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

Chapter 688: Chapter 688- A Strange Scene That a Princess Sees

She could hear them behind her. The demons. The crashing through the undergrowth. The roaring. The sound of claws on bark. The sound of something large and red and wrong moving through the forest.

She cast magic.

Her hand came up. Green light gathered— at her fingertips, in her palm, in the air around her. The magic of the Emerald Duchy. The magic of her bloodline. She released it. A bolt of green energy— sharp, bright, burning— shot from her hand. It hit a tree. The tree exploded— splinters flying, the trunk shattering. The blast wave knocked a demon back. It stumbled. It did not fall.

She ran.

Her breath was ragged. Her lungs burned. Her legs ached. Her bare foot was bleeding— cut on a root, on a stone, on something. Her dress was torn— the slit open to her hip, her thigh exposed, the fabric catching on branches, tearing more. Her hair was tangled— caught on twigs, on leaves, on the undergrowth. Her face was scratched. Her arms were scratched. Her bodice was loosening— the laces catching, pulling, the fabric gaping, the swell of her small breasts visible through the torn silk.

She looked back.

The demons were there. Behind her. Close. Too close. Their red bodies moved through the green forest like blood in water. Their black eyes tracked her. Their claws tore the undergrowth. Their fangs gleamed.

She ran.

Faster. Harder. Her bare foot slamming into the forest floor— root, stone, mud, leaf. Her body crashing through bushes— branches whipping her face, her arms, her chest. Her dress catching and tearing— the slit opening wider, the fabric falling away, her hip bare, her thigh bare, the edge of her panty visible.

She tripped.

A root. Thick. Hidden beneath the leaves. Her foot caught. She fell— forward, face-first, her hands out. She hit the ground. Her chin hit a root. Her teeth cut her lip. Blood— copper, warm— filled her mouth. Her dress— already torn— ripped further. The back split. Her shoulder blades were exposed. Her spine was visible— the ridge of bone beneath pale skin.

She scrambled up.

On her hands and knees. On her feet. Running again. Slower now. Her ankle was twisted. Her knee was bleeding. Her bare foot was a mess of cuts and dirt. Her dress was hanging— the bodice torn, the skirt ripped, the fabric barely covering her. Her panty was visible— white cotton, simple, the fabric clean against her dirty skin.

She ran.

The demons were closer. She could hear them. She could smell them— the sulfur, the ash, the burning smell of something that was not human. She could feel them— the heat of their bodies, the vibration of their footsteps, the displacement of air as they moved.

She cast again.

Green light. A wave. Not a bolt— a wave. A wall of energy that expanded outward from her body. It hit the forest. Trees bent. Bushes flattened. The demons were pushed back— staggered, their feet sliding on the forest floor, their claws digging into the earth.

But they recovered.

They always recovered.

She ran.

Her body was failing. Her mana was low. She could feel it— the pool inside her, the source of her power, was nearly empty. She had cast too many times. She had used too much. She was running on fumes. On adrenaline. On the animal instinct to survive.

She tripped again.

This time she did not get up immediately. She lay on the forest floor. Her face in the leaves. Her body heaving. Her lungs burning. Her vision blurring. She could hear the demons. Close. So close.

She got up.

She ran.

The forest thinned. The trees parted. The ground sloped downward. She could hear water. Not the sound of rain. The sound of a stream. A pond. Water.

She ran toward it.

Her bare foot hit mud. Soft. Wet. The bank of a pond. She slid. She caught herself. She crawled— on her hands and knees, through the mud, to the water’s edge. She reached the pond.

The water was clear. Still. Green-tinged, from the canopy above. She cupped her hands. She scooped. She drank.

The water was cold. Clean. It spread through her body— cooling the fire in her lungs, easing the ache in her muscles, clearing the fog in her brain. She drank again. And again. And again.

She lifted her head.

She heard cries.

Not animal cries. Human cries. The cries of a woman. High. Sharp. Desperate. Coming from— above? From the air? From—

She looked up.

Her green eyes went wide.

Her mouth opened.

The woman was in the air.

Not standing. Not flying. Being held. Suspended. By a hand. A single hand. On her ass. The hand was large. Male. The fingers were spread across the cheek— gripping, holding, the flesh sinking between the fingers. The woman’s body was horizontal— parallel to the ground, three feet above the water of the pond. Her face was toward the water. Her hair hung down— dark, thick, wet, dripping onto the surface. Her body was bare— completely bare. Her skin was brown. Latina. The brown of the southern provinces. Her breasts were large— heavy, full, hanging beneath her, the nipples pink, stiff, the areolas wide. They were swinging. Up and down. With each movement. The flesh was rippling— the weight of it shifting, the nipples tracing arcs in the air.

Her legs were spread.

On either side of the man’s body. Her left leg was intact— brown, the thigh thick, the calf slim, the foot bare, the toes curling. Her right leg was missing. Below the thigh. The stump was visible— the bandage gone, the scar visible, the healed flesh pink and smooth.

Her pussy was visible.

Between her spread legs. The hair was dark. Thick. Untrimmed. The lips were thick. Swollen. Pulled apart— stretched around a cock. The cock was inside her. From below. The man was holding her— one hand on her ass, the other on her hip— and he was fucking her. In the air.

Above the pond. His cock moving in and out of her hairy pussy. The shaft was thick. Dark. Long. Twelve inches.

The head was buried— deep, past the cervix, in the womb. The shaft was visible— emerging and disappearing, emerging and disappearing, the rhythm steady, relentless.

The lips were stretched. The pink inner flesh was visible— pulled outward with each withdrawal, pushed inward with each thrust. The clit was swollen— red, engorged, being ground by the shaft with each movement. The juice was running— clear, thick, dripping from her pussy, down the shaft, down his balls, falling into the pond water. Drops. On the surface. Spreading.

The cock was bloody.

Not heavily. Not covering the shaft. But there. A trace. A reddish tint on the dark skin. Mixed with her juice. Mixed with the clear fluid. The blood of a hymen. Recently torn. She had been a virgin. She had been deflowered. By this cock. In this position. In this air. Above this pond.

The woman was crying.

"Stop— stop— I beg of you—" she sobbed. Her voice was broken. Shattered. The voice of a woman whose body is being used and whose mind cannot process the sensations that are overwhelming it. "My body— it feels strange— why— why have you made me feel like this—"