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

Chapter 683: Chapter 683- The Capital Hunt Begins

The capital bled.

Not with blood—not yet. With movement. With sound. With the grinding, clashing, inexorable machinery of two factions that had coexisted in brittle silence for twenty years and that had just been given a reason to shatter. The First Queen’s guards wore silver.

The Crown Prince’s guards wore white. In the golden morning light of the capital, the streets looked like a river of mercury colliding with a river of milk—two currents that should not mix, that could not mix, that tore at each other when they touched.

The first skirmish happened at the eastern gate.

A squad of the Queen’s Own—twelve soldiers, silver-tabarded, led by a captain whose jaw was set like iron—encountered a patrol of the Crown’s Guard. Words were exchanged. Swords were drawn. Steel rang on steel in the narrow street, the sound bouncing off the stone walls, startling pigeons from the rooftops. Two men fell—one from each side. The rest retreated, dragging their wounded, leaving blood on the cobblestones.

The second skirmish was at the market square.

The Queen’s guards—twenty of them—tried to enter the merchant quarter. The Crown’s guards blocked them. A standoff. Shields raised. Spears lowered. The captain of the Queen’s guard shouted that they were searching for the Queen’s son. The captain of the Crown’s guard shouted that the Queen had no son. Someone pushed. Someone shoved. A spear thrust. A man screamed. And then the square erupted—bodies clashing, armor scraping, the sound of combat filling the air like thunder.

The third skirmish did not happen in a street.

It happened in an alley.

The alley was narrow. Dark. The kind of alley that exists between buildings that were built too close together, where the sunlight never reaches, where the stone is always damp, where the air smells of rotting vegetables and piss and the accumulated misery of a hundred years of poverty. It was in the commoner’s quarter. The residential district. The place where people lived who had nothing to do with queens or princes or factions.

Four guards moved through it.

They wore the silver tabards of the Queen’s Own. Their armor was half-on—the breastplates loose, the straps dangling, the helmets missing. They were drunk. Not slightly drunk. Very drunk. The kind of drunk that comes from raiding a wine cellar during a crisis, from stealing bottles from a merchant whose shop you just searched, from the knowledge that the city is in chaos and that no one is watching and that authority has broken down and that you can do whatever you want.

Their cocks were hard.

Visible. Pressing against their trousers. The fabric tented. One of them—the tallest, the one in front—was rubbing himself as he walked. His hand was on his crotch, massaging the bulge, his fingers squeezing the head through the cloth. He was grinning. The grin of a man who has done this before and who knows that he will do it again and who does not care.

"Third house on the left," one of them said. His voice was slurred. Thick with wine. "The informant said she lives there. The witch."

"Witch?" another said. He was shorter. Wider. His belly pressed against his breastplate. "What witch?"

"The one who knows about the boy," the tall one said. He stopped rubbing himself. He walked to the door. "She is a healer. An herbalist. She knows things. We ask her questions. She answers."

"And if she does not?" the short one said. His grin matched the tall one’s.

The tall one grinned back.

"Then we persuade her," he said.

He knocked.

The door opened.

A woman stood in the doorway. She was not young. Not old. Somewhere between—thirty-five, perhaps. Her hair was long. Dark. Thick. It fell past her shoulders in heavy waves, framing a face that was round and soft and weathered by years of work. Her body was thick—not fat, but full.

The body of a woman who has borne children and who has not recovered and who does not care.

Her breasts were large—heavy beneath the simple cotton dress, the nipples visible through the thin fabric, dark and stiff from the morning cold. Her hips were wide. Her ass was round. The dress clung to it—the fabric stretched taut across the cheeks, the crease visible.

Her eyes were brown. Warm. Frightened.

"Yes?" she said. Her voice was soft. Gentle. The voice of a woman who opens doors expecting neighbors and who finds guards instead. "Can I help you—"

They pushed.

The tall one’s hand went to her chest. Not her breast—her chest. The sternum. He shoved. She fell—backward, into the house, her feet tangling, her arms flailing. She hit the floor. Her dress rode up—her thighs visible, pale, thick. Her hair spread on the stone.

"Sir—!" she cried. Her voice was high. Sharp. The voice of a woman who has just realized that the men at her door are not here for information. "What— I did not do anything! Sir! Please!"

The four guards entered. The tall one closed the door. He locked it. The sound of the bolt was loud in the small house.

"Aren’t you a witch?" the tall one said. His voice was mocking. Teasing. The voice of a man who does not believe the word but who uses it as a tool. "We heard you know things. About the boy. About the kidnapping."

"What—?" she gasped. She was on the floor. Her hands were behind her—catching herself, her palms on the cold stone. Her dress was bunched at her thighs. Her breasts were heaving. "I— I do not know anything! I am a healer! I heal people! I do not— please—"

Her husband came.

From the back room. He was small. Thin. Balding. His hands were calloused—the hands of a cobbler. He saw the guards. He saw his wife on the floor. He saw the tall one’s hand on his belt—the buckle being undone, the trousers being loosened.

"What are you—?" he started.

The short one hit him.

The fist connected with his jaw. The sound was sharp—CRACK—bone on bone. The husband’s head snapped. He staggered. He hit the wall. He slid down. He sat on the floor, his back against the wall, his mouth bleeding, his eyes dazed.

"Stay down," the short one said. "Watch."

They pushed her.

The tall one and the short one grabbed her. They dragged her—across the floor, through the hallway, into the bedroom. The bedroom was small. The bed was narrow. The sheets were clean. The room smelled of lavender—her scent, her soap, the small, domestic decency of a woman who kept a clean house.

They threw her on the bed.

She hit the mattress. Her body bounced. Her dress rode up—past her thighs, past her hips. Her panty was visible—white cotton, simple, the fabric snug against her thick pussy. The hair was visible through the cloth—dark, thick, untrimmed.

"Sir— please—!" she sobbed. Her hands were up—pushing, pushing at the hands that were on her, the hands that were tearing at her dress. "Please— I have a husband— I am not a witch— I do not know anything— PLEASE—"

The tall one slapped her.

PAH—

The sound was loud. Her head snapped. Her cheek went red. Her lip split. Blood—copper, bright—welled on her lower lip.

"Shut up," he said. "Witches do not get to talk."