override.
"Stop," she begged, abandoning royal authority as orgasm approached. "Please... I cannot..."
"What happened to 'dignity means sticking to principles no matter what'?" Sam taunted, his thumb circling her clitoris while two fingers curled inside her. "Your principles don't seem to be holding up very well right now."
When orgasm finally took her, Anne's carefully maintained dignity shattered completely. She screamed—not in pain but in overwhelming pleasure—her body convulsing as decades of sexual repression collapsed beneath expert manipulation. Her hips bucked against Sam's hand, clear fluid ejaculating in a most unqueenly display.
"Well, that was unexpected," Sam remarked with genuine surprise. "Female ejaculation! I didn't think you had it in you, Your Majesty. I wonder if any of your royal physicians even knew that was possible."
Tears streamed down Anne's face as aftershocks rippled through her body. "Kill me," she whispered, all pretense of royal bearing abandoned. "Please... death before further shame."
Sam removed his hand, looking genuinely intrigued. "Now that's fascinating. You'd rather die than live with the shame. Your cultural programming is stronger than your survival instinct."
"What... what are you?" Anne asked, her voice broken.
"Just someone asking questions nobody else seems willing to ask," Sam replied with a shrug. "Like why everyone believes kings and queens have God's personal endorsement when there's absolutely nothing to back it up."
He placed his palm against her forehead, transmitting a fraction of his accumulated knowledge directly into her neural pathways—just enough to contextualize his existence without immediately destroying cognitive function.
Anne's eyes widened as her mind filled with impossible visions: Japanese scientists methodically experimenting on Sam's infant form, Soviet researchers testing radiation effects, American military personnel exploiting his strategic capabilities, his existence across multiple timelines.
"Impossible," she whispered, mind struggling to process information beyond her conceptual framework.
"You'd be amazed how often reality exceeds human imagination," Sam informed her with a thin smile. He stepped back, considering the naked, broken monarch before him. "I'll say this for you—you held onto your dignity longer than most."
With that assessment complete, he telekinetically separated her head from her body, granting relatively merciful death compared to his usual methodical dismantling. The last Stuart monarch's head rolled across the throne room floor, coming to rest beside her scattered clothing.
London burned around him as Sam systematically demolished its power structures. Westminster Abbey, St. Paul's Cathedral, the Tower—all reduced to rubble through precisely applied telekinetic force. The British government collapsed as its leadership was methodically eliminated, creating chaos that would reshape Europe's balance of power.
Throughout the destruction, Sam's observations remained consistent across multiple timelines: no divine intervention manifested despite comprehensive elimination of supposedly sacred institutions.
"Still no sign of divine rescue," he noted with growing amusement, watching from Primrose Hill as London burned below. "Either God's on an extended vacation, or—shocking thought—maybe there's no supernatural management team after all."
Sam considered his experimental results thus far. He had systematically eliminated divine representatives across multiple religions and cultures: the Papacy, Catholic monarchies, Protestant rulers, Japanese imperial bloodlines. None had demonstrated actual divine protection despite elaborate theological frameworks claiming supernatural endorsement.
Yet one major system remained untested: China's Mandate of Heaven—the philosophical framework that had shaped his maternal ancestors' civilization for millennia. Sam had deliberately avoided this experimental variable despite hundreds of timeline variations.
"Maybe I need to hit all the supposed divine authorities at once," he reasoned, feeling an unexpected reluctance about this particular target. "The Chinese Emperor—the Son of Heaven—is the last major player on my list."
The Chinese Emperor represented the last major untested divine representative. Yet disrupting this particular bloodline meant potentially eliminating his own ancestral lineage.
"Interesting," Sam mused. "Am I actually feeling sentimental about this one? Maybe there's more of my mother's heritage in me than I thought."
The realization unsettled him. Throughout his experiments across multiple timelines, he'd maintained clinical detachment—a necessary defense mechanism against the overwhelming trauma encoded in his perfect memory. But something about systematically dismantling the Chinese imperial system—the civilization that had shaped his maternal lineage for millennia—triggered unexpected reluctance.
"Fuck that," he decided, shaking off the momentary hesitation. "I've got more European 'divine authorities' to test before heading east."
Sam activated his Chronosphere, the jade pendant at his throat pulsing with otherworldly energy as reality distorted around him. Molecular bonds loosened as the temporal vortex formed, carrying him to his next experimental location.
"Let's see if Russian divinity is more responsive than the British version."
---
The Winter Palace in St. Petersburg stood as a magnificent testament to Russia's growing power. Recently expanded under Empress Catherine I, its imposing facade combined Western European elegance with distinctly Russian grandeur. Snow fell gently outside, coating the capital in pristine white that belied the brutality of Imperial Russia's rise to prominence.
Grand Duchess Catherine, wife of the heir apparent Peter Fyodorovich, strode through the palace's Mirror Gallery with purpose that belied her precarious position. Born Sophie Friederike Auguste von Anhalt-Zerbst in Prussia, she had transformed herself into the perfect Russian royal through sheer force of will, mastering the language, converting to Orthodoxy, and navigating court politics with astonishing skill.
At thirty-three, she cut an impressive figure—tall and graceful with intelligent eyes, her elaborate court dress rustling as she moved. Though not conventionally beautiful, Catherine possessed something far more valuable: presence. Men and women alike found themselves drawn to her magnetic personality and formidable intellect.
"Your Highness," called Grigory Orlov, her current lover and co-conspirator in the growing plot to depose her husband once he inherited the throne. The handsome Guards officer bowed as she approached. "The Empress has requested your presence in the Grand Reception Room."
Catherine's expression revealed nothing, though internally she calculated possible reasons for the summons. Empress Elizabeth, while fond of her personally, had grown increasingly erratic in recent years.
"Thank you, Count Orlov," she replied formally, mindful of surrounding courtiers. "I shall attend her immediately."
As Catherine turned toward the Reception Room, the palace shook with a thunderous explosion. Screams erupted from the direction of the imperial apartments, followed by the unmistakable sound of gunfire.
"The Empress!" Orlov drew his sword, palace guards rushing toward the disturbance.
Catherine's strategic mind instantly assessed potential threats—a coup attempt, foreign assassination, rebellion. None seemed likely given Russia's current stable position, yet something was clearly wrong.
"Your Highness, you must secure yourself immediately," Orlov insisted, taking her arm.
Catherine hesitated, weighing political calculations against personal safety. "A future empress does not hide while her sovereign faces danger," she decided, gathering her skirts and moving purposefully toward the commotion.
They arrived at the Grand Reception Room to find its massive doors torn from their hinges, splinters of ornate woodwork scattered across marble floors. Inside, the scene defied comprehension.
Empress Elizabeth Petrovna—daughter of Peter the Great and current ruler of Russia—lay dismembered across her throne, her elaborate court dress soaked crimson. Around her, dozens of imperial guards lay dead or dying, their weapons bent into impossible shapes, bodies contorted unnaturally.