My Femboy System - Chapter 11: Holy Fire

In a fascinating new world, Sam finds himself reincarnated as a developer of unique simulations for a society of monster hunters known as “Hunters.” These skilled individuals employ advanced simulations to sharpen their abilities and acquire new skills essential for their dangerous profession. Drawing from the popular video games of his past life, Sam crafts immersive experiences that challenge and prepare the Hunters for the perils they face. As he navigates this thrilling realm, he discovers the impact of his creations and the true essence of bravery in the fight against formidable monsters.

##This is a rewrite of my previous book titled 'Marvel: Reborn in 20th Century India'.##Here is the actual synopsis of the story:After a tragic end to his life of ambition and regret, Aryan awakens in 1935 as a young prodigy with two lifetimes of memories—and an extraordinary system known as The Celestial Forge. With the power to reshape reality itself, he must navigate a world on the brink of revolution, balancing destiny, rebellion, and the weight of a second chance. Will he rise to reshape the future or be consumed by the power of creation?Note-This book contains political themes of India in 20th century. So anyone who doesn't like these types of novels, be warned before you read this.

All Ning Meng did was criticize the novel that she had read. When she woke up the next morning, she realized that she had entered the novel that she had read the previous night and became the unfaithful female supporting character. And soon, she would divorce her powerful husband and lead a miserable life. To prevent that from happening, Ning Meng has to find ways to stay by his side. That would mean she would make a lot of enemies along the way. Time for her to use the knowledge from the real world to turn her life around and not let others take advantage of her.

“Villains aren’t born, they’re made...blah...blah...”Cute quote. Stick it on your Tumblr header next to your anime pfp.You boys love your villain stories, don’t you?You want carnage. Chaos. Control. You want a dark throne, a cold smirk, and a woman kneeling at your feet begging for mercy.But you?You don’t want to lift a damn finger.You’ll cheer for the villain as he kills a god, but cry when he gets betrayed.You call it “plot armor” when the hero survives—but call it “art” when the villain does the impossible.You’re not fans of villains.You’re fetishists.You want the violence, but not the silence after it.You want domination, but not the burden of being hated.You want power, but only if the story forgives you for it.You don’t read these stories to understand evil.You read them because you think you're too good to win the normal way.“Villains don’t play fair.”Exactly. That’s why you love them.Because you wouldn’t last a day in a world where strength mattered and excuses didn’t.You don’t want a villain’s life.You want his results.You want to watch him burn the world for a woman.But you’d cry if a girl left you on read.So tell me—What exactly are you rooting for?At least unlike you, I support heroes—the ones with boobs.You know the type.Tits squeezed into latex, thighs tight in spandex, preaching virtue with cum-drunk eyes the moment they fall into my arms but always end up screaming my name instead.She flies above cities, saving lives like it’s her job.But at night? She crashes into my arms, trembling, moaning, clawing at my back like I’m the only real thing she’s ever touched.Her cape drops before her guard does.But I don't need to tear it off.She hands it over herself—bit by bit, kiss by kiss, lie by beautiful lie.You ever felt a heroine's breath hitch in your ear as she begs you to stop pretending you're the bad guy?Ever watched the symbol of hope ride you like you're the last man left after the world ended?That's not conquest.That’s devotion, baby.Unfiltered. Undeniable.And the irony?They fall the hardest.Because no villain ever tried to understand them. No hero ever dared to see past the shine and into the ache beneath.But I do.I whisper into the cracks of their perfection.I plant kisses where they hide their pain.I fuck them where they forget to wear their strength.And when they break—when their moans turn to prayers, when their strength melts into submission—That’s when I rise.I’m not just some brooding misfit out for revenge, or a misunderstood loner sitting around hoping for a shot at redemption.I’m not a villain.I’m the SUPERVILLAIN—the kind your heroines moan for when the cameras are off and the capes are crumpled on my floor.