Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs

The remaining nine guards closed in like wolves that had caught the scent of blood. No more patience. No more careful patrols. They were collapsing on me in a tightening noose, and I could feel it—this wasn't about stealth anymore. This was survival in its most vicious form. My enhanced reflexes and the downloaded combat skills weren't theory now.

They were the only thing standing between me and becoming a shredded corpse on this concrete killing ground.

Through the thermal overlay, the compound became a chessboard of death. Two heat signatures pushing from the east, sliding behind a forklift. Three moving in tight formation from the west, rifles steady as they advanced from cover to cover along stacked shipping containers.

Two more flanking north through the vehicle depot, boots hammering steel grating with the confidence of men who thought numbers equaled inevitability. And above it all, high on the rooftop, one steady red dot lying prone—the sniper.

The bastard with a perfect angle, waiting for my skull to line up in his scope.

Time to dance.

The warning came not from ARIA but from instinct—the tiniest orange bloom against the night sky, a muzzle flash like a dying star. My body moved before thought caught up. I dove hard to my right, the sniper's round cracking through the air where my head had been a microsecond earlier.

The bullet kissed stone instead, detonating in a shower of concrete dust and razor-edged chips that sliced across my cheek. The sound was monstrous, like thunder splitting inches from my ear. I could feel the bullet's wake—a hot gust, an invisible hand brushing the hairs on my neck.

Close. Too close.

But rolling right put me in the jaws of the eastern team.

The first guard rounded the forklift like a ghost trained in violence—rifle up, cheek welded to the stock, finger already tightening on the trigger. His eyes went wide when he saw me right there, not running, not cowering, but surging forward into his space.

I lunged.

My left hand snapped up and slammed his barrel skyward. His round went wild, the muzzle flash blinding as the shot split the night. My right fist drove into his throat with a crack that felt through my knuckles like smashing wet porcelain. His eyes bulged. His rifle clattered against his vest as both hands clawed at his crushed larynx.

No time to pity. No time to watch him die.

The second guard swung wide from the opposite side of the forklift, pistol drawn, and fired.

BANG. BANG.

I yanked the choking man by his vest and spun him into the line of fire. The shots hit center mass, slamming into his back with wet, heavy impacts. His body jerked against mine like a puppet yanked on strings, blood soaking through his vest in sticky warmth. His last act was dying in my arms, limp and useless now except as a shield.

I hurled him.

Two hundred pounds of collapsing meat slammed into his partner. The pistol guard stumbled backward, the corpse knocking the air out of him before he smacked skull-first into the forklift frame. The crunch of bone meeting steel was sickening—like a hammer hitting a ripe melon. He crumpled beneath the dead weight, gun skittering away across the concrete.

Two down.

I barely had time to breathe before hell erupted from the west.

Three rifles opened up at once, suppressing fire hammering across the compound. Muzzle flashes strobed in furious rhythm, turning the night into a stuttering film reel of death. Bullets shredded the air, whining past my ears, sparking against concrete and steel, punching ragged holes in the walls behind me.

But instead of retreating, I sprinted toward them.

They weren't expecting that. No one sane charges three men laying down full-auto fire. But sanity wasn't my currency anymore. I was running on adrenaline, programming, and the knowledge that hesitation meant death.

Rounds slammed into me mid-charge—four impacts in rapid succession across my chest and shoulders. The kinetic jacket did its job, absorbing and redistributing the force, turning what should have been bone-splintering death into sledgehammer blows that left me gasping but alive.

Without it, I'd be a crimson mist.

I ducked and weaved, the downloaded combat instincts guiding each motion. My body moved like liquid, cutting angles, narrowing the distance before they could recalibrate. The shipping containers loomed ahead, their silhouettes framed in muzzle flashes as the three guards closed their trap.

This wasn't cover fire anymore. This was an execution wall.

I raised the AK-47.

The lead gunmaner's eyes blew wide as I tore out of their own muzzle flashes like some demon birthed from gunfire. He tried to swing his rifle up, but I was already inside his range.

My boot slammed into the side of his knee with a crunch loud enough to cut through the chaos. Bone snapped like dry wood. His scream tore free as he collapsed, leg bending at an angle no human joint should allow. The rifle spun away across concrete, skittering like a discarded toy.

But I lost mine too...

I ripped the combat knife from his vest as I passed—steel sliding free in a clean, metallic whisper. The second guard's barrel was almost on me when I drove the blade into the gap between his vest and helmet, straight into the neck. The knife sank through flesh, cartilage, and bone until it punched into the spinal.

His body convulsed. His arms jerked. Then everything went slack—like someone had cut the strings on a puppet mid-performance. He dropped at my feet, eyes still blinking in mechanical spasms.

The third guard had the clean angle. I heard his rifle's bolt snap forward, a round chambering. I dove flat, concrete scraping my forearms raw, then rolled behind a low barrier as his shots shredded stone inches above my skull.

Chunks rained down. Sparks burst in my vision. The air smelled like dust and hot metal.

Silence. He'd run dry.

I vaulted the barrier and charged, knife reversed in my fist, blade hugging my forearm.

He looked up mid-reload—eyes wide, magazine half-seated.

Too late.

The knife speared upward, punching through the soft flesh under his jaw. I felt the resistance as it shredded tongue, sinus, bone. Then it punched into the brain stem, locking his whole body mid-movement.

Blood gushed hot and arterial over my hand, spilling down my wrist in steaming rivulets. His eyes rolled back, glassy, as I wrenched the knife free in a spray of crimson mist.

Three corpses. Six left. And the sniper's scope still licking at me from above.

The depot guards came fast—two angles, opposite sides of a truck. Smart, textbook crossfire. But textbooks didn't account for what I'd become.

I hit the ground and slid under the truck's chassis, sparks flaring as their rounds chewed metal overhead. Hot brass rained down, tinkling across steel. One round pinged off the driveshaft inches from my skull.

I rolled out passenger-side, right behind one of them. He didn't even register me until my arm locked around his throat. My forearm crushed into his windpipe, his body thrashing like a fish on a line. I felt the cartilage give way under pressure, a brittle snap reverberating through my bones.

As his body sagged, I stole the Glock from his holster. Clean. Natural.

The second guard rounded the truck, rifle up. His first sight was his buddy's corpse twitching in my grip.

Two quick taps to center mass. Both rounds smacked his vest, knocking him backward but not dropping him. He grunted, teeth bared, still standing.

I ended him with the third. The round punched through his forehead in a bloom of black and red, brain matter painting the truck door in wide, sloppy arcs.

His body fell like wet laundry.

Movement east. Three heat signatures closing, tactical, leapfrogging cover to cover. Real operators, not rent-a-cops.

The sniper fired again. I could see it, heading straight to my head, with no where to run.