Ileus: The Dark Prince - Chapter 640 - [Bonus ] Cover

In a foreign country, a leisurely little farmer.

Beer, side dishes, beef and sheep barbecue, small pond, three or five fish and shrimp, a pot of soup.

There are hundreds of flowers in spring, the moon in autumn, cool breeze in summer, snow in winter, and a hut in the woods.

- Description from novelbuddy

Noah Brown had a gift for fighting. Unfortunately punching things didn't pay the bills, at least until he died and an Eldritch god found his soul. The encounter led him to a new world, summoned by bloody cultists, with nothing but the shirt on his back, and a strange item in his system menu.

[???] : A source of infinite potential.

Perhaps he'd finally get to put his gifts to good use.

An alien abduction romance. Updates Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays.Grant has a tolerance for boredom. Late shift in a middle-of-nowhere facility? Sign him up. If the money's good, he'll happily take the peace and quiet of a long night watching an empty cell.And then he meets Subject B-31. Blue, beautiful, and completely inhuman. Her captors call her Batty, thanks to her big ears and the way she hangs upside down by her tail.He's told not to talk to her. He's told to think of her as a test subject, not a person. He's told to cash his checks and live his humble life. He's told to ignore the sorrow on her face and the desperation in her crimson eyes. Maybe he should have listened. When he finally busts her out, the rescue isn't a rescue at all: it's an abduction.Batty is Princess Sykora, of the tyrannical Taiikari Empire. She commands the Black Pike, a massive voidship on the imperial frontier. Grant must learn a new life, in a firmament filled with ambitious nobles, deadly rivals, and the sinister smiles of the Taiikari Imperial Court. And he'll have to learn fast.Because when the Princess of the Void looks at Grant, she doesn't just see a savior—she sees a husband.And she isn't asking.

“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.