MTL - Rebirth Daughter Against the World - Chapter 1768 God, awesome...

“Every person has an equal amount of 8 skill holder slots. There are normal skills such as 【Physical Strength】 which takes up 1 slot, but there are also rare skills which take up 4 to 5 slots, or even rarer ones which take up all 8 slots.”

Is what old man Hinga taught me at the Orb Mine, where skill orbs are unearthed.

But we “s*aves” could not acquire skills due to Contract Magic, thus s*aves had no future.

On one fateful day.

The noble who owned the mine, that is, our “Master”, came to visit the Orb Mine.

Due to a sudden earthquake, the ceiling collapsed. Rocks fell directly on the noble’s head. And he died.

At that moment, our contract magic disappeared.

The clever s*aves ran straight to the warehouse where the skill orbs were stored.

They absorbed rare skill orbs, and used their newfound abilities and magic to defeat the guards and escaped the mine.

It was a riot.

I was too late to pick up a skill orb.

“–It’s over. I will be forced back into being a s*ave,” I despaired.

But just then, I saw a skill orb that shouldn’t exist.

An orb which used 10 skill holder slots -【All Things In Creation 《World Ruler》】

A non-standard skill orb that would be of no interest to anyone but researchers because no soul in the world could use it.

However, I was able to absorb 【World Ruler】.

Why? That’s because I was a “reincarnated person.”

I had 8 more skill holder slots than an average person, for a total of 16 slots.

The mine is besieged and there is only one exit. A mysterious skill 【World Ruler】 in my hand.

What do I do now?

I met the male lead in prison.

“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.

At nineteen, Dexter was already one of the world’s most celebrated authors. His books topped charts. Critics praised his genius. Fans devoured every word. But behind the acclaim was a lonely boy—raised without parents, love, or real friends—just stories.He published his first novel at fourteen. By seventeen, he was a literary star. But the higher he rose, the hollower it felt.Then came the writer’s block. The headaches. The blackout. And the transmigration.Dexter awoke in the body of Daylan, a disgraced young man in a crumbling, medieval world laced with steampunk tech, divine law, and political unrest. Daylan had already failed two of the three sacred Trials—rites that determine one’s magical potential. He was drowning in debt, entangled in plots to overthrow a corrupt Divine Church, and branded a lost cause.With no way back, Dexter took the final Trial—the most brutal of them all—and began a path that would earn him the whispered title: Soldier, Poet, King.But as his powers grew, one question haunted him: Did he truly die? And if so, who—or what—chose to bring him back?