All My Disciples Are Kings - Chapter 1852: Nine rounds of blood moon, ancient sword

Feng Shao, who traveled to another world, only wants to make the sect flourish.But gradually, Feng Shao realized that something was wrong.Why do some people always have frighteningly high luck?Why are there always some people who can easily win the favor of beautiful women?Why do people always go around casually, and treasures automatically come to the door?Also, why do these guys always find trouble with him?Even the master who has always favored me has begun to despise me?Feng Shao, who was in charge of the mysterious artifact Tianhua Jade Slip, finally discovered that in the process of using the Tianhua Jade Slip, his own luck would gradually change to the direction of a villain.So I’m going to be a stepping stone to these sons of fortune?I, Feng Shao, must never be led by a dog so easily! If I’m not allowed here, then I’ll break out of my own world!

Ji Ling, who was transmigrated into the notorious body, after settling the foreign debts owed by the original owner, was persecuted by peach blossom debts before, and then had a mother who wanted to exchange her for money.

Suddenly, in order to repay her kindness, Ji Ling married her benefactor’s grandson, an elderly young man, in a flash marriage.

In the days after marriage, she summed it up in one sentence: My daily life with the face-blind old rooster.

Gan! !

- Description from novelbuddy

In the twenty-ninth year of the First Emperor, Bo Langsha was attacked.

When Ying Zheng merged the memories of the 21st century history doctor, looked at the mighty mountains and rivers in front of him, and said to himself, “In this life, my Daqin can’t die!”

- Description from novelbuddy

“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.