100x Rebate Sharing System: Retired Incubus Wants to Marry & Have Kids

Chapter 649: Chapter 648- Millbrook Town

Millbrook had changed.

What had been a sleepy frontier town — a few hundred buildings, a muddy main road, a tavern, a market square — was now something else entirely. Cobblestone pathways ran through every district, the stones fitted with geometric precision, each one leveled and sealed with mortar that gleamed white in the afternoon sun.

Lamp posts lined every street — iron-wrought, tall, capped with vessels of the night: enchanted glass orbs that absorbed sunlight during the day and released a warm, amber glow after dusk. The town didn’t just function after dark. It ’lived.’

The central plaza had been redesigned. A fountain — stone-carved, depicting a coiled serpent — stood at its heart, water cascading from its maw into a circular basin where children threw copper coins. Shops ringed the plaza in organized rows — bakeries, blacksmiths, apothecaries, tailors — each with painted signage, each with a proper storefront, each paying taxes to the lord’s estate on time.

The dungeon loomed at the town’s eastern edge.

It had appeared three months ago — a massive, obsidian structure rising from the earth like a bone piercing skin. Its entrance was a gaping maw of black stone, thirty feet high, exhaling cold air that smelled of iron and deep earth. Adventurers came from across the region to challenge it. They entered in parties of five, ten, fifteen. They emerged battered, broken, or didn’t emerge at all. The first floor had been cleared — barely — by a coalition of B-rank adventuring teams. The second floor remained unconquered.

Adventurers came and went through the dungeon entrance in a constant stream — armored, weaponed, hopeful, exhausted. The town had built an entire economy around them. Inns. Provisioners. Weapon repair shops. Healing clinics. The dungeon was a resource. The town was the infrastructure that fed off it.

And at the center of it all — the lord’s manor.

It wasn’t a manor anymore. It was a palace. Three stories of white stone and dark timber, with a great hall that could seat two hundred, a kitchen that ran three hearths simultaneously, a library stocked with scrolls and books looted from dungeon drops, private quarters for the lord and his household, and a war room on the second floor where maps of the territory covered every wall.

In that war room, a pregnant woman was holding her belly and reading tax documents.

Mira stood at the table. Her black hair was pulled back in a loose braid — practical, not decorative — and her green eyes moved across the figures on the parchment with the focus of a woman who had learned accounting through necessity rather than education.

Her belly was prominent — round, heavy, straining against the fabric of her loose-fitting dress. Three months of accelerated gestation had made her look six months pregnant. The child — Viktor’s child — kicked against her ribs as she read.

She was thick. The pregnancy had only amplified it — her tits had swollen, the heavy mounds straining her bodice, the dark nipples visible through the thin fabric. Her ass had widened, her hips had spread, her thighs had thickened. The body of a MILF being prepared for motherhood again, every soft curve exaggerated by the life growing inside her.

She held out a parchment to the woman beside her.

”See this?” Mira tapped a column of figures. ”Does this seem wrong to you?”

Helena took the parchment. She was older — Viktor’s nanny, a woman whose maternal warmth was baked into her very posture. Her brown hair was in a bun, tight and practical, a few grey strands visible at the temples. Her belly was as prominent as Mira’s — round, full, the dress stretched over it. Her tits were enormous — larger than Mira’s, heavy with milk, the veins visible beneath the pale skin of her exposed collarbone.

She read. Her eyes narrowed.

”Indeed,” Helena said. Her voice was calm. Measured. The tone of a woman who had raised children and handled crises with equal grace. ”There are taxation issues here. The eastern merchant quarter is underreporting.”

”Who was it?” Mira’s jaw tightened.

”I don’t know yet. But the numbers don’t match the foot traffic the dungeon guards are reporting.” Helena set the parchment down. ”Maybe the idiot who challenged us last week — the merchant’s son. The one who thought he could refuse the lord’s tax because the lord was absent.”

Mira exhaled. Her hand found her belly. She rubbed it — a slow, circular motion, the unconscious gesture of a mother soothing a child who was kicking too hard.

They both looked toward the window.

The view from the war room showed the town below — the cobblestone streets, the lamps, the adventurers moving through the plaza, the dungeon in the distance. It was peaceful. Organized. Prosperous.

And entirely dependent on a man who wasn’t here.

They had become a faction. Not by choice — by necessity. Viktor’s absence had left a power vacuum, and the women had filled it. Mira handled taxation and civil disputes. Helena managed the household and the staff. Kaida ran the town’s defense — such as it was — with a handful of retired mercenaries. Olivia handled diplomacy with the church and the adventuring guilds. Bella managed the dungeon-bound economy. Elara — when she wasn’t being a succubus — handled information networks.

Five women. Five pregnant women. Running a town that was becoming a city while carrying the children of a man who had been gone for weeks.

The door opened.

Kaida entered. Her crimson hair was cut short — practical for combat, impractical for femininity, which suited her fine. Her crimson eyes swept the room before settling on Mira and Helena. She was mercenary-built — lean, muscular, the tight-bodied frame of a woman who had spent her life fighting. Her belly was bloated — not as large as Mira’s or Helena’s, but visible. The pregnancy had softened her edges slightly, rounding her hips, swelling her breasts beneath the fitted leather tunic she still insisted on wearing.

”It is hard to stop them,” Kaida said. No greeting. No preamble. The tsundere efficiency of a woman who considered pleasantries a waste of oxygen. ”The adventuring teams. They are about to breach through the second floor.”

Mira’s eyes widened. ”Already?”

”Three parties coordinated. B-rank and above. They’ve been at it for six hours.” Kaida crossed her arms beneath her swollen tits, the gesture pushing them up. ”We need to call Victor.”

”We can’t just—” Mira started.

The door opened again.

Olivia entered. The saintess moved with the careful, measured grace of a woman accustomed to ceremony — but her body had other ideas. She was soft. Chubby. The pregnancy had only amplified it — her belly round and full beneath the white and gold robe she wore, her blonde hair pinned up with religious pins, her blue eyes tired. Her tits — already generous before pregnancy — had swollen to absurd proportions, the heavy flesh straining the robe’s fabric, the nipples creating visible peaks in the white cloth.

Behind her, two priests entered — robed, armed with staves, their faces tense. Olivia positioned them at the door. Guards. She was placing the church’s soldiers on watch.

”There is a bigger issue,” Olivia said. Her voice was noble — educated, refined, the diction of a woman raised in high society. But there was an edge beneath it. Cock-addict or not, pregnant or not, she was still a saintess, and she was still sharp. ”It seems the Eldoria Kingdom has sent one of their strong teams here. Not an adventuring party. A military reconnaissance unit.”