“Found it!” Harry cheered, his patience rewarded as he popped open the small chest buried under the dilapidated shrine, or at least what remained of it. Presumably it had been a more impressive monument in its time, but hundreds of years later it was just a moss-covered rock in the middle of nowhere begging for its treasure to be uncovered.

Harry was grinning from ear to ear as he removed the antiquated sword that lay within the box, the object of this weeks-long expedition into an old forest fraught with danger. Harry fancied himself as something of an adventurer, albeit admittedly not a very good one. Only talented enough in combat to get by against the feeblest of foes and weakest of monsters, he found himself mostly just another hired goon in a crowd, subsisting on enough scraps long enough to challenge another bounty or take on another job where he’d be inevitably beaten out by somebody more competent than he.

But no longer! Realising his limits, Harry had sought to take the easy way out: obtain a piece of legendary equipment that would even the odds and grant him the strength he lacked. Following rumours, folk tales, and drunken tales, he had tracked down a shrine dedicated to the legendary warrior woman Beatrix, whose legend had become obscure enough that few went looking for her treasure, said to have been imbued with the strength she held in life much like the weapons, armour, and trinkets of many other venerated heroes. It, of course, never occurred to Harry that there might be a reason why nobody had gone looking for it before now.

The sword certainly looked ancient enough, Harry thought as he confirmed that the sword hadn’t rusted and seemed as sharp as ever. He’d patched together a basic idea of Beatrix’s profile, although he wasn’t sure if she was a huntress, shield maiden, or both and more. However, all physical descriptions were consistent: she was a physically huge woman, immensely strong, and was legendarily boisterous, out eating and outdrinking her male companions.



Logically, he thought as he strapped the scabbard to his waist and drew the sword, feeling its magical buzz tingle at his fingertips, it must give him the strength of ten men, or something like that, and there was only one way to test it out! He gripped it tight and with a mighty shout, swung with all his strength at the tree in front of him, then yelped as the sword embedded itself an inch deep into the thick wood and stopped dead in its tracks, no better than a regular sword.

“Wait, am I supposed to activate it first?” He massaged his wrist after wrenching it out. “Or does it… well, whatever, if I can’t figure it out I’ll just hawk the damn thing.”



He continued to massage his wrist, which felt strangely soft. Normally his hands were rough and calloused, his forearms rather bony from his underwhelming diet. He glanced down, eyes narrowing at the unusual sight. Was it just him, or was his hand rather… bloated? It looked soft, squishy even, and strangely smooth. It was definitely thicker, as was his wrist, now visibly puffier than his other. Even worse, the puffiness seemed to be spreading up his arm, getting wider and larger as it went. Harry swore, realising the weapon must have been cursed somehow, only to realise that his fingers were wrapped tight around the weapon’s handle and wouldn’t budge.

From there, it spread quickly up his sleeve, his arm more than doubling in thickness and what he realised to be after it reached his shoulder, fat. His decently muscular bicep bulged outward, pressing against the cloth sleeves of his shirt until the threads gave out and tore entirely, revealing his wobbling pale arm to the world. He poked it in confused awe, wondering just what it was turning him into.

He could feel the fatness spreading across his body from right to left, and already there was a feeling of pressure coming from under his leather armour. Not waiting to take chances he fumbled with the leather breastplate’s straps, unable to do much with only one useful hand, and even that was starting to turn symmetrical as fat was piled onto his arm from top to bottom, first feeling his bicep squish against his plate as he reached across, until his fingers started to fumble from how thick they were.

Starting to gasp from how compressed his chest was, Harry struggled on, even as he felt his neck start to squash as his number of chins rapidly multiplied, his cheeks turning cherubic and broadening further than he could imagine, his whole face feeling like it was sagging under its own weight. Finally he loosened the final strap and let it free with a high pitched gasp, letting two huge fleshy mounds flop out of their leather prison, his shirt underneath loose enough to contain them, at the expense of revealing that he was looking down into what was inarguably cleavage.

They were too round, too soft, too bouncy to be anything but boobs, a primal part of his brain realised. Manboobs as they might be unflatteringly referred to as could never get this huge, and they were getting huger as they tested the limits of his baggy shirt, far too big for even his fat hands to cup. Just when he thought they stopped at the size of melons he gasped again, needing to loosen his felt as the change hit his waist like a truck. His gut flowed outwards, piling on pound after pound as his waist stretched to match. He was thickening again, widening at the hips to more than twice he’d been moments earlier.

At this point he noticed what seemed to be vivid red hair obscuring one of his eyes, and been that and his strangely high pitched gasping, Harry suddenly had an inkling of what was happening to him. He rushed over to a nearby stream, huffing as his entire body shook and wobbled with each step. Despite that he was strangely fast, stumbling only when a sudden sharp pain hit him between the legs, followed by his thighs rubbing together as he felt his huge new ass bounce behind him.

His pants split from his massive ass cheeks as he tried to bend over to get a good look at himself, speechless as he fell onto all fours and stared into the shocked face of a beautiful but heavily obese woman, easily the heaviest he’d ever seen. His gut spilled so far it pressed against the ground beneath him, or rather her as it became undeniable both visibly and physically that he’d turned into a woman, presumably the spitting image of Beatrix herself. Even her hairstyle had changed, going from a short brown cut to bright red hair falling to her shoulders, one eye clear while the other was almost covered by her bangs. Despite herself, all she could think when she looked into her reflection was that she was beautiful.

Her transformation complete, the sword finally fell from her hand, although she quickly picked it back up as she tried to decide what to do next. Bordering on half naked she was ready to panic, but it was perhaps the spirit or will of Beatrix that kept Harry strangely calm.

She stepped away from the stream, pacing around as she tried to figure out what to do, and couldn’t help but notice that despite her immense weight and jiggly gut that fell almost to her knees, she felt rather light on her feet. She jogged around for a minute to get used to her body, finding that her fat didn’t seem to be weighing her down at all. Her eyes naturally fell to the sword, and she had a toothy grin on her face as she stood down the thickest oak tree around her, letting out a feminine yet fearsome yell as she swung at the tree and cleaved clean through like butter. The once-tree now-log fell towards her, Harry effortlessly catching it with her free hand.

She began to laugh uncontrollably, already deciding that despite everything, this transformation wasn’t so bad after all. She was powerful, beautiful, and strong enough to challenge anybody who dared say to her face otherwise. Harry had always been a feeble second-stringer with no reputation to call his own, but perhaps the legend of Beatrix could begin anew here…

The new Beatrix wandered off, deciding that her first order of business was some properly fitting clothes and a good drink…