Journey Towards Greatness - Chapter 1319: Are You Dancing?

Luo Qing Chen is a wandering spirit that died thirty thousand years ago, roaming the Chaos Space

In order to not turn into dust, she is bound by an ice cold system to travel through time and space to complete missions.

Girls that pretend to be weak?  Slap them without explaining.

A silly cannon fodder?  Helping them amass treasures.

Meeting a real male god?  All of them will pamper.

System: Dear masters, what do I do if my host even dares bully the heavens?  Waiting for an answer, it’s urgent!

A certain male god: Change systems.

System: ヽ〔?Д?〕丿

- Description from Novelupdates

[Warning: Mature Content 18+, Harem, No NTR!]He was only ten years old when his world turned to ash. Hidden behind a door, shivering with helplessness and fear, the boy peered through the keyhole and watched his parents die. He never knew who killed them. He never even saw the faces of those who took everything from him.The terror was too much for a ten-year old boy. His mind shattered, erasing that night from his memory. And then everything was blank, darkness in front of his eyes as he lost consciousness.When his eyes opened again, a man stood before him, a stranger with a gentle smile and eyes filled with something strange… pity? Or something else?“What happened here boy?”“Happened where?”“You don’t remember, do you?”“Remember what…? Where is father? My Mother?”“I guess this is for the best.”“Good boy. Your father was my dearest friend… and now, you are my responsibility. From now on, you will be my son.”“You have no one left, boy… but I can make sure no one ever takes anything from you again.” The man said gently.And then that man forged him into something inhuman. A weapon honed to perfection, a shadow lurking in the underworld. The mere whisper of his name - Draugr, A ghost that never truly dies, sent grown men into cold sweats, their legs trembling beneath them.The boy soon outgrew his master and carved his own legend in blood. But all this while he never stopped searching—for the ones who killed his parents, for the truth, for revenge.And finally, after fifteen years of silence, he was close. The last clue he needed was just within his grasp.It was so close, yet just an inch out of his grasp. He was ambushed, a trap he never saw coming.Wounded, bleeding out, fighting for his life against an army of men and women eyeing to claim his life, he should have died. But fate had something else stored for him.Barely holding onto life, he stumbled into a girl—fragile-looking, yet completely unafraid of the monster before her. She didn’t run. She didn’t scream. Instead, she smiled.She saved him. Took him to a hospital. And as he lay unconscious, she made her plans.But when he woke up… He had lost everything, He remembered nothing.Not just the truth of his parents' murder. Not just the years of searching. Not just the enemies and allies he'd made along the way. Not even his own name.Twenty-five years of his life—wiped clean.Now, in a world that fears his very name, with ghosts of a past he can no longer remember hunting him in the shadows—he must decide: Is he still the Draugr they all fear? Or is he just a man searching for the pieces of himself?And who is the girl who stole his fate and bound it to hers?

“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.

I am Racist.…I mean, my name is Racis T.I was a stand-up comedian. The flop kind. The type who only got laughs when someone else was roasting him.One night, I was doing a gig at a shady, run-down bar—the kind where tattooed bikers drink motor oil for breakfast. I went in with my usual dark humor, but my jokes were getting the same reaction as my dating profile: complete silence.That didn’t sit right with my inner artist, who was already starving to death. So I did what any committed comedian would—I went darker.Turns out, one of my jokes (or all of them?) triggered a guy so hard that he pulled a trigger. Headshot. Instant death.But hey, look at this: A guy got triggered, so he pulled the trigger. That’s wordplay. But who cares? I’m dead anyway.All I wanted was a successful show, people laughing, and maybe a few girls swooning over my wit. I never cared about money. The millions I’d have made would have gone to charity—specifically, 0.001% of it. See? I’m generous like that.Anyway, death is death. My story should’ve ended there.But… if there is an afterlife, I had a simple wish: become a successful comedian, find a loving wife, and have just enough money to afford three meals a day… and maybe a humble little private yacht. Or a jet. But that’s it. Because, like I said, I don’t care about money.Unfortunately, wishes don’t work that way.Because, well—there was an afterlife.And it was absolutely not what I wished for.