The rise of the pervert primordial - Chapter 689: The fight for the main distortion (part 17)

In the 312th year of the Great Yu Kingdom, the Demon Sect suddenly rose, the Eastern Bureau was annihilated, and the Lin faction collapsed. This year, the situation changed dramatically, the martial arts world was filled with intrigue, and the dynasty was on the brink of danger.The starting point of everything was due to the Demon Sect Saintess dying an untimely death.“This case is now closed, and you are no longer a suspect.”After another round of investigation, Chen Yi returned home and pushed open the door.The Demon Sect Saintess, who should have been dead, was curled up trembling on his bed...“Master...”She called out to Chen Yi.The enemy of the previous life, now a concubine in this life.…………………The Empress Dowager who controls the court, the pure and flawless Demon Sect Saintess, the ninth-ranking one-armed sword master of the world, the emotionless Taichua Goddess, the chivalrous and tender-hearted Spring and Autumn Sword Master...They are all my enemies, all once wished me dead.In the end, they all resigned themselves to subordination, swallowing their shame.

When an alien ambassador crash-lands in Tim's backyard and demands, 'Take me to your leader,' the 12-year-old does what any kid would do: he points to himself and says, 'That’s me. I’m the King of Earth.'Now, thanks to a hastily signed treaty (and a promise to hand over Jupiter), Tim’s got an armory of world-ending alien tech, an invulnerable Planetary Base in his backyard treehouse, and one tiny problem: nobody told him ruling a planet would be this hard. Between conquering Earth, fending off hostile fleets, outsmarting intergalactic bureaucrats, and explaining his absences to his Trekkie dad, Tim’s in way over his head. But if he can’t bluff his way through alien diplomacy fast, humanity might end up as collateral damage.“King of All I Survey” is a fun, heart-pounding sci-fi adventure where one kid’s lie decides the fate of Earth—and homework is nothing compared to intergalactic war.

Wang Linchi transmigrates into a world where everyone has the chance to awaken after reaching adulthood. If the awakening is successful, they could obtain a power known as Soul Resemblance and could improve their abilities by embedding Soul Kinds.On one hand, Wang is very lucky for his parents left him a good set of Soul Kinds.On the other hand, he is out of luck because the Soul Kinds have been replaced by a low-quality one.How he knows that? He saw with his own eyes as those five Soul Kinds were deposited.

“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.