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

Chapter 685: Chapter 685- Information guild is Finished

And the dream had been so real— so vivid, so detailed, so overwhelmingly sensory— that their bodies had responded. Their cocks had hardened. Their balls had tightened. Their prostates had pulsed. They had ejaculated— in their pants, in their armor, sitting in chairs in a dark stone room, while their minds were somewhere else entirely.

The tall one’s eyes widened.

He looked down. At his wet trousers. At his hard cock, tenting the fabric. At the wet spot— large, spreading, the fabric dark with moisture. He touched it. His fingers came away wet. Warm. The scent— musk, seed, the unmistakable smell of a man who has come in his pants— rose from his crotch.

He looked up.

A man stood beside the chair.

He was tall. Dark-haired. His coat was black. His hands were in his pockets. His posture was casual. Relaxed. The posture of a man who has been standing here for— how long? Minutes? Hours? Watching four men sit in chairs and dream and come in their pants and not move.

His eyes were black.

Not violet. Black. The color Raven had chosen. The disguise. But the blackness was not natural. It was too deep. Too full. The irises were not dark brown. They were black. The kind of black that absorbs light. That swallows it. That does not reflect anything back.

Beside him— on the other side of the chairs— a woman sat.

She was seated on a stone bench. Her back was against the wall. Her leg was missing. Not the whole leg— below the thigh. The right leg ended at mid-thigh. The stump was bandaged. Clean. The bandage was white. Fresh. The work of someone who knew how to dress wounds.

Her left leg was intact. It was extended. The foot was bare. The toes were slim. The skin was brown— not tanned, naturally brown. The brown of a woman from the southern provinces. Her hair was dark. Long. It fell past her shoulders in thick waves. Her face was round. Sharp-eyed. The face of a woman who has spent her life gathering information and who has the face of someone who knows things that other people do not.

Her name was Latina.

She was the leader of the Information Guild.

She was looking at the four men in the chairs. At their wet trousers. At their hard cocks. At the expressions on their faces— the confusion, the horror, the dawning realization of what had just happened. At the blood. At the blood that was on the tall one’s mouth. At the blood that was seeping from the corners of his lips.

She looked at Raven.

"How did you do it?" she asked. Her voice was steady. Controlled. The voice of a woman who has seen many things and who is not easily shocked. But there was a crack in it— a hairline fracture, the sound of surprise that she could not entirely suppress. "Why did they confess so easily?"

The four men’s eyes were dimming. The blood was coming faster now— from their mouths, from their noses, from their ears. The life was draining. The cocks were still hard. The pants were still wet. They were dying— slowly, quietly, in chairs, with erections and wet trousers and the memory of a fuck that had never happened.

Raven looked at Latina.

His black eyes held hers. He tilted his head. The same fractional, predatory tilt. The smile— small, thin, warm. The smile of a man who is about to explain something simple to someone who should understand.

"It is easy," he said. His voice was quiet. Conversational. The voice of a man sharing a trade secret over a cup of tea. "To make men lose their minds. You imagine their kinkiest history. Their darkest fantasy. The thing they want most and would never admit. The thing they have done and would never tell. The thing they dream about when their wives are sleeping and their hands are between their legs."

He paused.

He looked at the four men. At their faces. At the blood. At the erections. At the wet trousers.

"You show it to them," he said. "You make them live it. You make them feel it. You make them come in their pants like teenage boys who have never touched a woman. And while they are lost— while their minds are in the dream, while their bodies are responding, while their defenses are down— you take what you need. Their memories. Their confessions. Their secrets."

He laughed.

It was a small laugh. Low. Warm. Not cruel— amused. The laugh of a man who finds human nature entertaining. Who finds the fact that four men can be reduced to dying, erect, wet-trousered fools by their own fantasies genuinely, helplessly funny.

The four men bowed their heads. Their eyes closed. Slowly. One by one. Like candles going out. The tall one first. Then the short one. Then the other two. Their chins hit their chests. Their breathing stopped. Their bodies went still. The erections remained— rigid, tenting the wet fabric, the final, involuntary response of bodies that had been overwhelmed by a pleasure that did not exist.

They were dead.

Latina looked at them.

At the wet trousers. At the hard cocks. At the blood on their lips. At the expressions on their faces— not pain. Not fear. Pleasure. The slack, empty, satisfied expressions of men who had died while coming.

She looked at Raven.

"I am, after all," he said. His voice was quiet. The smile was still there. Small. Thin. The smile of a man who has just stated a fact about himself and who finds the reaction amusing. "A sex demon."

Latina stared.

Her brown eyes went wide. Her mouth opened. No sound came. Then—

"What?" she said. The word was a breath. A whisper. "A sex— what? You are a..."

"Sex demon," Raven repeated. He said it the way one says "butcher" or "baker" or "tax collector." A job title. A description. A fact. "An incubus. A creature that feeds on sexual energy. On desire. On arousal. On the release that comes when a body gives in to what it wants most."

He paused.

"Though I prefer ’demon,’" he said. "It is simpler."

Latina’s mouth was still open. Her brown eyes were still wide. Her one leg was trembling— the intact one, the foot pressing against the stone floor, the toes curling. Her hands were on the bench. Her fingers were white.

She recalled.

The memory came— not slowly, not gently, but like a door being kicked open. The memory of how she had been fooled. How she had been used. How she had been—

She had spread the information.

The location of the boy. She had told her agents. She had told her network. She had told them that she knew where the Crown Prince had taken the child. She had been confident. Certain. She had sources. She had eyes. She had the Information Guild— the most extensive network of spies and informants in the capital, in the kingdom, in the eastern provinces.

But she had not known.

She had known that the information was false. That the location was wrong. That the boy was not where she said he was.

But his decision to make money out of this fake information was all along a trap.

That the lead was a plant. A bait. Set by a man who had given the information to her.

Who had seeded the intelligence into her network so deeply, so convincingly, so perfectly, that she had believed she had upper hand.

Had acted on it. Had sent her agents to sell it to royal faction. Had wasted her resources. Had destroyed her credibility.

The Information Guild had lost its credibility in a single event.