I Can Hear a Serial Killer's Voice in My Head - Chapter 77: National Forensic Service (13)

Caleb Zane was a genius geneticist from Earth living a normal life until he met an unfortunate accident that claimed his life.But as fate would have it, he was given another chance at life in a magical world he could only imagine.Unlike what he saw and read in popular literature, he didn't score some rich family who would give him a good starting point.He did, however, get the ultimate gift of all....................[Host Detected...]“What...?”[Analyzing magic potential of host][#Error... #Error. No potential detected. Analyzing past memories...]Caleb watched with bated breath as the system did its thing...[Past skills analyzed. Creating suitable skill...][Skill created: Congratulations, host has awakened the skill: Genetic Manipulation.]“The fuck?”..................Armed with a skill unlike anything ever seen before, Caleb must explore its limits and carve a path for himself in his new world.He discovers shocking secrets of his new world and the origins of his transmigration as well as the reasons he got the genetic system.....................First thing first...This is a passion project of mine so updates will be inconsistent and will only be updated as and when I have time.If you find this novel interesting and wish for more chapters, show your support and maybe, I can write more.

The orphan Sun Chan was abandoned by her first love. Her foster mother and sister sold her to the village drunkard, where she endured endless torment and ultimately died from exhaustion in the cornfield. After awakening, she returned to being seventeen years old. She vowed to leave the village this life and carve out a new world for herself! Family, friendship, and love, she will strive for them all. Hey, soldier brother over there, why do you keep looking at me?

This thought had grown deep in William’s mind!

“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.