MTL - Starting from Zero - v23 Chapter 27 Highway maniac

Vincent van Gogh, the painter who refused to be an accessory Of power and painted with his soul at the tip of a brush, was not understood by anyone and had to die like a madman, and he woke up in 21st century Korea.

Like a wheat field melted with gold, like a sunflower that swallowed the sun, a dazzling painter once again takes the brush.

The most successful businessman of his time, who started from being a homeless orphan, died indignantly because of being plotted against by his most trusted aid, his own brother.

“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.

Lady Bertia, who’s become my fiancée, is a bit odd. On our first meeting, she proclaimed herself a villainess noble girl who’s been reincarnated and said that she’s working hard every day to become a splendid flower of evil that’s elegantly put in her place.

I don’t get it.

But she entertains me because I don’t understand.

That’s why I think I’ll observe her for a while.

This is a story of a crown prince who’s so talented and handsome that he’s grown bored of his easy-mode life. A story of this prince observing a self-proclaimed villainess noble girl (who seems perfect at first but is a bit off) who’s become his fiancée as she snatches flags and breaks them into pieces.