Villain's Breeding System: Evolving 999+ Harem into an SSS-Rank Legion Chapter 494- Cursed Heroes Sword

’He ordered this,’ she thought. ’A dragon ordered this. The godfather — if that word ans anything — of the black dragon my team died fighting — ordered to train these won.’

Her hand found the sword hilt out of reflex.

’I don’t know what they need. I don’t know their levels. I don’t know their bloodlines — wait, no, he said they failed to inherit the Dragon’s Heart. Which ans he tested them. Which ans they have so—’

She stopped that line of thought.

She looked at them more carefully.

They were watching her with composed, patient, exhausted faces. Not afraid. Not challenging. Not performing deference in the theatrical way of people who did not actually intend to defer.

They were genuinely waiting.

The one at the front — the compact Indian woman with the military-straight posture and the Iron Flesh density visible in her forearms — gave a small, precise inclination of her head.

The others followed. One by one. A light bow, synchronized without being rehearsed, the gesture of won who had been organized around soone and were now extending that organization toward the nearest available authority.

"Please guide us, Lady Edda," Preet said.

The words were clean. Quiet. No ornant.

Edda flinched.

’Lady Edda.’

From won who had been— from won that he had— from won that a dragon had chosen as his—

She looked at them.

She looked at the wall.

She looked at the weapon rack.

If these had been village girls, she would have snapped sothing sharp and sent them to the yard. If these had been adventurer recruits, she would have started with the physical assessnt — push capacity, swing weight, footwork baseline.

These were neither.

She did not know what these were.

She opened her mouth.

The dark-titted woman at the back — the thick one with the enormous chest and the hairy edges visible at the dress hem — spoke before Edda found her words.

"We hope," Fatima said, softly, "you do not show rcy just because the master said so."

Edda went still.

She looked at Fatima.

The innocent dark eyes were not performing the statent. They were reporting it — the honest, tired request of won who had already understood that whatever softness existed in this training would not serve them.

Edda felt sothing in her chest loosen by one degree.

’They know what training ans.’

’They are telling they will accept injury.’

She exhaled through her nose.

"Fine," she said. "Then let’s go to the training room."

She nodded once.

They nodded back.

She turned toward the rear door of the hut — the one that led out to the yard where she had maintained the practice ground for years.

She took three steps.

"By the way, Lady Edda—"

She stopped.

It was a mature voice. Unhurried. Carrying the dry, asured quality of a woman who had delivered lectures and knew how to ti a statent for maximum effect.

Edda turned her head.

Marla.

The thick professor stood with her glasses perfectly adjusted, her ink-stained fingers folded in front of her, her expression carrying the mild, academic pleasantness of soone making a completely reasonable offer.

"If you want," Marla said, "I can help you wear a skirt and even do your makeup."

The hut went very quiet.

Edda’s face.

The crimson arrived faster this ti — not the gradual flush of before, but the imdiate, comprehensive flooding of a woman who has been cornered by a single sentence in front of an audience. It reached her collarbone in three seconds. Her white hair seed to sharpen against it.

Her eyes fixed on Marla.

Marla looked back with complete, professional composure.

Behind Marla, the other five won reacted.

Preet’s jaw did sothing involuntary and she pressed her lips together hard. Celia and Gia exchanged a sideways glance that communicated a complete paragraph. Nara’s head tilted by three degrees. Fatima pressed her enormous tits together with her arms in the gesture that ant she was suppressing sothing.

And then the silent arithtic moved through all of them simultaneously.

’She ntioned the skirt.’

’He ntioned the skirt.’

’She connected to the thing he ntioned.’

’She scored a point.’

The collective internal response was quiet and imdiate and distinctly unfair.

Preet’s eyes went to the floor, carrying an expression that was sowhere between impressed and deeply irritated. Celia pressed her lips together. Gia’s dark tits rose with a breath that was slightly more forceful than necessary. Nara looked at the ceiling.

Fatima looked at Marla with innocent eyes that were, for once, not entirely innocent.

None of them said anything.

Because saying it would require acknowledging that the thick professor with the ink-stained fingers had, in one sentence about a garnt, achieved a conversational outco that none of the rest of them had managed all morning.

Edda held Marla’s gaze for a long mont.

Then she looked away.

"I understand," she said.

Her voice was flat and carefully controlled.

She turned and walked toward the training room door.

"Follow," she said.

Far above.

The waterfall was a white column in a green valley, crashing into a basin that threw mist twenty feet in every direction. The forest around it was old-growth — thick trunks, deep canopy, the sound of the water filling the air so completely that nothing else had room to exist alongside it.

Raven floated above it all.

Invisible.

The anomaly field Fatima had given him bent the light around his body with the lazy efficiency of a system that had simply stopped accounting for his presence. He hung in the air with his arms at his sides, his violet wings folded, looking down at the waterfall below him with the expression of a man doing an inventory.

’First life,’ he thought. ’Hero’s sword. This waterfall. Behind the fall, behind the basin, in the rock shelf twenty feet under.’

He dropped.

Silently. Straight down through the mist, through the cold spray of the waterfall, through the white curtain of it. The water hit his skin and his mana field shed it without discussion, the droplets parting around him and falling elsewhere.

He found the rock shelf.

The skeleton was there.

It was old. Very old. The bones had the gray, compacted density of remains that had been here longer than the village above had been standing. The sword was in the skeleton’s grip — or had been, before the grip had beco unreliable, and the sword had settled into the stone shelf beside the bones with the patient permanence of an object that had decided to wait.

It was a beautiful weapon.

The blade was dark — not black, but the deep, layered gray of folded steel worked by soone who had known exactly what they were doing. The edge was still clean. The crossguard carried two small gemstones that pulsed with a faint, cold light even here in the underwater dark.

Level 50.

In this town. In this base village at the Labyrinth’s outer ring where the average adventurer was scraping toward level ten.

’How did you get here,’ he thought, looking at the skeleton.

He reached for the sword.

It reacted imdiately.

The blade pulled upright — not moved by any visible force, just rising, the mana in it activating with the sudden, furious urgency of a weapon that had been sleeping for a long ti and had woken up with opinions. The killing intent ca off it in a wave — cold, clean, the focused hostility of an artifact that had been designed to decide who was worthy and currently had a strong feeling about the answer.

Raven looked at it.