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

Chapter 687: Chapter 687- A Princess’ Life

The forest was old.

The trees were tall. Thick. Their trunks were dark with moss. Their branches were tangled— a canopy of green so dense that the sunlight that filtered through was green. Not golden. Green. The light of a place that has not been touched by humans in a hundred years.

The road ran through it.

A carriage was on the road.

It was beautiful. White. Gold-trimmed. The wheels were spoked. The horses— four of them— were white. Their manes were braided. Their harnesses were gold. The carriage bore a crest on the door— a golden stag on a field of emerald. The crest of the Emerald Duchy. The crest of a royal house.

The Princess was inside.

She was young. Eighteen. Perhaps late seventeen with her birthday tomorrow. Her hair was emerald. Not red— emerald. The deep, rich green of the stone. It was long. It fell past her shoulders in waves that caught the green light of the forest and glowed. Her skin was pale. Milk-white. The skin of a noblewoman who has never been in the sun. Her face was delicate. Heart-shaped. Her eyes were green— bright, sharp, the color of new leaves. Her lips were full. Pink. Her chin was small. Her neck was slim.

Her dress was green. Matching her hair. Silk. The neckline was high— modest, royal, the neckline of a princess. But the dress was fitted. It followed her body— the swell of her breasts (small, firm, the nipples occasionally visible through the silk when the light was right), the narrowing of her waist, the flare of her hips. She was slim. Not thin— slim. The body of a girl who has been fed well and exercised gently and who has never lifted anything heavier than a book.

She was reading.

A book of poetry. Old. Leather-bound. Her green eyes moved across the pages. Her lips moved— silently, forming the words. She was absorbed. She was calm. She was a princess in a carriage in a forest, and she was reading poetry, and the world was safe.

The attack came.

Not from the front. From the sides. From the trees. Dark figures— cloaked, hooded, fast— burst from the undergrowth. Their swords were drawn. Their faces were hidden. They did not shout. They did not announce themselves. They simply appeared— like shadows detaching from the trees— and they attacked.

The guards responded.

Six knights rode beside the carriage. They wore the green-and-gold livery of the Emerald Duchy. Their armor was plate. Their swords were steel. Their horses were warhorses— trained, armored, bred for combat.

The first knight— the captain— drew his sword. His horse turned. He charged the nearest attacker. His blade arced—

CLANG—

Steel on steel. The attacker blocked. The captain’s eyes widened. The attacker was fast. Faster than a man should be. The cloaked figure moved— not like a human. Like something else. Something liquid. Something that flowed around the blade, under the guard, past the armor.

The knife went in.

Through the gap. Between the breastplate and the pauldron. Into the armpit. Into the flesh. Into the artery. The captain screamed. Blood sprayed— red, bright, arterial. He fell. His horse reared. His body hit the ground. The attacker was already moving— to the next knight, to the next horse, to the next sword.

"Princess!" a knight shouted. He was at the carriage door. His face was white. His sword was drawn. "Stay inside! Do not—"

An attacker reached him. The cloaked figure moved— fast, silent, deadly. A blade flashed. The knight’s head left his shoulders. It flew— spinning, the helmet catching the green light, the blood trailing in an arc. The body stood for a moment— the neck stump pumping blood— then collapsed.

The Princess screamed.

The sound was high. Sharp. The scream of a girl who has just seen a man’s head removed from his body. She scrambled— backward, across the carriage seat, her dress tangling, her book falling, her hands slipping on the silk upholstery.

The remaining knights formed a circle around the carriage. Four of them. Their swords were out. Their shields were up. Their horses were panicked— rearing, stamping, the hooves striking the ground.

The attackers paused.

There were eight of them. Cloaked. Hooded. Their blades were wet— the blood of two knights on the steel. They stood in a semicircle around the carriage. They did not advance. They waited.

One of them reached into his cloak.

He pulled out a pill. Small. Black. Round. He placed it on his tongue. He swallowed.

The change was immediate.

His body convulsed. His spine arched. His head went back. His mouth opened— wide, wider than a human mouth should open. A sound came from his throat— not a scream. A roar. A guttural, animal sound. The sound of something that is not human. His eyes changed— the whites went black. The irises went red. Glowing. The color of blood. Of fire. Of something that burns.

His muscles grew.

His cloaked body swelled— the fabric tearing, the cloak ripping at the seams. His arms thickened. His chest broadened. His legs lengthened. His skin changed— from human pink to dark red, the color of raw meat. Veins bulged— black, thick, like cables beneath the skin. His teeth grew— fangs, long, sharp, yellow. His nails grew— claws, curved, black.

He was no longer human.

He was a demon.

Demonification.

The other seven took the pill. One by one. The change hit them all— the convulsions, the roaring, the swelling, the red skin, the black veins, the fangs, the claws. Eight demons. Standing in a semicircle around a carriage in a forest. Eight creatures that had been men and that were now something else.

They attacked.

The knights fought.

Bravely. Desperately. With the trained, instinctive competence of men who have spent their lives training for this moment. Their swords swung. Their shields blocked. Their horses charged.

It was not enough.

The first knight fell— a demon’s claw through his visor, through his face, through his skull. The second fell— a demon’s fist through his breastplate, through his ribs, through his heart. The third fell— a demon’s fang in his throat, tearing, ripping. The fourth lasted the longest. He was the youngest. The fastest. His sword took a demon’s arm. His shield took a demon’s claw. But two demons reached him— one from each side. They tore him apart. Literally. His arms were pulled from his body. His legs were pulled from his body. His torso was thrown— across the clearing, into a tree, the impact cracking the trunk.

The carriage was alone.

The horses were screaming— the high, terrible sound of animals in terror. They bolted. The harnesses snapped. The carriage tipped. It fell— onto its side, the wheels spinning, the door flying open, the Princess tumbling out.

She hit the ground.

Her dress caught— on the broken door, on a branch, on something. The silk tore. Not a small tear— a long one. From the hem to the hip. The fabric separated. Her leg was exposed— pale, slim, the skin smooth, the thigh bare. Her shoe was gone. Her stocking was torn. Her hair was loose— the emerald waves spread on the forest floor, catching the green light.

She ran.

Not toward the road. Into the forest. Into the trees. Into the green. Her dress torn, her shoe gone, her book left behind. She ran the way a deer runs— fast, panicked, the instinct of prey that knows it is being hunted.

’I WANT TO LIVE!’