MTL - I [Imperial] Am This Type of Man - Chapter 192 Conquering the Young Master of the Wolves (16)

DEATH COULDN’T KILL HIM—IT JUST GAVE HIM A NEW LIFE TO DESTROY.Reo Carter was a name that made even the hardest killers shudder. A perfect hitman—no hesitation, no mercy. Until his own crew turned on him, leaving him bleeding out in a pile of bodies that used to be his enemies.But fate wasn’t done with him.He wakes up in a world of nobility, magic, and honor duels—trapped in the body of Leonhardt Caulem, the weakest, most useless son of Duke Caulem. A spoiled brat with no skill, no spine, and a reputation so pathetic that even servants look down on him.They think he’s weak? They have no idea who they just brought back.- Swords and magic? He spent his last life dodging bullets—this is child’s play.- Dueling etiquette? A knife in the ribs is the only honor that matters.- A noble’s life of luxury? He’s had enough backstabbing for one lifetime, thanks.He was once a ghost in the underworld—a man who didn’t exist. Now, in a world where strength is everything, he’s about to remind them what true fear looks like.The hitman is back. And this time, he’s aiming for something more.#NobleByDayKillerByNature #TheyBroughtBackTheWrongMan #FromHitmanToDuke #SayYourLastWords

On a normal boring day, a message appears, inviting him to a Tutorial.

It is twenty-two years before the Battle of Yavin, and the galaxy is at war.Born to a not unimportant, not important planet in the Inner Rim, Rain never placed much thought into his future. After all, the galaxy is vast, and peaceful living should not be hard to find. Two decades later, armies are marshalled, and warships grace the stars, propelled aloft the wings of war. Armed with the knowledge of nine movies, Rain is forced into joining the galactic conflict. On the losing side.*AU with many, many POVs; don't expect a casual self-insert flick

“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.