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

Chapter 692: Chapter 692- Blinked Hard

Not slow. Not fast. Heavy. Each footstep was deliberate. Firm. The sound of his bare feet on the mud was audible— a wet, sucking sound. He walked toward the princess. His black eyes were on her. His face was calm. The same calm. The same stillness.

He stopped before her.

He looked down. At her face. At her green eyes— wide, wet, terrified. At her emerald hair— tangled, dirty, hanging in ropes. At her torn dress— the silk hanging from her shoulders, the bodice gaping, the swell of her small breasts visible. At her bare foot— bleeding, dirty. At her hands— trembling, raised, the gesture of surrender.

"Sorry," he said. His voice was quiet. Warm. The voice of a man who has just killed a bear and who is checking on the girl it was about to kill. "Are you all right?"

Her heart thumped.

Not from the bear. Not from the fear. From him. From his face. From his black eyes. From the jaw— sharp, angular, the kind of jaw that poets write about. From the lips— full, the lower lip slightly thicker. From the cheekbones— high, defined. From the hair— dark, falling across his forehead. From the body— lean, muscled, the stomach ridged, the chest broad, the arms thick. From the voice— low, warm, close.

He was handsome.

Not the handsome of princes. Not the polished, soft, courtly handsome of men who have been raised in palaces and who have never been in a fight. This was a different handsome. A darker handsome. The handsome of a man who has killed and fucked and eaten and who has done all three with the same casual, unhurried calm.

Her eyes went down.

To his cock. She could not help it. Her eyes— her green eyes, the eyes of a princess, the eyes of a girl who had been raised to look at faces and hands and eyes, not at cocks— went down. To the thing between his legs. Twelve inches. Thick. Dark. The head was swollen. The shaft was slick— wet, bloody, the evidence of what he had just done to the woman lying on the grass behind him.

Her face flushed.

The color hit her cheeks. Her neck. Her chest. The visible skin above her torn bodice. The blush of a girl who has just seen a cock for the first time and who does not know what to do with the information.

She lost consciousness.

Her eyes rolled back. Her body went limp. She slumped— sideways, into the mud, her emerald hair spreading on the ground, her torn dress riding up, her bare leg exposed. She was out. The exhaustion, the hunger, the fear, the bear, the cock— all of it had converged. Her body had surrendered. Her mind had fled.

Raven looked at her.

He bent down. He lifted her. The princess’s carry. His arms went beneath her— one under her back, one under her knees. Her body was light. Weightless. The weight of a girl who had not eaten and who had been running for hours. Her head lolled against his chest. Her emerald hair fell over his arm. Her mouth was open. Her breathing was shallow.

He jumped.

Over the pond. Over the water. His body cleared the gap. He landed on the far bank. His feet hit the grass. The princess was in his arms. He walked to Latina.

Latina was lying on the grass.

Her body was spread. Her legs were open— the left one extended, the right stump resting on the grass. Her pussy was leaking— the seed and the blood, the white and the red, running out of her, pooling beneath her. Her breasts were bare— heavy, the nipples stiff, the pink tips catching the light. Her body was covered— in bite marks. On her neck. On her shoulders. On her breasts. On her thighs. The teeth marks of a man who had fed and fucked and who had not been gentle about either.

She gasped.

She opened her eyes. She saw Raven. She saw the princess in his arms. She blinked. Her dark eyes went from the man to the girl to the man again.

"Why did you want to catch that princess?" she asked. Her voice was hoarse. Raw. The voice of a woman whose throat has been used for screaming. "Does she have some information?"

Raven looked at her.

His black eyes held hers. He placed the princess on the grass. Gently. The girl’s head rested on a patch of moss. Her emerald hair spread around her face. Her breathing was shallow but steady.

"I am going to make her the queen here," he said.

Latina stared.

Her mouth opened. Her brown eyes went wide. The whites showed all around the iris.

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

"Make her the queen," Raven repeated. He said it the way one says "I am going to take a walk." Casual. Conversational. "Of this kingdom."

Latina looked at her own body.

At the bite marks. At the seed on her thighs. At her breasts— bare, swollen, the nipples tender. At her stomach— the faint bulge where his cock had been, where the seed had filled her. At her pussy— swollen, red, leaking, the hair matted with blood and juice.

At her cut-off leg.

The stump. The bandage. The scar. The thing that had ended her career as a fighter and that had made her an information broker because an information broker could work with one leg and because the world did not care about women with one leg.

"So you fucked me because you wanted to," she said. Her voice was flat. Not angry. Not sad. The voice of a woman who has arrived at a conclusion and who is stating it. A fact. A truth.

Raven looked at her shoulder.

He touched it. His hand— large, warm, the fingers rough— placed on her bare shoulder. The touch was gentle. Firm. The touch of a man who is about to do something.

Her tears fell.

Not from the touch. Not from the words. From the realization. From the understanding. She had been used. Again. By a man. Again. Her body had been taken. Again. And the man who had taken it had done it not for information, not for leverage, not for any reason that she could understand, but because he wanted to. Because he could. Because she was there and he was there and his cock was hard and her pussy was tight and that was enough.

Raven leaned over her.

"My bad," he said. His voice was quiet. Almost gentle. The voice of a man who has forgotten something and who is apologizing. "I just forgot to do this."

His hand moved.

The gesture was small. A flick. A wave. The motion of a hand brushing away a fly. But the air responded. The mana responded. The world responded.

A magic circle formed over Latina’s head.

It was enormous. It filled the clearing. It hung in the air— translucent, blue, glowing, rotating slowly. The symbols on the ring were not human. They were not the symbols of any school of magic that Latina had ever seen. They were older. Deeper. The language of something that existed before humans, before kingdoms, before the concept of language itself.

She blinked.