MTL - The Male Lead’s Substitute Wife - Chapter 114

Lynn embarks on a fantastical journey to a realm reminiscent of medieval Europe, yet infused with extraordinary magical abilities. Here, the very fabric of reality is governed by the enigmatic theory of magic, which harnesses and manipulates fundamental particles.

In this world, wizards, who are essentially scientific spell casters, find themselves locked in a relentless battle against the oppressive Church.

However, when Lynn arrives, a harbinger of an otherworldly Renaissance, the tides of change are set in motion, unveiling a thrilling tale of discovery, intrigue, and the struggle for enlightenment.

If it was me, I wouldn’t date a professional gamer. If I had that kind of patience, then I might as well use it to get into Tsinghua University or Beijing University.

- Description from Novelupdates

I came to a world where comics are prosperous, but why do cartoonists here have such an incomparable title of secondary school!

With the idea of ​​interest, Chen Zijun planned to become a cartoonist.

Reader: “Shameless old thief, hurry up and fill the ice hole, how can it be repaired.”

“Ah, ah, without Haruhi Suzumiya seeing me dying.”

“April is your lie, I burst into tears after reading it.”

“Our days are inscribed on the ring.”

In this way, Chen Zijun happily started the old thief road of digging holes and not filling them in another world.

Group number: 663695803, welcome to join the group to play.

- Description from novelbuddy

“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.