Villain's Breeding System: Evolving 999+ Harem into an SSS-Rank Legion Chapter 445- Professor Marla’s Mental Training Starts

Her spine snapped off the sand.

Her untouched slit sprayed a high, clear fountain of juice into the air while the brand on her chest blazed a blinding, searing level four red.

He yanked his softening length free.

Stepping over, he jamd his tip into Nara’s hollow tunnel, pumping a secondary, thick load of sticky white fluid against her deepest walls, centing his permanent claim over her biology.

Gia’s glazed, rolling eyes begged for her share.

He obliged, stuffing his aching shaft into her dark, ruined hole. The final, throbbing spurts filled her empty cavity to the brim, until the excess cream began to bubble and leak from her puckered rim in a thick, frothy ss.

The brutal, two-hour marathon finally ceased.

The silver moon hung dead center in the sky. The three won lay scattered across the churned sand, their minds obliterated, muscles twitching involuntarily against the chill of the ocean breeze.

Celia’s eyes rolled shut.

Her overloaded nervous system crashed, her gaping ring weeping a steady, slow stream of his thick seed onto the crushed shells beneath her.

Nara slumped over next.

Her pale, trained slit continued to spasm, pulsing weak, dying squirts of clear nectar into the grit as her consciousness flatlined into peaceful static.

Gia held out the longest.

Her massive, bruised breasts heaved with one final, shuddering intake of air before her head lolled to the side. Her brain shut off, her entire existence reduced to a hollowed-out vessel.

Raven stood tall amidst the wreckage.

Like a dark conqueror observing a conquered land, he looked down. His thick weapon hung heavy and semi-erect, thoroughly painted in a ssy cocktail of white seed and slick, earthy sli.

He rolled his broad shoulders.

The vertebrae in his back popped one by one. The pale moonlight caught the sharp, cruel edge of a deeply satisfied smirk.

"Now..."

His voice was a dark rumble over the crashing waves. "...just the professor is left."

He raised his hand. A sharp, echoing crack sounded as he snapped his fingers.

The sandy shoreline emptied.

Without a trace, he vanished into the cool dark, taking his three broken, oozing toys with him.

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The chandeliers of Ashveil Grand Hall had never looked more indifferent.

Seventy years of oil portraits lined the paneled walls. Dead n with dead eyes and congratulatory dals pinned to their dead chests, watching the living ones below repeat the sa ritual they always had — drinking, laughing too loud, clapping each other on the back like they’d personally built every brick of this century-old academy with their own hands.

Professor Marla Thornwood sat at the far end of the long mahogany dining table and ate cereal.

Not because it was on the nu. She’d packed her own.

The silver bowl looked absurd against the white tablecloth with gold trim. She didn’t care. She’d rather look eccentric than touch a single thing these n had touched first.

The hall buzzed with the low, self-congratulatory hum of important n being important near each other. Dean Aldris sat three seats down at the curve of the table, gray at his temples and ruddy at his cheeks from whatever they’d poured him already. Director Haas sat across from him — thick-necked, wide-shouldered, the kind of man who laughed at his own jokes before finishing them. The university’s owner, a silver-haired patriarch nad Cassius Wren, had already given a speech about legacy and excellence that lasted seventeen minutes and ntioned won exactly zero tis.

Marla had counted.

To her right sat Professor Yinna — one of the other two won present. Yinna had co dressed in a champagne-colored wrap dress, laughing too brightly at things that weren’t funny, touching the arms of the n beside her like it kept her warm. She was doing what won learned to do here — perform. Shrink and sparkle at the sa ti. The thin silk of her dress draped over her curves, the subtle outline of her areolas visible whenever she leaned forward, a detail the n beside her were tracking with veiled, hungry glances.

To Marla’s left was the farthest chair from everyone. She’d claid it deliberately.

She pressed her spoon through the milk and watched the cereal bob and settle.

’One hundred years,’ she thought. ’And they still can’t find more than three won who are ’eligible’ to be in the sa room as them.’

The word eligible always made her jaw tighten. Eligible ant — had she networked correctly. Had she published in the right journals. Had she smiled at the right departnt heads. Had she made herself small enough, often enough, to earn a chair at a table that was never ant for her.

She pushed the thought down and kept her face arranged into polished calm.

"Professor Thornwood."

Dean Aldris leaned around the man between them, his voice carrying that particular warmth powerful n used on won they wanted information from.

Marla turned her head with a composed smile.

"Dean Aldris."

"Exceptional work this sester — truly, the social sciences departnt has never had stronger sester-end reviews. How are the students performing? Engagent levels, retention across the campaigns?"

"Cross-enrollnt is up twelve percent from last academic year," she answered, keeping her voice asured and clean. "Student participation in structured discussions has improved significantly — I attribute most of that to the revised assessnt frawork we piloted in the third quarter. Retention is the strongest it’s been in the past six years."

He nodded, expression warm with approval like she was a student who’d answered correctly.

She wanted to tip her cereal bowl over his head.

"Excellent. Excellent." He leaned a fraction closer. "And — ah, by the way, that social awareness campaign. The one your departnt was organizing across the inter-college network. What happened with that?"

Marla tilted her head fractionally.

"Unfortunately it was canceled," she said. "The city logistics board withdrew the required permits citing municipal restructuring. Once governnt clearance was pulled, we didn’t have the operational foundation to proceed — so it was dissolved per compliance guidelines."

"Sha," Aldris murmured.

He was looking at her collarbone.

Marla knew because she’d learned to feel it — the way a man’s attention moved across a woman’s body like he thought she couldn’t tell. Like she was furniture he was appraising.

She hated her dress.

Yinna had convinced her to wear it — ’You need to look like you belong at the table, Marla, not like you’re grading papers at it.’ The fabric was deep erald, structured at the waist, and two sizes too tight across the chest because she’d bought it three years ago and her body had not cooperated with that decision. The neckline was lower than she liked. Her bra was doing significant structural work, pushing her cleavage up, the stiff peaks of her nipples pressing a faint, telling outline against the tight silk under the chill of the hall’s air conditioning. She felt like she’d walked into a room full of people who saw her body before her face.

She went back to her cereal.

The n around her shifted and murmured. There were glances exchanged — brief, sly, the kind that traveled between n who understood each other without words. One of the younger professors across the table — she didn’t know his na, had no interest in learning it — tilted his wine glass at another, eyebrows raised slightly, gaze sliding toward her then Yinna.

Marla’s stomach turned.

She knew what that ant.

She’d always known what that ant.

She pressed her fingers around the handle of her spoon and reminded herself that she was a professional.

That this was a formal function.