Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs Chapter 965: MVPs of my Origin Story.

So, let's be real. By every moral standard that society pretends to uphold, I am the villain.

Let’s be blunt for once: I had become so proficient in the art of instant conquest that traditional courting now felt like a relic from forgotten times—like archaic rituals involving carved wood and months of waiting before you are even permitted to touch a breast.

Average men date. They send texts. They endure painfully awkward small talk about their feelings and their dull lives.

They trudge through several lackluster dinners just to figure out if the intimacy is worth the emotional baggage their partner carries.

Me? I skip the tedious foreplay of modern society and head straight to rewiring their nervous system with my own presence. I achieve same-day results. I go from zero to absolute obsession in the time it takes an average guy to browse filters to make his dating app selfie look slightly less like a criminal record.

Was I truly that exceptional?

Indisputably.

No one could even compare.

No other person on this planet could execute this with the same strike rate or the same lethal efficiency.

And keep your moral outrage to yourselves.

That is just insecure men trying to soothe their fragile egos by labeling the women as broken, rather than admitting their own performance is stuck on the lowest difficulty setting.

It was never about the women being easy.

It was about the men being fundamentally inadequate.

And it had nothing to do with my targets being simple, or whatever convenient tag people wanted to label them with.

Not theirs. Never theirs.

It was me. My talents. My prowess. And quite simply—the failures of their own men.

Those husbands—they were the true MVPs of my origin story.

They gave up trying years ago. They mistook paying the bills for affection.

The fault always lay with the men who came before me.

They treated their wives like high-end appliances: expensive to maintain, rarely used, occasionally wiped down, but never truly cherished. They provided the wealth only to act surprised when the woman in the master bedroom felt emotionally starved within a mansion filled with empty rooms and unfulfilled desires.

I wasn’t stealing.

I was famine relief with superior execution.

With one final, guttural groan that perhaps vibrated through the floorboards, I surged inside her—deep, possessive, authoritative.

She shattered right along with me: her back arched as if attempting to break free from her own skin, thighs trembling, her entire frame spasming in that exquisite post-orgasmic release that only happens when a woman finally remembers what true pleasure feels like.

Then we kissed.

Slowly.

Lazily.

As if the rest of the world had collectively vanished for a moment.

God, she was exquisite.

She tasted of champagne, poor life choices, and the faint lingering scent of someone else’s broken wedding vows. Perfection.

One might wonder what the future holds for us.

So... what comes next?

I am not entirely sure... difficult to say.

What I did know, basking in that sticky aftermath, was that she already belonged to me. Perhaps not on paper yet. She might not even commit to being exclusively mine tonight. Maybe not by next week, either. But inevitability has a distinct aroma, and it saturated the air around us.

She would likely follow the path of Patt.

Patt—the rare Hollywood exception who negotiated terms as if she were signing a record contract rather than giving up her monogamy. We agreed to test the waters. As if that were possible...

To see how far we would go. I already knew the closing credits. Obviously... she would end up in my harem eventually—as my woman.

But—it is the lady's choice, isn't it?

Unlike Eziel or my other women who pledged themselves to me the moment I showed interest, as though I were offering a luxury villa and they were signing before the presentation concluded, others would be different.

Patt was unique. She realized she couldn't feel fully alive without me—because once you have experienced 36K ultra-HDR intimacy, the thought of returning to a mundane life feels like a prison sentence—but that did not mean she would abandon her previous life overnight.

After all, she had a career.

A personal brand.

A solid identity.

A life constructed block by careful block.

A carefully manicured existence that wouldn't simply crumble just because a confident stranger had turned her world upside down.

And honestly? I appreciated that dynamic.

It provided me with a sense of authenticity.

It anchored me back to the traditional methods; true dating. Conversations not interrupted by external noise. Arguments about where to eat instead of debates regarding whose turn it was to be satisfied.

Building a connection before settling down.

Quiet mornings. Comprehending someone through words rather than just the way their body architecture shifts when they surrender to me.

Courtship.

The classic, time-honored way.

The slow-burn fantasy that most men chase for a lifetime and never truly seize.

For me, it was optional content. A nostalgic side quest. Something to pursue between grand conversions and spontaneous intimate encounters.

This nameless woman—whose identity ARIA was deliberately shielding because my internal system enjoys a twisted sense of dramatic timing—was clearly the next evolution in the making. She would leave this room wearing another man’s wedding ring, yet carrying my invisible mark etched deep within her.

That granted me a window. A chance to truly learn them. To grow to cherish them.

And that window?

That delightful, lingering phase of 'dating' before they ultimately surrender?

That was the period where I truly learned to adore them.

Genuinely adore them.

Because—contrary to popular belief—I don't consort with women I don't admire. My abilities amplify. They don't invent. Desire must exist at the core. I am not running a coercion simulator; I am operating a preference optimizer equipped with cheat codes.

So, yes.

One slow-burning, passionate romance at a time—balanced between the spontaneous captures, the cuckold conversions, and the growing collection of women who now measured every man they encountered against an impossible standard, finding them all tragically lacking.

Then, utopia.

The philosophy of spontaneous allure, continued.

The next sermon topic: how to court someone you have already spiritually claimed through total pleasure.

Bring your refreshments.

Amen.

And... sorry-not-sorry.