You Practice Immortality, I Farm - Chapter 1142: Qiankun Pearl

For a million worth of contract, she became a surrogate mother.

He was the chief executive of the Empire and she was of lowly birth. With her adoptive father’s business falling into crisis, she agrees to his contract.

She gave birth to twins: the older brother is healthy, while the younger brother didn’t breathe out. Fulfilling the contract with a huge monetary sum as the reward, she disappeared from his eyes.

Six years later – he was still the cold high-profile president, but when she is accidentally imprisoned in the cage of his golden birds he pressured her harder and harder: “Woman, do not think you can escape my hands!”

The old-fashioned man: “Mu Yazhe, you’d better leave her alone, this is the child’s mother!” The man becomes frightened, questioning the reason this child’s features bears such resemblance to…

- Description from Novelupdates

There is a kind of person in the world who is indifferent, cool, arrogant, and especially a bit petty. There is also a kind of person who is lazy, gentle, considerate, and even adeptly flirts with girls. When the male god completed a shocking 360 transformation from the former to the latter, Tang Xia’s first reaction was…is this a fantasy world?

- Description from Novelupdates

Ethan possessed everything one could desire, wealth, happiness, luxury cars, and a loving girlfriend.He had never fought a day in his life, but then suddenly, he woke up in a different world.A world were destruction and bloodshed was the norm. A world where the weak had no place to survive.Ethan now possessing the body of a boy who had failed his awakening twice and was on his last try, now stood in this world.Can Ethan who never fought a day in his life survive in a world where battles and death occurs every second, minute, hour and day.Would he rise through the ashes of the world, or would he burn with it.

“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.