Does Sukuna Become Good

I was the princess sent over by the Werewolf Kingdom for an arranged marriage. I was also meant to be the blood bag of Count Dracula. In my past life, I helped him rule the Bloodsucking Empire. I willingly allowed him to drain my werewolf blood and even risked a dangerous pregnancy by having a baby of mixed bloodline. However, all Dracula did was watch his frail childhood crush dig out the baby from my body to save her life. It was only before I died that I realized he had never loved me. All I was to him was a mobile blood bank. When I opened my eyes again, I had returned to the Blood Moon Party when I was five months pregnant. Dracula raised the knife with silver blade in his hand. "Be good. All I need is some blood to save Anna." This time, I did not fight back as I did in my previous life. Dracula mistook it for obedience. He had no idea that the Werewolf Princess who had once loved him with her life had become mates with the highly aggressive Alpha King of the Werewolf Kingdom.

When Jeremy Sterling is framed by his rival, he immediately urges me to run for my life. "Save yourself! Pretend you never met me!" Despite being eight months pregnant, I leap from the moving car. I kneel in the snow for two days straight. Finally, I manage to secure a witness for his trial. The ordeal costs me our baby and leaves me with lasting health issues. The radiant principal dancer I once was becomes a frail shadow, gasping at the slightest breeze and surviving on pills. Later, Jeremy claws his way back to the top. He cradles the belly I fought through 18 rounds of IVF to have and makes a solemn vow. "When the baby's born, we'll name him Ryan Sterling. I'll never forget that you saved me." Tears of joy stream down my face. But shortly after I give birth, I overhear someone questioning him. "Mr. Sterling, this is Regina Gomez's flesh and blood. Is it appropriate to register Ms. Jenson as the baby's legal mother?" Jeremy gazes fondly at Carolina Jenson, who is holding our son, and scoffs. "When I was framed, she didn't even care about her own life. Do you really think she'd care about this baby? Besides, she already lost one baby back then. What's one more?" He shrugs. "At worst, I'll just break up with her. We never got the marriage license anyway." Outside the door, I clutch my aching stomach and turn away. Since we're not bound by a marriage license, this is where it ends for us.

I had just gotten home when a parent in my son’s class group chat erupted: [Ms. Zinn, what kind of place are you running? Do you let just any random stray off the street become a teacher?] [My daughter came home, grabbed two forks, and tried to jump off the balcony. She said it was Miss Never who told her to!] The homeroom teacher panicked and denied it at once, insisting there was no such person as Miss Never at the kindergarten. She even posted the official teaching schedule in the chat to prove it. On the security footage, there was not a single trace of this so-called Miss Never. However, later, my son whispered to me in secret, “Mom, Miss Never is an old lady with a cat’s face.” “She says only kids can see her.”

Five years and a divorce paper in my hand before I realized that I invested my time, effort and devotion to the wrong man. Trapped in a corner with nothing left to my name, I was willing to bargain with my ex-husband for my daughter’s sake. But then, a savior, my husband’s new boss came to rescue me from the financial quagmire I was in. He helped me recover what I lost: my dignity, pride and most importantly, he gave me hope. I thought he was the perfect man. But the illusion shattered when his motives came to bite me in the face. He was in this for revenge, and his target was me.

Having an Awakenist as my wife meant enduring her monkish attitude toward sex. We could only be intimate on the sixteenth of every month. Every detail—my position, rhythm, even my expression—had to follow her rigid rules. If I showed too much pleasure, she would immediately rise and leave. We had been married for five years. Was I ever tired of this? Yes. Still, I always gave in. I accepted these limitations because I loved her. "The Saintess loves me too," I told myself. That faith shattered the day I was sent to extinguish a hotel fire. Amid the flames, I found my wife pressed close to a man in disheveled clothes. Between their arms was a young boy.

I'm dying, and so is Sean Quinton. He still has hope, though. I don't. Why? Because once I die, my body will become the first to have passed due to a special infection. It'll be dissected and researched to help cure Sean. So, his daily task becomes urging me to die. Unfortunately for him, I'm unwilling to save him another time, so I die not because of the infection but because of carbon monoxide poisoning. It's enough to destroy the symptoms my body shows and ruin their plans to research my corpse.

What do you do when the mate you love gets another she-wolf pregnant after a drunken night? This is my new reality. In the face of this, he firmly said, "Keep the pup, and we can still go back to how things were." I could not believe my ears. Shaking my head, I asked him to choose. "Between me and the pup, who do you choose?" I said to him. All I got was silence. His blank face broke me. I could not believe he couldn’t answer. But his silence was enough of an answer for me. So I left, and he regretted it.

On the night I discovered my husband, Charles Lockheart's affair with the secretary, Whitney Keaton, both of them ended up dying in a fire. I was left with a pair of twins. Despite my family's objections, I decided to adopt the twins. For the next 18 years, I put in all of my resources, blood, sweat, and tears to raise them. Finally, they are accepted into Hallwood College, a globally prestigious college. But on the day the twins get into Hallwood College, Charles and Whitney, who are supposedly dead, make a shocking appearance before us. Whitney links arms with Charles, a wide smile on her face. "As expected of our biological sons! They really are amazing for getting accepted into Hallwood College! It's all thanks to you raising our sons that we got to spend so many years in our honeymoon phase!" Charles wears a victorious and smug look. He doesn't feel guilty in the slightest for faking his death. "Let's get a divorce, Brittany. Now is the best time for the twins to be reunited with Whitney and me." Everyone turns to look at me, waiting for me to have an emotional breakdown. But I remain cool and composed as I reply icily, "What a coincidence. I feel the same way."

By the third year of my marriage to Daniel Hawthorne, the war had already taken more than it ever returned, and this time it took his younger brother, Thomas Hawthorne. My sister-in-law, Eleanor, collapsed, and in the weeks that followed she tried to follow her husband into death— once with sleeping pills, once by the river beyond the officers’ quarters— only to be dragged back both times, each time clinging to me afterward as though I were the last thing keeping her grounded. I stayed with her, wiped her tears, and whispered that Thomas would want her to live, until the day she received the test results confirming she was three months pregnant, and the grief of losing her husband was slowly softened by the arrival of new life. I smiled too, believing grief had finally loosened its grip. That night, holding my own pregnancy test in my hand and thinking it was finally time to tell Daniel, I passed the study and heard his friend say quietly, “She’s carrying your child. You convinced the doctors to adjust the timeline so everyone would believe the baby belonged to your brother. Aren’t you afraid Margaret will find out?” Daniel didn’t hesitate. “She won’t,” he said calmly. “She loves me. She wouldn’t leave. I won’t let her know.” I didn’t step inside. I didn’t confront him. Instead, I opened the letter I had received weeks earlier— an official deployment order from the international medical corps, assigning me to a frontline war zone— and tapped Accept.

My husband, an anesthesiologist, deliberately increases the sedative dosage on an accident victim so he can get a new heart for his first love, Selena Quigley. After her operation, he cares for her and celebrates her rebirth. He only remembers to contact me after she's recovered. "It's been three months since we saw each other, honey. You shouldn't be mad anymore, right? Why don't you book a flight for tomorrow so you can come home? I'll pick you up at the airport." I won't be going home anymore, though. Not now, not forever. I've already died on his operating table.