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

Chapter 706: Chapter 706 - Taking the Advance Payment

"It is not hard for me," Raven said.

His voice cut through her stammering. Not loud. Not sharp. Quiet. The way a blade is quiet.

"I am the one," he said, "after all, who dealt with Prince Goliath."

She stared.

Her green eyes went wide. The pupils dilated. The whites showed.

Prince Goliath. The Crown Prince’s younger brother. The man who had been attacked— in his own chamber, in his own palace, surrounded by his own guards. Someone had entered. Someone had erased his shoulder. Had removed it. Had made it gone. The healers had been called. The mages had been called. The Church had been called. No one could restore it. The shoulder was gone. The arm was gone. The man was alive but broken— a vegetative state, a thing in a bed, a prince who had been reduced to a twitching, screaming ruin.

"You have heard about it, right?" Raven said. His voice was casual. The voice of a man who is confirming a dinner reservation. "A person entered and nearly killed Prince Goliath. In his own chamber. In his own palace. Surrounded by his own guards."

The princess trembled.

"What?" she whispered. "You—?"

She was shaking. Her body was vibrating. Her emerald hair was swinging. Her green eyes were so wide that they seemed to consume her face.

"My bad," Raven said.

He snapped his finger.

His eyes changed.

The black— the disguise, the mask, the color he had chosen— dissolved. Like ink in water. Like shadow in light. The black receded. The irises were revealed.

Violet.

Deep. Rich. The color of the flower. The color of the sky at twilight. The color of something that is not human.

The princess saw.

She saw the eyes. The violet eyes. The eyes that the spies had reported. The eyes that the guards had described. The eyes that every faction in the capital was searching for. The eyes of the man who had erased a prince’s shoulder. The eyes of the man who had killed knights without moving. The eyes of the man who had walked into the Queen’s palace and fucked the Queen for an hour and left without being seen.

She trembled.

"So he can do it," she whispered. Not to him. To herself. The voice of a woman who is convincing herself. The voice of a woman who is weighing the impossible against the impossible and who is choosing the one that offers revenge.

He can do it.

He can make her queen.

He can give her the throne.

He can give her the kingdom.

He can give her revenge.

She looked at the contract.

At the terms. At the words. At the mana seal. At the blank line where her name would go.

She thought.

About her mother. About the coffin. About the white gown. About the bruises. About the king’s hand on her head. About "your mother provided me with massive gains." About "I will send you to the barbarian king." About ten years of screaming into pillows. About ten years of waking up and reaching for a hand that was not there. About ten years of being a product. A commodity. A thing.

About revenge.

She signed.

Her finger went to the blank line. The mana responded. The blue light flared— bright, brief, the flash of a binding being sealed. Her name appeared. Written in light. In mana. In the language of contracts that could not be broken.

Party B: [Princess Vivian of House Emerald]

The mana cord attached.

She felt it. Instantly. Not physically— not a rope, not a chain, not a tangible thing. But she felt it. A connection. A thread. Running from her chest— from her mana core, from the place where her magic lived— to his. A cord. A binding. The link between a servant and a lord.

She felt his mana.

Through the cord. Through the connection. It hit her. Not gently. Not softly. Like a wave. Like a wall of water. Like standing at the edge of an ocean and feeling the full, overwhelming, incomprehensible weight of the sea pressing against her. His mana was— it was not a pool. It was not a lake. It was not even an ocean. It was something else. Something that had no name. Something that was so vast, so deep, so incomprehensibly large that her mind could not contain it.

Her mana— her own pool, the magic of the Emerald bloodline, the power that she had been born with and that she had trained for ten years— was a drop. A single drop. In his ocean.

She bit her lips.

Her teeth sank into the flesh. The pain grounded her. The pain brought her back. From the edge of the mana. From the overwhelming, crushing realization of what she had bound herself to.

She looked down.

She was breathing heavily. Her chest was heaving. Her breasts— small, firm, the nipples stiff beneath the torn dress— were rising and falling. Her hands were shaking. Her fingers were white. The contract was in her lap. The mana seal was glowing— steady now, pulsing, the rhythm of a heartbeat that was not hers.

A contract between a lord and a servant.

She was the servant.

"Take the seat," Raven said.

She stood.

Her legs were trembling. Her knees were weak. Her bare foot— the one without a shoe— pressed against the grass. Her other foot— the one with the torn stocking— pressed against the earth. She walked.

Toward the throne.

The throne of earth and stone. The black and gold. The thing that had risen from the ground at his command. She walked toward it. Each step was unsteady. Each step was a negotiation between her body and her brain and the mana cord that was humming in her chest.

She reached it.

Her hand arrived on the arm. The stone was smooth. Warm. The gold veins pulsed— faintly, barely visible, the rhythm matching the mana cord. The throne was alive. Not literally— but connected. To him. To his mana. To the power that had created it.

She stood before it.

She felt his hand.

From behind. On her hip. Through the torn dress. His large hand— the hand that had killed men and fucked women and healed legs and built thrones— placed on her hip. On the curve. His fingers found the fabric.

He lifted.

Her skirt. The torn silk. He pulled it up. Over her hip. Over her thigh. The fabric rose— the pale skin beneath it revealed. The stocking— the white cotton, torn, the lace at the top. The garter— the clip that held the stocking. The thigh— slim, milky, the skin smooth.

His hand went to her belly.

Over the skirt. Over the fabric. His palm pressed against her stomach. Flat. Warm. He rubbed. Slow circles. The way he had rubbed Latina’s back. The way he had rubbed her back when she was crying. But this was different. This was not comfort. This was claiming.

He kissed her back.

His lips found her spine. The ridge of bone beneath the thin fabric. He kissed. His mouth pressed against the silk. She felt the warmth. Through the cloth. Through the skin. Through the bone.

She turned.

"What are you doing?" she said. Her voice was high. The voice of a girl who has just signed a contract and who is now feeling the consequences. "What—"

"I am taking my payment in advance," Raven said. His voice was calm. Unhurried. The voice of a man who is exercising a contractual right. "A bit of it."

"What?" she said. Her green eyes went wide. "But— I— you said— the contract said—"

"Term Four," Raven said. His voice was conversational. "Party A retains the right to claim payment in advance at any time prior to the fulfillment of Term One."