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

Chapter 709: Chapter 709- The Missing Dick

~ Prince Goliath’s Chamber

The chamber smelled of medicine.

Herbs. Poultices. The sharp, astringent scent of healing salves and the cloying sweetness of opium. The curtains were drawn. The candles were lit. The light was dim. The air was thick— with dust, with medicine, with the accumulated stench of a body that has been lying in the same bed for weeks.

Prince Goliath was on the bed.

He was— a ruin. The man who had been the kingdom’s second prince. The man who had been strong. Tall. Broad. A warrior. A fighter. A man who had swung a sword and ridden a horse and fucked women and drunk wine and lived.

Now he was a thing.

His shoulder was gone. The left shoulder. The arm was gone. The sleeve of his nightgown was empty— flat against the mattress, the fabric loose where the arm should have been. The stump was bandaged. The bandage was white. Clean. Changed daily. Beneath it, the skin was smooth— healed, sealed, the work of the best healers in the kingdom. But the shoulder was gone. The joint. The bone. The muscle. All of it. Erased.

His face was gaunt. The cheeks were hollow. The eyes were sunken. The skin was gray— the color of a man who does not see the sun, who does not move, who does not eat solid food. His hair was lank. Unwashed. His beard was growing— patchy, uneven.

He was in a vegetative state.

His eyes were open. But they did not see. They stared at the ceiling. Unblinking. The pupils were fixed. Dilated. The green irises— the royal color— were dull. Lifeless. His mouth was open. His jaw was slack. A thin line of drool ran from the corner of his lips to the pillow.

A maid was feeding him.

She was young. Twenty, perhaps. Her hair was brown. Tied back. Her dress was gray. Simple. The uniform of a palace maid. She held a bowl. A spoon. She scooped the broth— thin, brown, the medicine mixed in. She brought it to his mouth. She tilted. The liquid went in. He swallowed. Involuntarily. The reflex of a body that functions even when the mind does not.

Soldiers stood in the room.

Two of them. Knights. Armed. Their swords at their hips. Their armor on. They stood by the door. Their postures were bored. The postures of men who have been assigned to guard a vegetable and who are not happy about it.

"Oh, sick man," one of them said. He was stretching. His arms above his head. His back arched. The sound of joints popping. "This is too much. Standing here. Watching a corpse breathe."

"He is not a corpse," the other said. "A corpse does not scream in the night."

"He does scream," the first one agreed. "Every night. The same thing. ’Do not kill me. Do not kill me.’ As if anyone wants to kill a thing like that."

"It is the seizures," the second said. "The mind. It remembers. The body reacts. The healers say it is the trauma. The memory of the attack. It replays in his brain. Over and over."

"Shame," the first said. He stretched again. His back cracked. "He was a bastard. But no man deserves to be a— a thing. A thing that screams."

The maid pulled the spoon.

From Goliath’s mouth. She wiped his chin. She scooped. She brought it to his mouth.

Goliath rushed forward.

Not stood. Not rose. Rushed. His body— the body that had been motionless for weeks, that had not moved, that had not responded, that had been a thing in a bed— surged. His right arm— the one that remained— shot out. His hand went to the maid’s wrist. He grabbed. His fingers closed. Tight. The grip of a man who is drowning.

"STOP!" he screamed.

The maid shrieked. The bowl fell. The broth spilled— on the bed, on the sheets, on Goliath’s nightgown. The spoon clattered to the floor.

"STOP! PLEASE! DO NOT KILL ME! I BEG OF YOU!" Goliath screamed. His voice was raw. Broken. The voice of a man who has screamed every night for weeks and whose vocal cords are destroyed.

His seizures started.

His body convulsed. His back arched. His remaining arm flailed— releasing the maid, swinging, the hand clawing at the air, at the sheets, at his own face. His legs kicked. His head whipped— side to side, the tendons in his neck standing out, the veins bulging.

"STOP! PLEASE STOP! DO NOT KILL ME! I BEG OF YOU! PLEASE! DO NOT—"

"Prince!" the maid cried. She scrambled backward. Off the bed. Her hands went to her chest. Her eyes were wide. "Prince, stop! It is me! It is Mira! I am feeding you! Prince!"

The knights moved.

They rushed to the bed. They grabbed Goliath. One held his shoulders. One held his legs. They pinned him. His body continued to convulse— the muscles contracting, the limbs jerking, the mouth screaming.

"Hold him down!" one knight shouted.

"He is strong—!" the other grunted. "The seizures— the adrenaline— he is—"

Goliath threw the maid.

Not intentionally. His arm— the flailing, convulsing arm— caught her. She had come close. Trying to help. His hand found her dress. He grabbed. He pulled. The fabric tore. The sound was sharp— the cotton ripping, the neckline separating, her chest exposed. Her bra— white, simple, the cups full— was visible.

She cried.

"Please—!" she sobbed. She tried to pull away. His grip was iron— the strength of a seizing body, the strength of muscles that are contracting beyond voluntary control. "Please, Prince, let me go—!"

He pulled.

Her body went toward the bed. She fell. Her knees hit the mattress. Her hands went out— catching herself. Her upper body was on the bed. Her legs were on the floor. Her dress was torn. Her bra was visible.

Goliath pulled.

His hand went to her skirt. He grabbed. He pulled. The fabric rode up— past her knees, past her thighs. Her panty was visible— white cotton, simple. Her pubic hair was visible through the cloth— dark, thick.

He pulled.

The panty. He grabbed it. He pulled. The fabric stretched. The cotton tore. The hair was pulled— the pubic hair, caught in the fabric, pulled with it. She screamed. The pain— the hair being ripped, the skin being stretched, the fabric being torn.

"PLEASE—!" she screamed. "KNIGHTS—! HELP ME—!"

The knights were there.

They grabbed Goliath. They tried to pull him off. His grip did not release. His hand was on the maid’s torn panty, on her hip, his fingers in the fabric, in the hair, in the flesh.

Goliath pulled his pants down.

With his free hand. His nightgown was already open— the fabric bunched at his waist. His pants— the loose cotton trousers that he wore in bed— were pulled. His cock was out.

There was no cock.

Not "no cock" as in it was small. Not "no cock" as in it was hidden. No cock. The groin was smooth. Flat. The skin was scarred— a patchwork of healed tissue, the marks of old wounds, the evidence of something that had been removed. The penis was gone. The testicles were gone. The entire genital region was a flat, scarred surface.

His scream told it.

"WHAT—?!" Goliath screamed. His voice was not the screaming of the seizures. It was the screaming of a man who has just looked down and found that his body is not what it was. The screaming of a man whose brain— damaged, broken, trapped in a loop of trauma— has just discovered what his body has been telling him for weeks. "WHAT—?! WHERE—?! WHERE IS IT—?!"