MTL - A War Between Spies - ~ Leave.

Dual cultivation isn't a choice; it's a necessity.

After being struck by a truck like most lucky protagonists (or unlucky ones), Vaan found himself transmigrated into the body of an orphan in the world of witches and demons.

However, they didn't always exist.

Demons terrorized the world ever since the Gehenna Realm descended over 300 years ago. but along with them, came mana, giving birth to witches to combat these demons.

Since then, the world of men was dominated by witches, establishing the seven witch kingdoms, which safeguards at the forefront of the demon invasion.

In order to survive in the matriarchal society of the witch kingdoms, Vaan, like all other men who cannot use magic, had to learn how to service the witches to survive.

Nevertheless, it did not come without its own benefits.

Years of research have led the world to the discovery of intimacy between men and women could increase the witches' mana absorption.

But at the same time, men could absorb some of this mana to improve their physique and lifespan.

Thus, since then, an intricate relationship was formed between men and witches in the red-light districts. Love became casual, and dual cultivation is common.

As a prodigy in the art of pleasing women, Vaan lived a smooth two years since his transmigration as an orphan.

However, everything came crashing down in a heartbeat one day when his life was nearly taken, and Lady Eniwse whom he served went berserk.

Even so, that was not the end.

With the awakening of the Witch Hunter System, watch how Vaan takes on the world and becomes the lord of witches.

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Note: Contains lemons.
Hunting witches does not necessarily imply killing witches if you know what I mean ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

“There is no god, only the echo of our fears, bound together in a symphony of false hope, woven to make this endless cycle of pain bearable... But I refuse to be just another note in their song. I will not be silenced to protect the gate you so desperately uphold. I don’t care for the blind masses; they are but shadows, moving without purpose. If I cannot run, I will walk. If I cannot walk, I will crawl. If I cannot crawl, I will roll. And if all that remains of me is a severed head, then I will still glare at you with the scorn of the relentless.”...In a world where Hunters fight to keep humanity safe from monstrous invasions, Timothy Walter is nothing more than an E-rank weakling, expendable, powerless, and barely surviving.That changes when a forgotten dungeon forces him into a deadly trial, awakening ancient rulers from across races.Bound to the weakest among them, he inherits a power unlike any other: “King Player.”Now, with a system that defies all logic, Timothy must carve his path, facing enemies both human and monstrous, as he ascends from the lowest depths to claim a throne none believed he could reach.

The world’s worst offense, is called Love.

“Coming live to you, from Cerou Street, this is MBP News, and we have an unfolding situation to report. Late last night, at approximately 3:00 AM, an explosive-like sound reverberated through this area, disrupting the sleep of residents and instilling fear in their hearts,” the news anchor, a striking figure, delivered the report with poise, standing before the camera amidst a bustling scene.

In the background, the blaring horns of ambulances and police vehicles disturbed the serenity of the beautiful morning light. Two individuals wearing protective suits, presumably forensic experts, held a stretcher carrying a charred body.

The news anchor, who had been reporting earlier, placed a hand on her ear, fitted with an earpiece, and looked visibly surprised. Her voice filled with urgency as she continued, “We have just received an update from our headquarters regarding the sole fatality in this unexpected incident. The victim of this tragic event is none other than Norman, the famous gigolo of Night palace.”

“My colleague, who was set to cover an event today at Nightplace, obtained this information firsthand from Countess Maria, who held a special place for Norman in her heart. Our focus this morning is on this breaking news,” the female news reporter continued amidst the chaotic scene, while Norman's charred body lay alone in the ambulance.

Meanwhile, in a different world, a young boy lay fast asleep with his head on the table. The sun, seemingly displeased with the boy's carefree slumber, cast its rays directly onto his face. Annoyed by the intrusion, the boy shifted his head in another direction, unwilling to be roused from his deep sleep.

*ZZZr Zzrz Zzrzzr* However, an additional source disturbed his sleep, filling the room with a buzzing sound. The boy furrowed his brows in annoyance, his eyes still closed. He searched his surroundings and discovered a glass-like slab. With closed eyes, he slid his finger across it and placed it near his ear.

“Hello...” he mumbled in his drowsy voice, which carried a hint of depth.

“Hey, Pissed-up Prat, where are you?” a voice laced with disdain emanated from the slab.

The boy, referred to as the “Pissed-up Prat” by the irritating female voice, recognized it as a voice he heard frequently but couldn't recall its owner. With his eyes still closed, he inquired, “Who is this?”

“What do you mean, 'who is this'? Wake up, come home, or eat shit for breakfast if you prefer!” the voice behind the transparent slab retorted before falling silent.

The boy, still not fully awakened, gazed at the half-opened glass slab with a mixture of confusion and surprise. As his eyes darted around the room, he became increasingly shocked.

As he recollected the fragmented memories from the night before he lost consciousness, his gaze fell upon the entrance of the shop. Once old and damp, it now bore a different appearance. While not transformed into a luxurious space, it had undergone improvements compared to its previously dilapidated state.

The shop took on a rectangular shape, with one longer side adorned with wooden shelves intricately patterned. Rows of empty glass jars lined these shelves. On the opposite side, there was another wooden shelf, also displaying empty jars. Towards the beginning of the counter, where the boy had been sleeping, there stood a peculiar machine.

Confusion etched across his face, he murmured to himself, “Whose shop is this?”

In response to his question, a mechanical voice resonated in his mind.

[The Omnistore belongs to you, host.]

……………………………………………………………

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