Hero Party's Villain: What's the Point If Heroines Are Not Broken?

The early dawn hung low over Mount Ronwin, casting silver light through the faint mist. Hela’s heels echoed softly on the private marble driveway, rhythmic and poised — her hips swaying evenly. The dress was elegant and covered most of her body, but the curves were clearly something that drew gazes from men far away.

They could only watch someone like her, who, even though nearing the age of thirty, was perfectly proportioned—like one of the few models one could imagine.

The car was already waiting: a black luxury sedan, door open, a female chauffeur standing beside it, head bowed respectfully.

Two other cars in the fleet — darker, bulkier — stood parked a good distance behind.

Male guards waited inside, eyes alert, but kept away from her presence.

Everyone knew the protocol: no man steps within three meters of Hela unless summoned.

The last time a man tried to do that, his body was found deep under a Norwegian lake, with his dick cut off and his balls hanging out of his mouth.

Hela’s slit-red dress shifted at her chest as she breathed, showing the stretch of her lungs just from breathing the same air as men. The wind caught her silk hair as she approached the car with calm precision.

Just as her hand reached for the door, her phone buzzed.

"Hm?" Normally, the phone that rang did not belong to her professor identity, but it was her own private number, registered under the name of Hela Wernier.