Versatile Mage (Web Novel) - Chapter 674: Losing Hope, Skeleton Pack!

Magic, eastern fantasy, cultivation, scientific technology…

After the sudden death of her boyfriend, Leslie Song has been single-handedly raising her precious little daughter Calliope. It’s a difficult life, but it’s a happy one. A freak accident puts an end to that.As Leslie lies dying on the road, watching Calliope breathe her last, she curses her helplessness. Calliope’s crochet fox seems to hear her. It opens its mouth and asks, “Do you want to see your daughter again? If so, follow me. Her soul has already left for another world.”Leslie agrees. That’s the last thing she remembers before losing consciousness. When she opens her eyes again, she finds herself—or rather, her soul—standing beside her unconscious body on a hospital bed.“How is this supposed to help me find Calliope!” she exclaims.“This is not your body. Your body is dead. This is my original host, Charlene Li,” explains the toy fox. “You can possess her body to find Calliope, but if you do, you must finish her uncompleted mission for her.”“And what mission is that?”“To marry the second most eligible CEO in the city.”‘This,’ Leslie concludes, ‘is a scam.’ But she has no other choice.**********Meanwhile, the second most eligible bachelor in the city, Calix Xu, is patting himself on the back for thwarting his grandmother’s attempts to marry him off. After exhausting all of his tricks and excuses, he has resorted to marrying the comatose daughter of the Li family.Calix smiles, pleased with himself, “Aren't I smart? Grandmother can do nothing now.”But… why is he seeing his newly-wedded wife hovering beside her own body?Before he can react, his wife—the moving one—floats towards him.“Husband! Help me find my child!”“Your child?” Calix asks weakly before doing the only reasonable thing he can do in such a situation.He faints.

Be an Uber driver, one Pagani Zonda rewarded.

“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.