Villain's Breeding System: Evolving 999+ Harem into an SSS-Rank Legion-Chapter 345- Hero Summoning within a Week
Astasia walked gracefully down the center of the hall, the eyes of every man in the room instantly drawn to her swaying hips and her heavily bouncing chest.
She stopped at the base of the throne steps and descended into a flawless, graceful kneel. The motion caused her blonde hair to spill forward, her deep cleavage pressing invitingly against the collar of her armor.
She looked up, her deep eyes meeting the weary gaze of her ruler.
"Greetings, Your Majesty," she said, her voice echoing beautifully through the silent hall. "I am Astasia, daughter of Duke Valerius and Sword of the Dawn. I have returned to answer your call."
The King did not speak immediately.
He sat upon the massive iron and gold throne with the stillness of a man who carried the weight of an entire continent on his shoulders and had long ago learned how to balance it. His face was shadowed beneath the heavy golden crown, but the aura radiating from him was palpable — dense, ancient, vibrating with the sheer magical density of the royal bloodline.
Astasia remained perfectly still in her kneel, her head bowed just enough to show absolute respect, her wavy blonde hair spilling over the silver adamantium of her pauldrons.
"Rise, Lady Astasia," the King finally said.
His voice was not loud, but it possessed a terrifying, resonant depth that seemed to bypass the ears and vibrate directly within the bones of everyone present in the hall. It was a voice accustomed to absolute obedience.
Astasia stood. The smooth, fluid motion caused the thick, heavy mounds of her breasts to shift and settle forcefully within her custom-forged breastplate, the metal clicking softly as she straightened her spine.
She turned her gaze to her left, where the other two original heroes stood.
Garrick, the hammer-wielding behemoth of a man, stood with his arms crossed over a chest as wide as a fortress door. His massive, rune-inscribed warhammer rested head-down on the velvet carpet beside him. Even completely silent, the sheer physical presence of the man commanded respect.
Beside him stood Seraphina, the shield-bearing heroine. She wore dense, layered platinum armor, her own profound feminine curves tightly bound beneath the heavy plating. Her head was currently bowed, her hands resting on the edge of a colossal tower shield that stood almost as tall as she did.
Astasia moved to stand beside them, her heavy boots making no sound on the thick velvet.
"The Sword of the Dawn has arrived," one of the elder ministers spoke from the right side of the throne. He was draped in the heavy crimson robes of the high nobility, his face lined with the sharp, merciless calculations of politics. "We may now proceed with the full assessment of the crisis."
Astasia kept her expression perfectly neutral, but her heart pounded heavily against her chest.
"My Lord," another minister stepped forward, bowing deeply toward the throne before turning to address the room. "The situation on the rear front has deteriorated past our most pessimistic projections. As Lady Astasia was informed upon her arrival... ten thousand of our troops were slaughtered in a single night by the catastrophe-level Demon General."
The minister paused, swallowing hard, the sweat visibly glistening on his brow in the warm glow of the magical chandeliers.
"However," the minister continued, his voice trembling slightly, "what the gate guards did not disclose to you, My Lady... is the composition of those fallen troops."
Astasia narrowed her deep sapphire eyes. The heavy, rhythmic sway of her hips had ceased completely; her entire body tensed with sudden dread.
"The ten thousand casualties," the minister said, his voice dropping to a near-whisper, "were not conscripts. They were not standard infantry. They were the entire Third Vanguard... consisting exclusively of Three-Star Rank Knights."
A heavy, suffocating silence fell over the grand hall.
Astasia’s breath hitched, her plush lips parting slightly in sheer shock. Her large breasts rose sharply against her breastplate as she inhaled a sudden, sharp breath.
Ten thousand Three-Star Knights.
It was an incomprehensible loss. To train a single knight to the Third Star required years of rigorous magical cultivation, intense physical discipline, and immense financial resources. They were the absolute backbone of Aethelgard’s military might. To lose ten thousand of them in a single night wasn’t just a defeat; it was a massacre that threatened the very structural integrity of the kingdom’s defense network.
Garrick’s massive jaw tightened, his grip on his crossed arms flexing so hard his gauntlets creaked. Seraphina’s head bowed even lower, her knuckles turning white where she gripped the edge of her tower shield.
"How?" Astasia asked, her voice steady despite the shock vibrating through her nervous system. "How does a single Demon General bypass the runic fortifications and annihilate a full vanguard of Three-Star Knights before reinforcements can arrive?"
"Because," a new voice spoke.
A military noble — a Duke holding domain over the southern coast — stepped forward, his armor clanking aggressively. He did not look at Astasia; he looked directly at the King’s shadowed face.
"Because they did not attack the fortifications," the Duke stated grimly. "The intelligence reports confirm that the Demon Army has completely shifted their tactical doctrine. They are no longer attempting a land-based siege. They are taking the sea route. The catastrophe-level General used a massive localized spatial distortion to bypass the coastal runic grid entirely, dropping directly behind our lines."
The Duke slammed his fist against his own breastplate, the sound echoing sharply.
"My Liege," the Duke implored, "my southern fleet is entirely inadequate to repel a full-scale demonic naval invasion. We need the immediate redeployment of the Royal Armada, and we need the support of the remaining Six and Seven-Star Knights to hold the coastline!"
"Impossible!" the crimson-robed minister snapped back immediately. "If we pull the high-ranking knights from the capital and the central plains, we leave the heart of Aethelgard completely exposed to a secondary land assault! The demons have always used diversionary tactics. If we commit the central military to the coast, they will march straight through the plains!"
"And if we do not commit the military to the coast," the Duke roared, his face flushing dark red with anger, "they will flank the entire continent! We will be surrounded on three sides within a month!"
The argument erupted instantly.
Other nobles and ministers joined the fray, their voices rising in volume and intensity. The hall quickly filled with the chaotic, desperate sounds of men who realized they were standing on the absolute edge of annihilation. Some demanded immediate conscription; others demanded the neighboring kingdoms fulfill their treaty obligations.
Astasia stood perfectly still amidst the chaos, her deep eyes tracking the arguments, her mind calculating the horrific logistics of a two-front war against an enemy that could seemingly bypass their strongest defenses at will.
The situation was far worse than she had imagined during her ride to the palace.
Then, it happened.
The King did not shout. He did not raise his hand. He did not even shift his weight upon the massive iron and gold throne.
He simply released his aura.
It did not hit them like a physical blow. It arrived like the sudden, terrifying descent of an ocean trench — a crushing, absolute, multi-dimensional pressure that instantly displaced all the oxygen in the room.
Astasia felt her legs turn entirely to jelly.
The sheer, overwhelming weight of the King’s presence slammed down upon her shoulders like a thousand tons of solid lead. Her knees buckled instantly. The heavy adamantium of her armor offered zero protection against the spiritual gravity of the ruler of Aethelgard.
She hit the velvet carpet hard, falling directly onto both knees, her hands slamming onto the floor to brace herself. The sudden, violent drop caused her massive breasts to jiggle heavily, the thick, soft flesh surging forcefully against the rigid metal of her breastplate, the tight binding of her undergarments biting into her skin.
Beside her, a massive ’THUD’ echoed as Garrick, despite his colossal size and strength, was driven to his knees, his warhammer clattering uselessly against the floor. Seraphina gasped, dropping to one knee, her heavy tower shield sliding from her grasp as she struggled to breathe.
But if the heroes were struggling, the ministers and nobles were entirely devastated.
The men who had been shouting seconds ago were instantly pressed directly into their seats or slammed onto the floor, their entire bodies trembling uncontrollably under the sheer, suffocating pressure of their Lord.
The high nobles, men who possessed enough magical power to level small mountains and rule entire provinces, found themselves completely immobilized, their faces pressed against the velvet carpet, sweat instantly pouring down their foreheads.
"K-King..." the crimson-robed minister gasped out, his voice a pathetic, trembling croak as he struggled against the crushing weight pressing his spine toward the floor. "Forgive us... Your Majesty..."
The silence in the room was absolute, broken only by the ragged, desperate panting of the most powerful individuals in the kingdom struggling simply to exist within the presence of their ruler.
The King looked down at them from the shadows of his crown.
His voice, when he finally spoke, was calm, resonant, and completely merciless.
"We need to summon the heroes now," the King stated.
The words carried the absolute finality of divine law.
"Schedule the preparations as soon as possible," the King commanded, the pressure in the room holding steady, pinning every man and woman exactly where they were. "Within a week, I want them here. It is my final decision."
The pressure slowly, agonizingly began to recede, leaving the air thin and cold in its wake.
The ministers, the Duke, and the high nobles remained exactly where they were — heads bowed, bodies trembling, the sheer terror of the absolute authority they served entirely re-established within their minds.
Sweat dripped from their faces onto the red velvet.
In perfect unison, their voices trembling with absolute submission, the room answered the King of Aethelgard.
"As you order, Your Majesty."
