Villain's Breeding System: Evolving 999+ Harem into an SSS-Rank Legion

Chapter 676: Chapter 676- Kidnapped the Queen’s Son

In the market, Sera walked.

The boy was beside her. His small hand was in hers. His dark hair caught the light. His face was bright. Interested. He was looking at everything— the stalls, the merchants, the fruit, the bread, the people.

Sera was looking at nothing.

Her mind was on the door she had left behind. On the sounds that had come through it. On the moans. On the cries. On the wet, obscene, relentless sounds that she had heard and that her body had responded to and that her mind could not stop replaying.

She was wet.

Her panty was soaked. The training tunic did not show it— the loose fabric hid the stain. But she could feel it. The warmth. The slick. The aching. Her nipples were stiff— pressing against the tunic, visible if anyone looked. Her pussy was throbbing— the lips swollen, the clit aching, the need building.

The pheromones. His pheromones. They were still in her blood. From three days ago. From the pill that Goliath had forced into her mouth. From the kiss that Raven had used to push it down her throat. The drug was still working. Still amplifying. Still making her body respond to the memory of his hands, his mouth, his cock.

"By the way, Sera aunt," the boy said.

His voice cut through her thoughts. She blinked. She looked down. At his face. At his bright eyes. At his innocent smile.

"Yes?" she said.

"I was saying—" he started.

Hands.

From the alley. From the shadow. Two men. Dark cloaks. Hoods. Their hands came fast. One grabbed the boy— his hand clamped over the child’s mouth, silencing the scream before it could form. The other grabbed Sera— his hand over her mouth, his arm around her waist, lifting her off the ground.

Sera’s eyes went wide.

Her training kicked in. Her body moved. Her elbow drove backward— into the man’s ribs. She felt the impact. She felt the grunt. She twisted. Her hand found his wrist. She pulled. Her fingers dug into the tendons. The man’s grip loosened.

She bit his hand.

Her teeth sank into the flesh between his thumb and forefinger. The taste of blood— copper, salt— filled her mouth. The man screamed. He let go.

She spun.

She reached for the boy. Her hand found air. The other man was running— the boy under his arm, the child’s legs kicking, his muffled screams disappearing into the dark cloth of the hood.

Sera ran.

She chased. Her boots slapped the cobblestones. Her lungs burned. Her heart hammered. She could see the man— his dark cloak, his running form, the boy’s small legs dangling.

She was fast. Faster than most men. Sixteen years of training. Sixteen years of running. Sixteen years of building a body that could move.

But the man was faster.

He turned a corner. She followed. He entered an alley. She entered. Her hand reached out— her fingers brushed the cloak—

Something hit her.

Not a fist. Not a weapon. Something invisible. Something that struck her body like a wall of force— not painful, not violent, but overwhelming. Like being submerged in water. Like being wrapped in wool. Like being pulled under by a current that was too strong to fight.

Her legs gave out.

She fell.

Her knees hit the cobblestones. Her hands hit the ground. Her vision blurred. The world tilted. The alley spun— the stone walls, the gray sky, the running figure of the man with the boy.

She reached out.

Her fingers scraped the stone.

"Bastards—" she gasped. Her voice was a whisper. A breath. The strength was draining from her body— from her legs, from her arms, from her fingers. The invisible force was pulling it out. Draining it. Taking it.

She collapsed.

Her face hit the cobblestone. The cold stone pressed against her cheek. Her eyes were open. She could see— blurry, swimming, but she could see. She could see the end of the alley. She could see the street beyond. She could see the man— running, the boy under his arm, the child’s dark hair bouncing, his small legs kicking.

She could not move.

She could not stand.

She could not help him.

"You bastards—" she whispered again. The words were barely audible. A breath. A prayer. A curse.

The man turned the corner.

The boy was gone.

Sera lay in the alley.

Her eyes were open. Her body was not responding. The paralysis was fading— slowly, the feeling returning to her fingers, to her toes, to her legs. But it was slow. Too slow.

She could hear voices. People. A crowd was gathering. A woman was kneeling beside her. A man was calling for a guard.

"Are you all right?" the woman said. Her face was above Sera’s— round, concerned, the face of a merchant’s wife. "What happened? Did they hurt you?"

Sera tried to speak. Her mouth moved. The words came out— broken, slurred, the voice of a woman whose body has been drugged and whose mind is still reeling.

"The boy—" she gasped. "They took— the boy—"

"Who?" the man said. He was kneeling now too. His hand was on her shoulder. "Who took the boy?"

"Men— dark cloaks— they grabbed— they—"

She tried to sit up. The woman held her. The man steadied her. The crowd pressed in— faces, voices, hands. Someone brought water. Someone brought a cloth. Someone ran to find a guard.

Sera sat in the alley.

Her body was trembling. Her hands were shaking. Her eyes were wet. The boy’s hand was gone from hers. The warm, small, soft hand of a child who had been her responsibility. Who she had been told to care for. Who she had let go.

She had let him go.

Her fingers curled. Her fists clenched. Her nails dug into her palms. The calloused hands of a fighter. The strong hands of a knight. The hands that had held a sword for sixteen years and that could not hold a child for fifteen minutes.

She had failed.

High above, on the sloped roof of a nearby tavern, two cloaked figures stood motionless in the shadows of a chimney. Their dark hoods blended with the gray sky and weathered tiles.

They had watched everything—the swift grab in the market, the chase, the invisible spell that had dropped Sera like a stone. One figure, taller and broader, rested a gloved hand on the hilt of a concealed blade.

The other, slimmer and more still, held a small crystal orb that pulsed faintly with residual magic.

The taller one spoke, his voice low and gravelly, barely carrying on the wind. "The boy’s secure. The sedative worked perfectly on the woman. She fought like a cornered wolf, but it wasn’t enough."

The slimmer figure nodded once, eyes fixed on Sera below through the narrow gap between buildings. She was pushing herself to her feet now, shrugging off helping hands, her face a mask of fury and despair. "Send the information to the crown prince immediately," he said.

His tone was calm, almost clinical. "Tell him we have gotten our hands on the first queen’s son. The bloodline is ours. Phase one is complete."