CHAPTER 112: INADEQUATE

Their bodies trembled as their wills cracked like thin glass. Their eyes shifted—turning the same unnatural pink that reflected Bree’s.

One by one, they walked forward, their steps slow and deliberate, like marionettes controlled by unseen strings.

And then, as though rehearsed, they dropped to their knees before her, heads lowered in obedience.

"My queen..." they echoed, voices unified in eerie devotion.

Bree threw her head back and laughed, the sound sharp and full of delight. Notifications flickered in her vision, and she narrowed her eyes at one in particular.

[Level 10 player killed: +150 points]

Though she hadn’t struck the killing blow herself, the system had recognized her control. Her puppet had done the act, and so the points—and the experience—were hers to claim.

"How generous," she murmured, amused.

Her eyes gleamed as she studied the notification, and then she tilted her head, a slight pout playing at her lips. ’Controlling six is my limit for now... how unfortunate.’

Even so, she could not deny that she had chosen well. These six, the ones kneeling before her, were among the strongest of the group.

Their talents and weapons would now serve her, whether they wished to or not.

The circle around her grew tighter, the six mind-controlled players moving into position. They stood like guards, their eyes still glowing with that ominous pink light.

Their presence was suffocating, not because of who they were, but because they were no longer themselves.

And Bree—her smile wide, her laughter echoing—looked every bit the queen she claimed to be.

And that was exactly the image she wanted them to see.

Her lips curved upward in satisfaction, her hands casually placed on her hips as if everything unfolding around her was no more than a game of cards in her favor.

Her puppets moved subtly in unison with her stance, reinforcing the illusion of absolute dominance. Every inch of her seemed soaked in confidence.

But deep inside—buried beneath that sly smile—her fury burned.

Her jaw clenched, and though she kept her face perfectly composed, her mind replayed the scene that had left her gnashing her teeth, veins threatening to burst along her temples. Riley.

’That damned player.’

Her smile faltered for a heartbeat as his indifferent face flashed before her eyes.

The way he had looked at her without interest, without even the slightest flicker of acknowledgment.

The way he had brushed her aside as though she was nothing.

Never in her entire life had Bree been humiliated like that.

Her nails dug into her palms, hidden beneath her long sleeves, and the heat of her rage nearly betrayed her outward composure.

She had always been the one in control. Always the one pulling the strings, manipulating others like toys for her amusement and benefit. People obeyed her—willingly or not.

Yet he, that man, had done the unthinkable. He had ignored her.

She could feel her heartbeat quickening as her anger spiked again.

Even now, surrounded by six strong puppets under her control, Bree couldn’t enjoy the thrill of dominance as much as she wanted.

They were impressive, yes. Six capable fighters bent to her will—more than enough to crush the weaker rabble around her.

Yet when she compared them to the one she truly desired under her control, they seemed utterly insignificant.

No matter how she spun it in her head, none of them could compare to him.

If she had Riley...

If she had his strength bound beneath her fingers, his will broken into nothing but loyal devotion, then conquering the game would be nothing more than child’s play.

The path to domination would spread wide before her feet, unchallenged and unstoppable.

The thought twisted something in her chest—a sharp sting of both frustration and desire.

Her fists clenched at her sides. She remembered vividly the moment she had tried. The chance encounter when she had brushed against him, palm against palm.

That brief connection had been all she needed—at least, that was what she had believed. With physical contact, her mind-control talent was at its peak. Stronger, sharper, more invasive than through her eyes alone. She had been certain.

Yet it failed.

The memory made her grit her teeth. Not only had it failed, it had failed pathetically.

She had reached into him with her talent, only to find her power sliding off him as if it were nothing but a feather brushing against a mountain. No resistance. No struggle. Simply rejection, cold and absolute.

And as though he had known—no, as though he had seen through her—he had brushed her hand away. A simple, dismissive gesture that had stung more than any blade could.

Her lips twisted into a snarl, though she quickly stifled it with another smug smile, not wanting the players around to glimpse the truth simmering beneath her exterior.

Her puppets stood tall, loyal. Her enemies cowered, confused and terrified. Yet she could think of only that single moment, that unbearable humiliation.

If her eyes alone had failed, then perhaps the gulf between them had been too vast. Her talent was strong, but it wasn’t without limits.

When the disparity in power between her and her target grew too great, her control simply shattered against the wall of their superiority.

That was what had happened with him.

She replayed it again and again in her mind—the sharp, piercing glow of her pink eyes locking on his.

The invisible thread of control weaving toward him, only to dissolve uselessly, as though his very existence rejected her.

Her hands trembled faintly, but she masked it by folding her arms beneath her chest.

Yes. That was it. It wasn’t her fault. It was the gap between them.

Still, that didn’t mean she had given up. No—far from it.

Her eyes gleamed with a dangerous glint as her lips parted, whispering words that none could hear.

"You’ll be mine..." she murmured, her voice low, venomous, and certain. "Whoever you are..."

Her puppets remained still, awaiting her command. The dungeon chamber seemed to hold its breath, the air thick with the tension of her promise.

Inside her heart, Bree’s fury simmered hotter, but so too did her obsession. Riley had rejected her once.

But he wouldn’t do so forever. One way or another, she would bind him. She would crush that defiance and make him kneel before her as her greatest puppet.

And when that happened, the game itself would bend to her will.

Her heart drummed faster, not with excitement, but with fury. The pride she displayed was nothing but a thin veil over the gnawing humiliation chewing at her bones.

Her power had always been absolute, save for one limitation—one that she had long ago accepted.

Women were immune. No matter how she glared, no matter how she touched, they slipped free of her web.

But men... men were hers to claim. Strong or weak, brave or cowardly, it didn’t matter.

Even NPCs bowed to her will, their coded loyalties overridden, their eyes glassy as they served her.

And so she had a plan. She would find every strong player worth mentioning, every rising star, every hero destined to shine—and she would put them under her command.

Her dream target had always been Terry. Terry, the so-called hero of the game, the one destined for greatness.

Her mouth curved into a sultry smile as she thought of him, how perfect it would be to see him broken, kneeling, nothing more than her hound.

But fate had not yet brought them together.

Instead... instead, she had met Riley. And now her craving for him was just as strong.

A shuffling sound brought her out of her haze of thoughts. One of her six puppets moved forward.

His body, tall but slackened of all will, bent his knee in submission, his back turned to her. Wordlessly, like the obedient beast he was, he lowered himself further, making himself her throne.

With a pleased hum, Bree stepped forward and climbed onto his back.

The puppet straightened, his body stiff yet careful, as though he held something priceless.

He rose slowly, cradling her with deliberate movements, like one would hold a fragile egg.

The other five, however, turned as one towards the surviving group of players nearby. Their eyes gleamed faintly—soulless, hollow, filled only with her will—and then they charged.

Their movements were stiff, almost mechanical, yet there was nothing clumsy about them. Each one unleashed their talents in unison.

Fire burst from one’s palms, searing through the air. Another conjured spikes of stone from the ground.

A third swung his weapon with monstrous strength, enhanced by his buff. The others followed suit, raining chaos upon the helpless group.

Screams tore through the night. Flesh split, blood sprayed, and heads rolled into the dirt.

Pleas for mercy were swallowed by the thunder of abilities clashing, bodies being ripped apart in flashes of crimson.

And Bree... Bree only chuckled softly, lounging atop her puppet’s back like a queen upon her throne.

Notifications filled her vision, one after the other, flooding in, points stacking at a ridiculous pace. She basked in it, her smile growing broader, sharper.

Her hand drifted lazily to the puppet’s back beneath her, fingers brushing across the chest of the man carrying her. For a moment, her eyes softened, but then...

Riley’s image filled her mind again.

His back. His shoulders. The thought of laying against him instead of this worthless doll sent a strange shiver coursing down her spine.

She licked her lips, imagining how it would feel, how much more satisfying it would be.

But the more she thought of it, the more her satisfaction soured. Her puppet’s back suddenly felt coarse, revolting, inadequate.