Scumbag System Manhua

During a mission overseas, I shielded my younger brother from an explosion—only to wake up months later, my body broken, my mind trapped in the void of a coma. Grateful for my sacrifice, he repaid me by marrying my wife. When I finally clawed my way back to consciousness and rushed home, I found my son kneeling on the ground, sobbing as his college acceptance letter lay shredded in his fists. My nephew loomed over him, slamming a steel pipe into his back. "Lick my shoes clean," he sneered. "Who are you to think you deserve an education?" And there was my wife clapping in delight, dabbing the sweat from my nephew’s brow like a doting servant. "You’re just like your deadbeat father," My wife spat. "Born to be my stepping stone." My eyes bloodshot, I tightened my fists. Every last one of them would pay for this dearly.

My CEO husband, Clayton Lockwood, was convinced I was a gold digger. Every time he went to comfort his first love during her depressive episodes, he would buy me a limited-edition bag. After half a year of marriage, my walk-in closet was filled with them. After giving ninety-nine bags, he noticed I had changed. I no longer cried my heart out or argued until I was hoarse when he visited his first love. I also did not brave the storm and cross the city anymore just because he said he wanted to see me. I only asked him for a rosary for our unborn child. When I mentioned our child, Clayton’s gaze softened. “Once Ruby’s condition improves, we’ll go to the hospital for a checkup first, then get a rosary.” I obediently agreed. Little did he know that I had a miscarriage ten days earlier. I had also prepared a divorce agreement that was ready for his signature.

Three months pregnant, I doubled over in agony, blood pooling beneath me. I called Milo Prince in a last-ditch effort for help. The moment he picked up, his voice dripped with irritation. "What is it now?" My vision was blurring. Before I could cry for help, I heard his childhood sweetheart's teasing laugh. "No interruptions today, okay?" The line went dead in the next second. When I opened my eyes again, my belly was flat. I checked Jessica Clay's social media. A photo showed their hands intertwined, her wrist adorned with the Prince family's heirloom bracelet. Her caption read, [He said this bracelet was made for me, so I'm keeping it.]

Five years ago, when my boyfriend's small company was on the brink of bankruptcy I stepped in to save him, quietly supporting him from the shadows. Without revealing my identity, I became the company’s largest shareholder. Five years later, the night before his company was set to go public, he held me in his arms and said, "Emma, after the company goes public tomorrow, don’t leave. I have a surprise for you." At that moment, I was swept away by the idea of his "surprise," my mind racing with the hopeful thought that he might propose. I didn’t notice the cold glint of malice lurking in his eyes. The next day, as his company went public, he slapped me across the face and sneered, "Do you even see what kind of person you are? Did you really think someone like you could marry me?" He grabbed me by the hair and dragged both me and my best friend in front of a crowd of thugs and beggars he’d gathered. “These worthless cast-offs aren’t good enough for me anymore. Consider them my gift to you. Do whatever you like with them!”

On the day of Zephyr’s art exhibition, I saw people stand around a portrait of myself. My cheeks were flushed, and I was bare. My posture was the one we used in bed last week for fun. Zephyr even got the mole on my chest right. As people stared at me mockingly, I demanded, “Why did you do this to me?” He was unbothered. “It’s not as if I asked you to sleep with someone else.” But he did let people see how I looked when I was having an intimate moment with my own boyfriend! “It’s just a painting. Why are you being so petty?” I was stunned by the mockery in Zephyr’s gaze. Then, I called my assistant. “I’m attending the international art festival as the organizer.”

After the car accident, one of the Johnson sons was dead and the other gravely injured. When my devout, devoted husband woke up in the hospital, he called out, "Dorothy." He claimed that his body then held the soul of his brother, Elias Johnson. I went mad, calling doctors, priests, anyone I could, desperate to bring my husband back. It was not until that night that I overheard his conversation with our son: "Father, you've loved aunt for years. You even kept yourself chaste in your private prayer room, waiting. Now, finally, you can be with her openly." The man in the bed reached out to stroke our son's hair. "If it weren't to stop your mother from destroying her relationship, I wouldn't have married her." I hid in the shadows, still reeling from their words, when I saw what happened after our son left. The husband I had always known, icy, composed, and ascetic to maintain his devout faith for seven years, was then holding his sister-in-law close on that tiny hospital bed, sharing a warmth meant for lovers. The next day, I applied for Jim Johnson's death certificate and burned our marriage certificate. At his grand wedding, I climbed aboard the helicopter sent to fetch me. However, my once-cold husband went mad, chasing after us down several streets, desperate and unhinged.

My husband, Steven Garrett, was always "busy" overseas. So I thought I'd surprise him with a visit. Instead, I found him shacked up with my best friend, Peggy Shane. That day, my heart snapped—I filed for divorce and let my family set me up with someone new. Two years later, I bumped into Steven outside the hospital. He ripped the prenatal report from my hands. "How dare you cheat on me! You think you can play me?"

The night before the design competition, my husband took my design draft, promising to secure a patent to protect my work. In the intense competition, my work stood out and won first place. During the award ceremony, I walked on stage wearing the necklace that my daughter and I had made together. Suddenly, my seven-year-old daughter rushed up to the stage, screaming, "Mom, how could you steal Veronica's necklace? That's horrible and embarrassing. Just come down and go home with me."

My husband's parents were stung by an unidentified venomous queen hornet and rushed to the hospital. As soon as I heard the news, I hurried to the entomology research institute to seek help from my husband, who was the director, hoping he could assist the doctors with the diagnosis. Instead, he called for security to block me at the entrance. "I don't handle work matters after hours," he said coldly. "Penny's mother is sick, and I need to go take care of her." I tried to show him the critical condition notice from the hospital, but he tore it up in one swift motion. "People die every day. So what if your dad and mom died?" After my in-laws passed away, I filed a lawsuit against Penny Madison, who had deliberately disturbed the beehive that led to the attack. My husband, who had disappeared for several days, suddenly showed up as an expert witness in court. He fabricated a false professional opinion to exonerate Penny. When I decided to leave the country, he lost his temper. "What do your parents' short lives have to do with me? Is it so hard to understand that after a long day at work, I just want to rest? And now you want to drag Penny into this mess. Just because your own family is broken, you want to ruin someone else's? How can you be so vicious? You deserve to lose your parents!" Watching his brazen attempts to twist the truth, I suddenly realized something. He still didn't know that he had become an orphan.

I was on a business trip out of town when I got a text from my neighbor. [Can you and your husband keep it down? Also, one of your undies fell onto my balcony.] Shocked, I opened the photo she had sent. The underwear wasn't even my style, but it matched the one I'd seen in my husband's online shopping cart. He'd told me it was a gift for me, but I remember noticing the size—it was one size larger than mine. When confronted with the neighbor's message, my husband swore that the house must've been broken into and claimed the intruder left the item behind. But something about his story didn't sit right, so I decided to dig further. That was when I stumbled upon his social media. His latest post was just three words. [I bought this.] It was paired with a photo of a lingerie gift set. Beneath it, there was a comment. [I'm wearing it.] Attached was a picture of a woman's legs—and the unmistakable background of my living room. The evidence was undeniable. I packed up the underwear and brought it straight to the police. "My husband says our house was broken into. This was left behind by the intruder, and it might have DNA on it."