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The Plant Master Becomes A Mute Sub-Beast: Farming And Laying Eggs

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A Plant Master from a prosperous magical era died and reincarnated as a physically defective Sub-Beast on the Beastman Continent. Orphaned right after birth, he was raised by the entire tribe. Kaelen thought he would live a peaceful, uneventful life until the end of his days. Unexpectedly, during an instance where he accidentally wandered into a cave where a beastman was in a state of frenzy, he was violated by the beastman Sane. After that unintended night, neither of them liked the other, so they reached a secret agreement to keep the matter quiet. Sane took responsibility for providing Kaelen with daily necessities and various new seeds until one of them found a mate. Thanks to these supplies, Kaelen began using his Plant Master abilities from his past life to farm step by step, transforming the barren land around his house into a lush, little green farm. What Sane didn't expect was that the more he interacted with Kaelen, watching how quietly and gently Kaelen cared for each young sprout, the more adorable he found Kaelen to be. Sane grew to like being around Kaelen more and more, constantly reminiscing about the fresh scent of grass and vegetation lingering on Kaelen's body. Could it be... I've fallen for him? While Sane was still tangled up in his own feelings and had yet to realize that Kaelen's body was secretly gestating a little egg, Kaelen's bountiful magical harvests had already alerted the outside world. A whole bunch of stinky beastmen with formidable backgrounds began swarming around his soft, sweet-smelling darling to vie for Kaelen's attention. There was the incredibly arrogant Young Chief of the Lion Tribe, the fierce Intermediate Warrior of the High City, the Oracle of the Temple holding supreme authority... Sane: “...” Get lost, all of you! That's my son's Papa!
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I Leash Emperors: The Dead Shout. I Smile

The dead scream for justice. They have been screaming for centuries. In my office on the 88th floor, the sound is indistinguishable from the hum of the paper shredder. I have twelve of history's most dangerous minds in my vault—Caesar, Cleopatra, Napoleon, Wu Zetian, and eight others whose names are synonymous with the word empire. I stripped them of their crowns and their divinity and left them with the only two things that survive death intact: greed, and memory. Then I put them to work. The boardroom is their new battlefield. Stocks are their arrows. Hostile takeovers are their sieges. The First Emperor runs my supply chains with the same draconian efficiency that built the Great Wall. The Queen of the Nile runs my PR division and calls it beneath her. Caesar rewrites the legal architecture of an entire financial district before breakfast and considers it a light morning. The rules are simple. The Emperor with the highest ROI earns twenty-four hours of full sensory restoration—taste, warmth, the burn of real alcohol, everything the synthetic body cannot feel. The Emperor at the bottom earns something else: a Hell Start. Reincarnation as a beggar, a eunuch, a sacrificial lamb in the next cycle. They know this. It keeps them focused. Every full moon, the tavern opens. The millions they killed in their lifetimes gather as my Jury—compressed into a medium that runs on pure hatred, sustained by a spite so concentrated it has proven, against all known physics, to be a measurable energy source. They vote. They decide which of their tormentors leads the next charge, and which of the most venomous among them earns a temporary body to return to the waking world. Wu Zetian shed her imperial robes to kneel at my feet and beg for a private review of her HR directorship. Arsinoe—murdered by her own sister two thousand years ago—spent six weeks haunting Cleopatra's servers and built a perfect weapon before she ever asked me for the body to deliver it. Cleopatra herself believes her beauty is a currency I will eventually accept. She has not yet understood that in this building, the only currency is performance. I do not need loyalty. I need sharp blades. I do not trade in mercy. I trade in ROI. They believe this is my game. They do not ask why I need to win it. Rules? I am the rule. Harem? The highest-tier spoils of a game they don't know the stakes of. Every arc is a different world. Every world is a wound that needs closing. The Emperors do not know this. They never do. Perhaps the last thing standing between their world and oblivion is a man who stopped caring about it long ago. Let the dead shout. I smile. I have to. Tags: #InfiniteFlow #DarkFantasy #HighStakesPolitics #DivineAutocracy #GrimDark #RuthlessMC #HistoricalFigures #DarkHarem Content Advisory: Heavy power dynamics, sensory manipulation, historical figures in morally compromised positions. MC is an unapologetic autocrat. No redemption arcs.
Aetherion_Vael · 2.2k Views