100x Rebate Sharing System: Retired Incubus Wants to Marry & Have Kids

Chapter 747: Chapter 746- Needing a Mermaid

He came. The load, thick and hot, erupted inside her. The cum, flooding her canal, filled her. The pressure, the ’he-is-filling-me-again’ pressure, made her body arch. Her belly, the soft dwarven belly, swelled slightly. The overflow, leaking from her entrance around his shaft, ran down her thighs. Onto the floor. Onto the desk’s leg.

He pulled out. The cock, emerging from her pussy, was followed by a gush of cum. The white fluid, thick and heavy, poured from her entrance. Her pussy, stretched and gaping, did not close. The hole, the ruined entrance, was a tunnel of pink flesh and white seed.

He stepped back. Zipped his pants. The motion, casual and routine, was the ’I-am-done-with-her’ dismissal. He walked. Toward the door. Past Dorin. Without looking at either of them.

Meg lay on the desk. Her body, bent and used, was still. Her face, slack and empty, bore the ’fucked-past-thought’ expression. Her pussy, leaking, was a mess. Her mouth, open, drooled.

Dorin ran. To his wife. His hands, reaching for her shoulder, tried to shake her. The ’are-you-alright’ shake that was also the ’please-come-back-to-me’ plea.

"Meg," he whispered. His voice cracked. "Meg, are you—"

She slapped his hand. The motion, sharp and instant, was a rejection. The ’do-not-touch-me’ strike that was also the ’I-am-not-yours’ statement. Her eyes, which had been empty, found his face. The ’you-are-not-my-master’ look that was also the ’he-is’ declaration.

"Don’t touch me," she said. Her voice, hoarse but firm, carried the certainty of a woman who had been claimed. "Young lord has promised to give me wealth and power. He would give me whatever I want."

She stood. Her body, trembling, pushed itself off the desk. Her legs, the thick dwarven legs, held. Her pussy, still leaking, dripped onto the floor. The cum, the white fluid, ran down her thighs. She did not care. She rubbed her belly. The gesture, the ’I-am-full-of-his-seed’ gesture, was tender.

"I just need to give him a baby," she said. The ’I-want-to-bear-his-child’ statement that was also the ’I-will-be-his’ declaration.

Dorin trembled. His mouth, open, produced the question that he did not want to ask. "What... what happened to you?"

Meg turned. Her face, which had been slack, bore a smile. The ’I-have-seen-the-light’ smile that was also the ’I-am-free’ joy. The expression, on her cum-covered face, was maniacal. The ’I-have-found-my-purpose’ madness that was also the ’this-is-what-I-was-made-for’ certainty.

"I need to prepare," she said. Her voice, which had been hoarse, was now bright. The ’I-have-a-plan’ brightness that was also the ’I-will-do-anything’ devotion. "Make my pussy more tight. Do workout for him. So I can milk his cock so much and get knocked up by him and give birth to a healthy baby."

She laughed. The sound, high and musical, was unhinged. The ’I-am-going-to-have-his-baby’ laughter that was also the ’nothing-else-matters’ dismissal. "Haha! Hahaha! My darling! My master!"

She walked. Out of the office. Her step, which had been unsteady, was now brisk. Her body, which had been bent and broken, was straight. Her pussy, leaking cum, left a trail on the floor. She did not care. She was a woman with a mission. The mission was to please her master. The mission was to bear his child. The mission was everything.

Dorin fell. His knees, which had been weak, gave out. His body, the stocky dwarf frame, hit the floor. His hands, at his sides, were limp. His face, which had been gray, was now empty. The ’I-have-lost-everything’ emptiness that was also the ’what-have-you-done’ question that had no answer.

"I lost my wife," he whispered. His voice, barely audible, was a croak. "All. What have you done."

The question, directed at no one, was the confession of a broken man. The ’she-is-gone’ reality that was also the ’I-am-alone’ certainty that was also the ’I-cannot-blame-anyone-but-myself’ acceptance.

Viktor descended the stairs. His step, measured and calm, echoed in the mansion’s entry hall. His hands, in his pockets, were relaxed. His face, composed and sharp, bore a slight smirk. The ’I-just-fucked-someone’s-wife-and-she-chose-me’ smirk that was also the ’business-calls’ dismissal.

The butler, who had been following, was a wreck. His eyes, red-rimmed and wet, bore the evidence of tears. His step, unsteady, was the ’my-life-is-over’ walk. His hands, which had been trembling since the office, were shaking.

The entry hall, the mansion’s modest greeting area, held a single figure. The man, who stood in the center of the room, was not tall. His body, soft and round, suggested a life of excess. His clothes, expensive and tailored, suggested wealth. His face, clean-shaven and oily, suggested cunning. His eyes, which darted around the room, suggested nervousness.

He was a slave trader. Not a street-level peddler. A professional. The kind of man who handled ’exotic merchandise’ for noble clients. The kind of man whose name appeared in ledgers alongside large numbers and vague descriptions.

He bowed. The motion, deep and practiced, was the ’I-respect-your-authority’ bow that was also the ’please-don’t-kill-me’ plea.

"Greetings, young lord," he said. His voice, smooth and oily, carried the practiced charm of a salesman. "I have heard about you from Lady Eliantra."

The name, ’Lady Eliantra’, was the confirmation. Viktor, who had instructed Eliantra to arrange a slave trader before leaving the Heartfield territory, felt a pulse of satisfaction. The mistress of the Heartfield territory, the woman who had been given the task of managing the region, had done what was easiest and most efficient. She had found a trader. She had sent him. She had handled it.

’Good girl,’ Viktor thought. The ’she-knows-her-place’ approval that was also the ’she-is-useful’ assessment.

"What happened?" Viktor asked. His voice, casual and disinterested, was the ’I-am-busy-so-be-quick’ tone. "Why are you here?"

The trader, whose forehead was beaded with sweat, smiled. The ’I-have-what-you-want’ smile that was also the ’please-pay-me’ plea.

"I have brought the list of the demon king that you asked Lady Eliantra for," he said. The ’demon king’ phrasing, which was the code for ’demon women available for purchase’, was delivered in a hushed tone. The ’we-are-discussing-illegal-things’ whisper that was appropriate for the capital’s atmosphere.

"You’re fast," Viktor said. The compliment, delivered without warmth, was the ’good-job-but-don’t-expect-praise’ dismissal.

Naturally, before leaving the Heartfield territory, Viktor had told Eliantra to arrange a slave trader who could sell him one or two demon women. The purpose was not simply acquisition. The purpose was testing. The ’100-times-rebate’ system, which had been his divine ability since the beginning, had recently granted him a new power. The power of rune inscription.

The ability, which had been absorbed from the wing-haired dwarven woman he had fucked, was the power to embed magic circles on a body. Like a tattoo. A tattoo that would trigger a particular power when activated. The 100-times multiplier meant that his version of the ability was far beyond what the original dwarven woman had possessed. Where she could inscribe simple runes, he could inscribe complex magic circles. Where she needed materials and preparation, he could do it with a touch.

The issue was the runes themselves. The symbols, the inscription codes that converted raw magical power into a particular effect, were lost. The ancient runes, the ninth-circle inscriptions that could grant supernatural abilities to anyone regardless of their magical core, were fragments. Pieces. The knowledge of how to transcribe ninth-circle magic into rune form was not in his possession. He had the pen. He had the paper. He did not have the alphabet.

For that, he needed a mermaid.