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

Chapter 686: Chapter 686- Taking Her Away

Crown prince already knew about arrived boy.

One false report. One failure. And the guild that had been the most trusted source of intelligence in the capital for twenty years was finished.

Clients canceled contracts. Agents defected. The network crumbled.

Because if the Information Guild could be wrong about something this important— about the boy, about the kidnapping, about the thing that every faction in the city was searching for— then they could be wrong about anything.

And Latina— the woman who had built the guild from nothing, who had spent fifteen years climbing from street informer to guild leader, who had lost her leg in a deal gone wrong and had kept going, kept fighting, kept building— was finished.

She glared at Raven.

"You did it intentionally," she said. Her voice was low. Dangerous. The voice of a woman who has been played and who knows it and who is furious. "Right?"

Raven looked at her.

"Of course I did," he said. His voice did not change. Quiet. Unhurried. The voice of a man who has been asked if the sky is blue. "After all, I needed to make you fall on me."

The words hit her.

Not physically. Mentally. The words landed in her brain like stones in still water. Ripples spread. Understanding dawned. The shape of the trap became clear— not just the false information, not just the destroyed credibility, not just the ruined guild. All of it. Everything. The boy. The kidnapping. The chaos. The factions moving. The city burning. All of it— engineered. By the man standing before her. The man with black eyes. The sex demon.

He had destroyed her.

He had destroyed her guild. Her network. Her reputation. Her fifteen years of work. Her life’s work. He had done it casually, effortlessly, with a false report and a planted source. And he had done it for a reason.

"For a few bucks," he said. His voice was warm. Almost gentle. The voice of a man explaining something to a child. "You do not need to be independent. Just hand over your body to me."

Latina trembled.

Her hands were shaking. Her leg was shaking. Her stump was shaking. The bandage was white against her brown skin. Her brown eyes were wet— not with tears. With fury. With impotence. With the crushing, overwhelming realization that she was in the presence of something she could not fight, could not outmaneuver, could not survive.

"What are you going to achieve by all this?" she asked. Her voice was steady. Forced steady. The voice of a woman who is holding on by a thread and who is trying to sound like she is not. "What is the point? You destroyed my guild. You sent the city into chaos. What do you want?"

Raven looked at her.

His black eyes held hers. The smile did not fade. The calm did not break. He looked at her the way a painter looks at a canvas— assessing, calculating, seeing not what is but what could be.

"Just going to get a few women to fuck," he said. "Enjoy their bodies. And then move on."

He paused.

"After killing the king and the prince of this place," he said. "Handing over everything to the First Queen. It is simple."

Latina stared.

Her mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. Her brown eyes were so wide that the whites showed all around the iris. The color had drained from her face. Her lips were trembling. Her hands were gripping the bench so hard that her knuckles were bone.

"What?" she said. The word was barely audible. A breath. A whisper. "What are you saying?"

She was doubtful. Very much. The king. The king of the kingdom. The man who had ruled for thirty years. The man who had the strongest army, the strongest mages, the strongest everything. The man who was protected by Calodios— the 9th Circle mage, the prodigy, the sealed one, the living wall of the empire. And this man— this sex demon, this incubus, this creature with black eyes and a black coat and a smile that did not reach his eyes— was saying he was going to kill him.

"Kill the king," Raven repeated. He said it the way one says "I will have another cup of tea." Casual. Conversational. "And the prince. The Crown Prince. And hand the kingdom to the First Queen."

"You cannot—" Latina started. "The king has Calodios. The 9th Circle. You cannot—"

She stopped.

Her doubt vanished.

All of it. In a single moment. Like a candle being blown out. Like a curtain being drawn. Like a veil being lifted. The doubt vanished because the memory returned— the memory of what she had just seen. The four men. Dead. In chairs. With erections. With wet trousers. With blood on their lips. Men who had been killed by a dream. By a fantasy. By an illusion that was so real that their bodies had responded and their minds had broken and they had died— died— with the expressions of men who had just experienced the greatest pleasure of their lives.

And if he could do that— if he could kill four men with a thought, with a dream, with the mere suggestion of pleasure— then what could he not do?

What was Calodios against this?

What was anyone?

She trembled.

"Are you really—?" she whispered. The words would not come. The question would not form. Because the answer was standing in front of her. In a black coat. With black eyes. With a smile that was not a smile.

"Indeed," Raven said. "I can."

He looked at her. At her face. At her brown eyes. At her dark hair. At her round face. At her body— seated on the bench, her back against the wall, her one leg extended, her stump bandaged. At her breasts— full, heavy, the nipples stiff beneath the fabric of her shirt. At her hips— wide, the curve visible even seated. At her hands— trembling, white-knuckled on the stone.

He leaned.

"What are you doing?" Latina said. Her voice was sharp. Alarm. The alarm of a woman who sees a man leaning toward her and who does not know what is coming next.

He lifted her.

His arms went beneath her. One under her back. One under her ass. The princess’s carry. Her weight was nothing to him. Her body was light— the weight of a woman, the weight of one leg instead of two, the weight of fifteen years of stress and fear and survival. He held her against his chest. Her face was close to his. Her brown eyes were wide. Her dark hair fell across his arm.

His hand was on her ass.

Beneath her trousers. No— outside. On the fabric. But the grip was firm. His fingers sank into the cheek. The full, round cheek of a woman who had been sitting on stone benches for too long and whose ass had not been touched by a man in years. He squeezed. His fingers dug into the flesh.

She trembled.

"Where are you taking me?" she said. Her voice was shaking. Not from fear— from the touch. From the hand on her ass. From the proximity. From the pheromones that were radiating from his body— subtle, low-level, the constant, ambient output of a sex demon who did not need to try because his body was a weapon whether he wanted it to be or not.

"Of course," Raven said. "To show you something."

He vanished.

The room disappeared. The stone disappeared. The dead men disappeared. The blood disappeared. The world folded. The world unfolded.