My Apocalypse Territory - Chapter 9 - The First Follower

During the demon-summoning ceremony, Aiwass finally recalled his past life's memories.This should be an online game that his family's company had released and operated for six years. Now, his foster father was the leader of the latest version's antagonist organization.He would expose his identity six years later, hesitate and then defect from the protagonist's side. Ultimately, because he decided to take a fatal strike meant for the player character, he was killed by his upright older brother in a transitional CG without even a chance to enter the main content.——But the problem was not too significant. Aiwass also knew many secret advancement routes exclusive to the player character, as well as the Nurturing Secret Sequel regulations of the various Paths. He believed he could reverse his unfortunate fate……So now there was only one issue left.“According to the original plot, shouldn't I have been rescued by the protagonist before this lousy ceremony even began?”Tied to the ceremonial altar as a sacrifice, Aiwass fell into contemplation.

A marriage contract lasting three years, a marriage in name only, as if they were strangers.To provide for her child, she went out to work in a large corporation, only to find her boss was actually her contract husband...“I'm sorry, I didn't mean to intrude. I chose the company because the salary was high enough.”The man flipped through the resume in his hand and asked casually, “Why did you take a year off from university when you were 19?”“I, when I was a freshman... something happened in my family.”“Is that so? Then why do you have a scar on your lower abdomen?”“I had appendectomy...”His gaze was inscrutable.......After a three-year marriage, she signed the divorce agreement with a heavy heart.She turned and walked away with dignity and poise, like a splash of light ink.But why did this man keep pursuing 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.