The Protagonists Are Murdered by Me - Chapter 225: Healthy Princess Maker (8)

In a mass ambush at the Battle of the Gods, the four major guilds with all their armies surrounded one man alone: McRae, known by all players as the God of War.

But even the God of War could not survive alone against hundreds of attackers.

Yet, when McRae opened his eyes again, he’d returned to the first-day launch of the game, [Divine Domain]- and he still had his full-level character, with all classes available to him to switch freely between at any time.

With all his previous memories, McRae knew that their entire world would soon merge with the game world, where death would become permanent… And so he turned on Divine Domain once more– this time fully aware of every detail about the players, the treasures, and the game itself.

Before the four guilds were even formed, McRae would have a guild and an army of his own.

I had transmigrated into my favorite game, as an extra who died before the story even began.In a world where Sigils dictate power, I found myself in the body of a boy who had already died on the battlefield.Yet, as I drew breath in his place, his Sigil changed. A power never meant for him, never meant for me.Kidnapped by a shadow organization that didn't exist in the game, I spent three years in the dark, forced to learn under a so-called teacher.I move forward, not as the extra I was meant to be, but as one who chooses their own path. A path to supremacy.Yet the deeper I walk, the more I realize… this world holds secrets that game had never shown.-----------------Additional tags:[Sword Companion], [Hidden Identity], [Artifact Power], [Slow Reveal], [Secret Society], [Survival]

Another entry in what you can call the Proto Harem Series: the books written before the Harem Series that take place in the same world.

It’s about a swordswoman whose student is captured, so she goes to rescue 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.