Counter-Attacked by the Enemy Nation's Female-Worm General - Chapter 1

“Now that you are here, you are nothing but His Highness’s dog! Keep him satisfied if you want to stay alive!”

A shrill voice exploded in his ear.

Loren opened his eyes, squinting against the noise, only to see the back of a middle-aged man squeezed into a tight suit.

Who is this?

Of all the things to dream about, why a man like this?

The man, carrying himself like a textbook disposable villain, pointed at a figure ahead. “Do not think that just because you have that face, you will earn His Highness’s favor.”

The scene was far too vivid. The metallic, sweet tang of rust and blood wafted into his nose, giving Loren a sinking feeling.

He looked down. The sofa he was reclining on was deep crimson, made of plush velvet embossed with intricate gold threading and armrests encrusted with decadent rubies.

Then, he saw a pair of pale, slender hands. These were not the hands he had used for twenty-eight years.

His heart hammered against his ribs, but an instinct carved into his very marrow allowed him to suppress any outward reaction instantly.

He understood. After twenty-three years of meticulous planning, he had finally achieved his revenge, only to drop dead and transmigrate.

Heh. Interesting.

Loren cleared his throat.

The man silenced himself immediately. He spun around, bowing low with a sycophantic smile. “Your Highness, you are awake? The female slave you requested has been delivered. He is ready for training at your convenience.”

As the man spoke, a flood of information rushed into Loren’s mind: the Zerg, the Federation, female slaves, male insects, and more. It was like a bucket of grotesque paint had been dumped into his brain. Reds, blacks, soft textures, and hard edges all swirled together until his head throbbed.

But his expression remained unreadable, showing only the irritability and gloom of someone newly awakened. He flicked his fingers at the man and said lazily, “Move.”

The man kept his head low, eyes glued to the floor, as he scurried to the side.

In the basement, a dim wall lamp cast a long, struggling shadow of a person bound and suspended in the center of the room. With just one look, Loren felt as if he had been pricked by an invisible needle of ice. His breath hitched.

The being before him was breathtaking. Long hair cascaded down like a midnight waterfall, reaching his waist. It veiled most of his face, revealing only the elegant curve of a beautiful jawline. His white shirt had been shredded, exposing skin mottled with bruises and welts. His limbs were bound high by ropes in a posture of utter humiliation and submission.

Yet, his frame remained as straight as a pine tree. The lines of his shoulders and back were broad and sharp, radiating a sense of resilient strength tempered through a thousand trials. On the wall behind him hung rows of shackles, whips, blades, and strange tools Loren did not recognize.

Was the original owner of this body a piece of scum? Did I just accidentally transmigrate into a crime scene?

The chaotic colors in his mind began to settle, revealing the original Loren’s personality: Third Prince, D-rank Male, a life of debauchery and hedonism. Blurred images flickered: the Second Prince’s estate, a hijacking, the basement. The disjointed impressions connected, forming the outline of the current situation.

So, that is how it is. Pervert.

Despite the storm in his mind, Loren simply closed his eyes and opened them again, completing the mental shift into the character of the original prince. He had to ensure his own safety first.

Loren’s gaze swept slowly over the figure, sliding from the blood-stained ankles up to the sweat-slicked chest. He walked forward slowly, reaching out his right hand. With cold fingertips, he tilted the slave’s chin up with provocative insolence, forcing the male to face him.

Their eyes met.

It was a face of shocking impact. A streak of blood crossed the bridge of his high nose, making him look like a god of war returning from a blood-soaked battlefield. His eyes were a rare violet. There was no fear in them, no pleading, only a cold contempt so thick it was almost tangible. They were like twin flames of purple fire burning on a polar ice cap, nearly scalding Loren with their intensity.

Loren remained silent for a long time. He was struck by this breathtaking beauty, but he was also calculating his next move.

“Your Highness,” the man wheedled, “he has been drugged. He has not a shred of strength left and cannot harm you. Please, enjoy yourself without worry.”

Loren nodded, waving two fingers dismissively. “Get out.”

Bowing, the man backed out of the basement door. A click followed as the door locked.

“Not a bad face,” Loren said, his tone intentionally frivolous as he looked at the slave again. “Your name is…” He retrieved a name from his memory. “…Cyril, is it not?”

Cyril shifted his gaze slightly, giving him a frigid look before closing his eyes again without a word.

In truth, Cyril was seriously considering whether to simply flip the chessboard and end it all. For instance, he could snap this Third Prince’s neck right now, then send those noisy insects outside to join their ancestors one by one. The sight of blood splattered across the room would certainly be more entertaining than this lukewarm stalemate.

He felt a pang of resentment. Everything had been arranged perfectly, from “accidentally” being captured by the slave pens to “coincidentally” being scouted by the Count. He was only one step away from entering the Second Prince’s manor. Then this idiot had to go and hijack the delivery. His luck was abysmal.

But he was not panicked. He was the Empire’s only S-rank female with peak combat power and mental strength. Even drugged and bound, he had a hundred ways to break free and subdue this lustful Federation prince in seconds. The price would be half his life. If he had not volunteered to come to the Federation as an undercover agent, this fool would not have touched a single hair on his head.

Should I give this playboy prince one last chance to play along?

“Quiet?” Loren scanned the wall and casually picked up a mace-like whip lined with sharp barbs. “It should not be too hard to let me hear your voice, right?”

He used the end of the whip to flick the last button of the slave’s shirt. The button popped. The fabric slid down, draping loosely over Cyril’s hips. His entire upper body was now exposed to Loren’s gaze.

His skin was delicate; the uninjured parts glowed white, marking him as top-tier quality even for a slave pen. To Loren’s surprise, his physique was not frail. The slightly rounded, elastic pectoral muscles and the clearly defined, rippling abdominals were full of wild, burgeoning power.

A masterpiece indeed.

Loren felt a sudden itch of irritation. A beauty pinned before him in such a submissive state, at his mercy to vent any mad desire, with no way to escape.

A whip lashed across Cyril’s translucent skin. Over the nearly bare chest and the old purple bruises, a fresh, vivid crimson welt appeared. Cyril shuddered, a muffled groan escaping his throat. The groan was low, but it possessed a magnetic, resonant quality.

Loren remained impassive, but he stopped. Something was wrong.

Having lived under someone else’s roof since the age of five in a household of killers, observing expressions and deciphering hearts was an instinct carved into Loren’s soul. And this slave, beneath the expression of pain, the depths of his eyes were a pool of undisturbed ice. Even the tremors of his muscles were too precise, like a calculated performance.

Loren’s heart stirred. This beauty, why is he putting on an act for the Third Prince?

Loren tossed the whip aside. He traced his fingertip along a deep wound beneath Cyril’s collarbone, satisfied to hear the sharp intake of breath the other man tried to suppress. He leaned in close, his warm breath brushing against the shell of Cyril’s ear. “Does it really hurt? Why do I feel like you are nowhere near your limit?”

Cyril’s body stiffened almost imperceptibly. Loren clearly saw a terrifying flash of killing intent cross those violet eyes. It was quick as lightning and cold as bone. But in an instant, it vanished.

Cyril let out a dry laugh, his voice raspy from injury and dehydration. “Compared to a noble male, this battered body of mine can certainly handle some trouble. However, the sensation of pain is not lessened by a single degree. As a male, you would not understand.”

Loren paused. The man was indeed acting. But the tone of helplessness and forbearance was real. Loren was intimately familiar with that feeling. If one had a choice, who would willingly place themselves in danger and maintain a facade day and night?

In that brief moment, a strange sense of empathy blossomed. This slave, what reason does he have for such restraint?

Loren felt a sudden urge to untie the ropes. As he stepped forward, he caught a faint, minute glint of light from the corner ventilation duct out of the corner of his eye. Having dealt with all forms of surveillance in his past life, he recognized it instantly. It was a perfectly hidden miniature camera!

A chill shot from the base of his spine to the top of his head. The original prince was being watched? By whom? The Zerg Emperor? Other princes? Another faction?

His plan was immediately scrapped. Like Cyril, he had to keep acting.

“Interesting.” His voice turned frivolous again, a cruel, mocking smile spreading across his face. “Taming a thorny canary like you brings a special kind of satisfaction.”

He circled behind Cyril, his fingers brushing the coarse rope, his voice like a serpent’s hiss. “Since you want to be so stubborn, why do we not try something new?”

At those words, a mix of danger and a certain manic excitement flashed through Cyril’s mind. The rumors were true. This Third Prince was indeed a total kindred spirit.

What will he do? Will he target my mental sea?

That was something even the most notorious males would not do lightly. Stirring or torturing a mental sea was a hundred times more painful than physical injury and carried a high risk of destroying a female’s sanity entirely. And Cyril’s mental sea was already a raging storm from years of war. This was precisely why he had made a deal with the Emperor to seal it through medical means, buying himself three months.

Irritation bubbled within Cyril. The urge to endure clashed violently with his instincts. Finally, a spark of madness won out. He wanted to hear the satisfying snap of the Third Prince’s neck!

Before he could twist his wrists, he froze. Behind him, the Third Prince had taken a sharp blade from the wall. Without hesitation, he cleanly sliced through the ropes.

With the support gone, Cyril groaned as he tumbled forward. But he did not hit the floor. Instead, he was caught firmly around the waist by the Third Prince. Loren did not look bulky, but his body was lean muscle, capable of sudden, explosive strength. Cyril was not light. Yet the arms holding him were powerful and steady.

Tense, hot muscle met cold, wet blood. Two bodies were suddenly pressed together, an atmosphere of half-confrontation and half-entanglement weaving through the air.

Loren lowered his head, his lips nearly brushing the tip of Cyril’s ear. He whispered in a tone that was a mix of malice and ambiguity, “Do not be in such a hurry. The night is long.”

With that, he picked Cyril up, cradling him in a protective, almost doting gesture, and walked out of the dark, blood-scented basement.

As soon as they stepped out, the butler met them, a look of confusion on his face. Normally, the Third Prince would not be finished this quickly.

“Prepare the bath,” Loren commanded.

Hearing the order, a look of understanding dawned on the butler. He bowed. “Understood. So that is what Your Highness wishes to play.”

He turned to order the servants to get to work. Loren did not catch the butler’s specific implication; his mind was entirely on his current predicament. He had to act under the nose of an unknown observer and play the part of a hedonistic waste. For him, that was easy.

However, this slave he had snatched was full of mysteries and potential danger. Who is he? What are his plans for infiltrating the Imperial family?

Loren’s mind raced. Meanwhile, Cyril, who was currently being carried, was a bit stunned. Forced to lean against the Third Prince, Cyril’s nose was filled with a faint scent of the male’s pheromones. It was weak, but definitely there. It smelled like a sturdy pine tree in the snow. Fresh and invigorating. It was nothing like the suffocating, nauseating aura of the tyrannical Third Prince he had heard of. In fact, it smelled quite comfortable, making him want to relax for a split second.

He still had no answer for why the Prince had suddenly cut his bonds. Why? Could it be that the tyrannical playboy is just a facade he presents to the world?

At that thought, the confusion and vigilance in Cyril’s violet eyes reached a peak. To be able to make an S-rank female like him lower his guard, even for a moment, meant this Prince was far more dangerous than the rumors suggested.

Through a mask of coercion and dependence, doting and vulnerability, Loren and Cyril maintained an intimate posture as they crossed the hallway and climbed to the second floor. The servants led the way respectfully until they reached the door of the Third Prince’s bedroom.

They entered. The bedroom was connected to a large en-suite bathroom. Steam rose from a massive white jade tub large enough for three or four people. A faucet was running at one corner. Near the pool sat a row of bizarre tools, identical to the ones on the basement wall.

Loren’s breath hitched as he belatedly realized what the butler meant. He looked down. At the bottom of the pool, he could see a metal ring, a collar designed to lock around a neck and forcibly hold someone underwater.

Waterboarding? What kind of sick things was the original owner into?!

Did Cyril also think that he had been brought here for this? He looked at Cyril in his arms. The man’s gaze swept over the tools, finally settling on the collar at the bottom of the pool. The color drained from his face.