Evil MC's NTR Harem

Chapter 1143: Chapter 1143 Trailer

Others were pinned down, their bodies broken piece by piece, each crack of bone punctuated by another blood-curdling cry.

”AHHHHHHHHH! AHHHHHHH—AAAAAAGH!”

The tortures stretched on and on.

Minutes felt like hours.

Hours felt like entire lifetimes of pain.

And the worst part?

None of the victims were allowed to die quickly.

Every time a man hovered on the brink of unconsciousness, a brutal slap or kick jolted him awake, forcing him to feel every second of his torment.

Their voices grew hoarse, then shredded, turning screams into ragged whimpers—only for fresh pain to drag new screams out again.

The floor grew slick with blood—thick, dark, and pooling until it reached the steps of Ross’s throne.

And Ross...

He simply watched.

His fingers tapped lightly on the armrest, eyes glowing with satisfaction as he observed the hell unfolding before him.

To him, this was not cruelty—it was justice, entertainment, a well-earned retribution.

He was cleansing the world of trash and he did not feel any guilt in doing so at all.

The torture went on for so long that time seemed meaningless, swallowed completely by the endless, echoing cries of Wilson’s men—cries that refused to die, cries that clawed at the very air, cries that made the entire hall feel like a living nightmare with no end.

It was a suffering so profound

so complete

so overwhelming—

that even the stone walls seemed to tremble under the weight of it.

After several hours of watching, Ross finally grew bored.

What had begun as mild entertainment—a temporary distraction—had lost its charm.

Wilson’s shrill screams, once amusing, now grated on his ears like a broken instrument.

The torture chamber, lit by flames that burned without fuel, flickered across Ross’s bored expression as he leaned back on his throne of black stone.

”Let them suffer for a whole year,” Ross said, stretching slightly as if waking from a nap rather than sentencing dozens to unending torment.

His voice was calm, collected, and disturbingly casual, carrying the weight of absolute dominion.

Even the walls seemed to tremble.

Brandon immediately dropped to one knee. His massive frame—nearly a giant’s—bowed so low his forehead nearly touched the bloodstained ground.

”I hear you, Master,” he rumbled. His deep voice echoed like thunder, thick with devotion, fear, and reverence.

There were now an executioner’s chains across his broad chest clinked softly as he lowered his head further, awaiting further commands that never came.

Ross rose from his throne with slow, deliberate elegance.

His spiritual essence unfurled behind him like a living shadow, stretching unnaturally far across the floor.

Every tortured soul felt its presence pass over them—cold, suffocating, heavy—like the hand of death brushing their trembling bodies.

He walked past the mutilated forms of Wilson’s men. Some were missing limbs.

Some were flayed open.

Some were merely broken shells of their former selves, twitching, drooling, babbling nonsense.

Yet Ross didn’t spare even a fraction of attention for any of them.

To him, they were no different than insects crushed underfoot.

With a single flick of his wrist, a swirl of darkness enveloped him.

Space folded, twisted, and collapsed inward.

A low hum filled the chamber as he vanished, leaving behind only a faint afterimage of his silhouette dissolving into black smoke.

Brandon lifted his head only after Ross’s presence fully dissipated.

Even then, he exhaled shakily—as if holding his breath in Ross’s presence was instinctual.

He stood up slowly and cracked his neck, the sound echoing loudly.

”Well then...” Brandon muttered, his lips curving into a cruel smile.

He clapped his massive hands together once, and the walls of the chamber responded—reshaping, extending chains, opening furnaces, sharpening spikes.

”You heard the master. A whole year.”

The prisoners, already broken, began to scream anew. Some cried for mercy.

Some begged for death. Others, so far gone, simply wailed without words, their throats ragged and torn.

But mercy did not exist here. Death would not come.

The flames roared hotter. The chains tightened.

The devices of torment began their work again with renewed vigor, as if celebrating their continued purpose.

Their agony echoed through the hellish realm, unceasing.

Day and night blurred into one endless nightmare.

And long, long after Ross had disappeared—long after even the concept of time seemed meaningless—the shouts of pain, despair, and madness continued, filling the darkness like a symphony of suffering that would not end for an entire year.

***

Back to the supermarket.

When Ross finally stirred awake, he was already in his room, lying comfortably on his spacious bed as if he had simply drifted there on a cloud.

He blinked once, twice—then immediately fell back asleep, breathing heavily.

Because Sabrina had carried him.

The moment she placed him on the mattress, his body relaxed entirely, and he began snoring with such hearty volume that Sabrina almost laughed.

But it wasn’t the time for laughter.

Outside, Wilson and his men stood perfectly silent, guarding faithfully like they always did—or so everyone thought.

In truth, the real Wilson and his subordinates were already long gone, their broken bodies replaced by Ross’s undead minions.

These replacements were flawless, mimicking every detail down to the subtlest twitch, the pattern of their breathing, even the faint weariness in their eyes.

No one—not even Sabrina—could detect a difference.

Inside the room, however, Sabrina remained.

”...”

She didn’t leave. She stood there, her hands clasped together, staring at Ross’s sleeping form.

His body glistened under the lamplight—drenched in sweat and the unmistakable scent of alcohol.

His shirt was soaked, clinging to his body, damp and messy.

He had drunk so much that half of it had dribbled down his chest.

”What am I gonna do...?” Sabrina whispered softly, anxiety twisting her stomach.

She took a step closer, then stepped back. Then forward again. Ross snored loudly, unconcerned.

”Should I leave him like this...? Or... should I... do something?”

Her face heated at the thought. She swallowed, fighting the urge to flee the room.

But then she took a deep breath and straightened her spine.