My Augmented Statuses Have Unlimited Duration - Chapter 820: Connate Metal (1)

Never had the Radcliffe family expected their son-in-law, a loser in their eyes, to be the hidden Dragon Lord who had lived for myriads of years...

*WARNING: Minor Girls and boys should stay away!*When an introverted nobody meets an untimely and embarrassing end in his bathroom, his journey doesn’t end there.Reincarnated in an urban world as a father, he finds out his son is destined Heavenly Child —a young man blessed by the heavens with unimaginable fate—he’s thrust into a life filled with fame, power, riches, and women. But this isn’t a typical shit story.While many 'noobie' seems like the main character in a classic hero’s tale, 'Alex' our reincarnated middleman decides to forge his own path.Navigating the intricate webs of powerful families, he reshapes his fate using sharp wit, newfound confidence, and an unexpected advantage to pursue everything he’s ever dreamed of.But why does his son, blessed with unimaginable potential, live as a son-in-law to a third-rate family? As mysteries unfold, revelations of magic, cultivation, and an impending apocalypse emerge. And why a daughter? How will she fit into this intricate web of destiny?Note/Warning:This novel is entirely fictional. Events, characters, and settings are not based on the real world and will evolve according to reader wishes. Expect updates a minimum of 4 chapters per week (unless the author decides otherwise).Join a tale of ambition, power, and family dynamics in a world where the lines between protagonist and supporting characters blur. Who will truly claim the throne of destiny?

“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.

On one spring evening when I was eight years old, I, Erica, Duke of Aurelia’s daughter, realized something.