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

The reinforcements were already massing outside. I had maybe two minutes before the doors blew in and the next wave of mercs poured through. Two minutes to find out if this massacre had meant anything.

I sprinted through the blood-slick hallways that held the testament of the carnage I had created, boots splashing through pools that mirrored the emergency strobes in dark, pulsing reflections. Brass casings crunched underfoot, corpses staring up at me with glassy eyes that still hadn't caught up to death.

The corridor opened into the detention block. Rows of steel doors, observation slits like staring eyes, the stench of disinfectant and old terror baked into the concrete.

First cell—empty cot.

Second—empty.

Third, fourth, fifth—nothing but buckets of filth and silence.

"Come on…" My hands were shaking as I tore through the locks. "Come on, Margaret. Be here. fucking be here. Please—"

Sixth, seventh, eighth.

Empty.

The silence in that corridor was worse than the gunfire outside. All those reinforced doors gaping open at me, like mouths laughing at the idiot who thought he was a hero.

Seventeen bodies cooling upstairs. And for what?

Margaret Thompson wasn't here.

Had never been here.

Fuck this!

I swallowed the acid burning up my throat, forcing steel into my voice. "ARIA. Thermal sweep. Anything I missed? Basement levels?"

"Negative human signatures, Master. But… detecting subterranean expansion. Twenty feet below ground level. Access hidden in the main office."

I ran. Found the panel. Wrenched it open with blood-slick fingers.

Steel stairs dropped into blackness. The stink hit me first—gun oil, cordite, rust. My Quantum lenses shifted, painting the dark in shades of blue and red.

And then I saw it.

Not cells. Not prisoners.

Weapons.

Row after row of crates, stacked ceiling-high. Stenciled with calibers, countries of origin, kill counts waiting to happen. Assault rifles wrapped in oiled cloth. Boxes of magazines. Explosives piled like candy. Tripods with belt-fed monsters mounted and ready. Fucking rocket launchers hung from the walls like trophies.

A war's worth of death in neat wooden boxes. Enough to burn a city to ash.

"Master," ARIA intoned, clinical as always, "this is the network's primary armory. Its defense priority explains the security forces stationed above."

Seventeen lives. Not to free a hostage. Not to stop a slaughter. Just to smash open a locked door and find their treasure room.

I slammed my fist into the nearest crate. Wood splintered, nails screamed, and a rain of bullets spilled out across the floor, scattering like cursed coins.

I'd thought I was saving someone.

Instead, I'd started a war.

Outside, I could hear the reinforcements coordinating their breach. Professional voices. Calm, clipped commands. The scrape and clatter of equipment being set into place. Ninety seconds—maybe less—before they came through that door determined to add my corpse to the collection.

But if Margaret wasn't here, there had to be something to salvage from this clusterfuck. Intelligence. Documents. Anything that could point me to the second compound.

I sprinted back into the main office, boots thudding through blood and brass. The command center was a cramped room, walls lined with monitors showing grainy camera feeds—most of them static now that ARIA had fried the external systems.

A desktop tower hummed on the main desk. I ripped a USB from my jacket, jammed it into the port, and watched ARIA's data-extraction protocols kick in.

"Master, downloading all accessible files now," ARIA reported. "Financial records. Prisoner transport logs. Facility schedules. Estimated completion: forty-five seconds."

Too long. But she can do that with or without me here.

Filing cabinets stood against the wall. I tore them open, grabbing anything that looked important—folders stamped with Cyrillic, photographs of women I recognized from Miami's party scene, shipping manifests marked with dates and destinations.

Then I saw it. A corkboard.

Papers and photographs pinned into an organizational chart, red string connecting faces and names into a web that stretched across multiple states. At the top, three figures stared back at me.

Helena Voss. Dmitri Volkov. And a third man I didn't recognize—older, military posture, eyes that had seen too much violence and enjoyed every second of it.

One folder stopped me cold: a transport schedule dated for tonight. Four facilities listed. The compound I was bleeding in labeled Facility C – Processing. Another, across town, marked Facility A – High Value Assets.

High Value Assets. That had to be where Margaret was.

"ARIA, data extraction complete," her voice cut in. "Master, I'm also detecting encrypted radio chatter between the approaching team and an external command post. They are coordinating with multiple locations."

"Can you break it?"

"Already working. Preliminary analysis suggests simultaneous raids on three other facilities once they secure this one."

Simultaneous raids. Which meant if I didn't reach Margaret soon, she'd be moved again. Or erased.

The front entrance exploded inward, the shockwave rattling the walls. Reinforcement teams stormed in with mechanical precision. Flashbangs clattered down the corridor and detonated—white light so bright it burned through my retinas, concussion so sharp it felt like my skull split open.

Even with Quantum auto-adjustment, I was half-blind, ears ringing. The downloaded combat protocols grabbed hold of my body and pulled me toward the rear exit.

"Contact rear! Subject moving! Secondary corridor!"

Gunfire erupted. The first rounds punched through drywall, spraying chunks of plaster and dust into the air. More tore into the corpses already littering the hall, ripping open torsos and sending wet arcs of blood across the walls. A bullet sheared through the face of a dead guard I'd left slumped against a filing cabinet, splitting his skull open in a fountain of gray matter.

Impacts slammed into my back and shoulders, the jacket flaring as it bled off kinetic energy. I could feel the force like sledgehammers, ribs flexing under the strain. One round hit my thigh plate and deflected upward, carving a line of molten heat across my hip before sparking off the wall.

The rear exit loomed ahead. Reinforced steel, electronic lock. No time to finesse. I lowered my shoulder and hit it full-force. Metal screamed and tore as the hinges snapped, the door crashing outward in a shower of sparks and splinters.

Cool forest air flooded my lungs.

And there, crouched in the shadows like some midnight phantom, was the Maybach—black and chrome salvation idling low.

"Soo-Jin!" I roared into the night, legs pumping as I sprinted for the car.

She emerged from behind a thick oak, face pale with terror as she took in my blood-soaked appearance and the gunfire echoing from the compound.

"You alive!" she gasped, sprinting toward the Maybach. "So much shooting—I think you are dead!"

"Not yet," I growled, diving into the driver's seat. "But we need to move. Now."

"Master, initiating communication blackout protocols," ARIA announced as the engine roared awake. "Jamming all radio frequencies. Severing internet connections. Disrupting satellite comms from here to beyond one mile."

Behind us, the tactical team's calm advance disintegrated into chaos. Shouted commands replaced precision as their comms went dark.

I slammed the Maybach into drive. Muzzle flashes strobed in the treeline as bullets clawed after us, but Soo-Jin had already thrown herself into the passenger seat, clutching her phone like a lifeline.

The car surged forward, suspension groaning as we plowed through undergrowth. Branches cracked against the windshield, bushes whipped past, until finally the blacktop appeared beneath us and the forest dropped away in the rearview.

Their gunfire still spat defiance into the night, but we were already beyond range—ghosts vanishing into Miami's darkness.

Only then, with asphalt under our tires and the gunfire fading behind, did the weight of it all settle.

Seventeen people. Dead.

An entire criminal facility gutted. And Margaret Thompson still gone. Still in danger.

The documents scattered across the seat were our only leads now—financial records, transport logs, personnel files. Enough to map the network. Enough to trace her.

But no amount of intelligence could hide the truth from me: I was a killer now. Not in self-defense. Not in some noble crusade. But in calculated violence that had left a building stacked with corpses behind me.

The downloads had given me skill—knife work, close-quarters combat, the reflexes of a professional soldier. But they couldn't give me immunity from the guilt.

"ARIA," I asked quietly as the Maybach ate up miles of empty road, "how many?"

"Seventeen confirmed neutralizations, Master."

Neutralizations. Sterile word for slaughter.

Seventeen men who would never go home. Seventeen families who would never know why.

The second compound lay somewhere in the Miami night, and Margaret was still waiting for rescue. But the boy who'd jumped from Harold's penthouse window was gone—burned away in blood and gunfire.

What remained was something harder. Colder. And infinitely more dangerous.

The hunt would continue. But I would never be the same.