The guard shook his head sluggishly, more out of surprise than pain. He hadn't anticipated a punch—especially not from someone like this. In his mind, catching this shameless peeping fool was a victory in itself.
Axel, or rather, "Artis" as they all seemed to be calling him now, was notorious for being a bottom-tier menace with zero cultivation talent. Retaliating? Laughable.
What could a talentless pervert like him possibly do against someone on the mighty first stage of Qi Refining?
The guard's arrogance had left him wide open, too pumped up about bringing this sect-wrecking degenerate to justice.
But now, lying on the ground and staring up at the ceiling, he had to reconsider. The dull ache spreading through his jaw suggested maybe—just maybe—he had underestimated this fool. Still, no matter. One punch doesn't change anything.
"Y-you're dead meat! When the others get here, they'll—aaarrggh!!"
Before the guard could finish his arrogant proclamation, Axel—channeling every ounce of desperation and confusion he had—rushed forward and delivered another strike.
This time, his fist connected squarely with the guard's jaw, the crack of bone reverberating through the quiet night. The guard's jaw slackened immediately, leaving him with a grotesque, slack-mouthed expression, unable to form a single coherent word.
Now, all the guard could do was make bizarre, unintelligible sounds, as if trying to chew through an invisible steak.
Axel looked down at him, adrenaline still coursing through his veins. He had just punched a Qi Refiner into making noises like a cow giving birth.
'Holy moly! How the hell is Artis's body this strong?!'
Axel's mind was racing. This guard was clearly stronger—or at least he should be! Yet here he was, laid out on the ground like some rookie who had just eaten a fistful of dirt. How had this happened?
Questions swarmed his thoughts, but they were quickly drowned out by a far more satisfying feeling. The thrill of that punch—the way it connected, the guard's jaw shattering like brittle wood—it was... euphoric.
'I could do this all day!'
Axel thought, almost giddy. The power coursing through him, the feeling of dominance—it was addictive.
But his moment of triumph was cut short by the sharp bark of approaching voices.
"Who's there?!"
Axel's heart skipped a beat. He glanced toward the growing light in the distance. More guards were coming, and fast.
'Shit.'
He looked down at the guard, who, despite the beating he'd just taken, was stubbornly trying to grab onto Artis's white robe, his fingers brushing the fabric as he wheezed in pain.
Axel's mind raced.
'I can't leave him like this. He would recover soon—and worse, he'd point at me the moment he could speak again. Even if there was no concrete evidence, suspicions would hang over me like a dark cloud.'
It was clear as day. If Axel let this guard live, the healers would patch him up in no time, and he'd spill everything. The entire sect would be on high alert, watching Artis's every move like hawks.
Axel couldn't afford that—not if he wanted to rewrite Artis's story. Even though this all felt like a dream, Axel knew one thing for sure: if Artis had any shot at surviving in this twisted world, Axel had to give him every advantage.
After all, a longer life meant more time to watch Artis stir up some quality netori drama.
With a grimace, Axel knelt beside the groaning guard, wrenching the spear from his hand. Despite the guard's higher cultivation, the punch had clearly scrambled his senses. His grip was weak, his resistance pitiful.
"I'm rewriting this story," Axel muttered, gripping the spear tightly. "Not for Artis—no. For me, the reader. I'm not letting this guy's death be some sidekick's footnote. I'm giving him a chance. And if it means a better future for me, well, so be it."
Axel stood, pointing the spear at the guard's chest. The man flailed his hands, desperately trying to grab the tip, but it was no use. His strength was failing fast.
"...I chose you as the stepping stone for a better future."
Axel—or rather, Artis now—grinned with a devious curve to his lips, stretched unnaturally wide. C0cktimusPrime had written Artis as a sidekick, a disposable minor villain, but a villain nonetheless. So, naturally, Artis had some villainous features to live up to.
"Guards! To me!"
Artis shouted suddenly, his voice filled with panic. His expression shifted flawlessly, fear plastered across his face as though his life was truly in peril. Acting came to him as naturally as breathing now. It must've been another perk of being a villain—a flair for theatrics.
He took a cautious step backward, then stopped, frozen mid-movement as a vivid memory flooded his mind. He remembered this guard's fate: the very same one who failed to gouge out Artis's eyes for peeking at the Matriarch's room was beheaded without hesitation.
'Right, these guys don't play. They're all villains, ruthless to the core. And if they didn't hesitate to kill Artis, the young master's so-called 'childhood friend,' without a proper trail, then why can't they do it once more.'
He took a deep breath, steadying his nerves. If he didn't play this carefully, he wouldn't just lose Artis's body—he'd lose everything. No netori plots, no second chances. Nothing.
Artis, or rather Axel in Artis's body, felt no regret for what he was about to do. Why should he? This was just a dream. And even if it wasn't, the guard was going to get him killed anyway—over peeking? Seriously!
Anyone would want to sneak a glance at someone like the Matriarch. So what if Artis got lucky and this poor guard didn't? Was that really grounds for execution? Absolutely not.
"Forgive me, Mr. Guardman," Artis muttered, his tone almost casual, "but this is for the best... well, at least for me. I'll make it quick, okay?"
The guard, still reeling from the blow to his face, didn't fully understand what was happening. But the way Artis's crimson eyes glinted dangerously in the moonlight made him gulp, fear gripping his heart.
Artis knelt beside him, his hand reaching out slowly toward the guard's face. Instinctively, the man tried to jerk away, but Artis was quicker, grasping his head firmly with a grin stretching wide across his face.
"If you survive this, I'm sure the healers will fix you up in no time. I know, I know," Artis chuckled darkly, "I'll be the last thing you see with those eyes... but hey, what can I say? It is what it is..."
With that, Artis drove his thumbs into the man's eyes. The guard's broken jaw prevented any scream from escaping, leaving only the muffled, agonized sounds of a man realizing his fate far too late.
...
"What is it, young master? What's the matter?"
Grand Elder Pliney, a man built like a stuffed pig, wheezed as he wiped the sweat trickling down his brow. His immense body jiggled with every step, his legs trembling under the burden of his own weight. Despite his limp, he stubbornly pushed forward, trailing behind the furious young master and a dozen guards.
Pliney wasn't one for haste—his body wasn't built for it—but when an alarm cracker was set off, there was no time for leisure. The red smoke twisting in the air was a signal of urgency. His eyes narrowed as he focused on the crimson cloud rising from the sect master's courtyard.
"Mother said someone dared to peek at her while she was changing," the young master growled, his face twisted in fury. His sharp jawline and long, flowing black hair framed his enraged expression. "And that alarm's coming from the same place. Whoever it is, I'm going to split that bastard in two!"
The young master's anger was palpable. He could scarcely believe the audacity of someone in their sect. To peek at his mother—the Matriarch—was a crime beyond measure. Only someone seeking death would have the guts to commit such an offense. And when he found them, they would face the full wrath of his clan.
Pliney grimaced, his heavy breaths growing louder as they approached.
"Young Master, please... let's not be too hasty."
He gasped, though he knew full well the young master would not be stopped. Whoever this peeping fool was, their fate was sealed.
"Guards! To me!"
"Huh?"
A sudden shrill voice pierced the night air, catching the attention of both the young master and Grand Elder Pliney. The voice was unmistakable—one they both found irritatingly familiar.
"That... that's Artis's voice!" the young master exclaimed, his eyes lighting up with a strange mix of disbelief and excitement. "He's caught the pervert! Hurry, men! Move!"
Without hesitation, the young master surged forward, his robes flaring as the guards scrambled to keep up with his swift pace. The promise of justice, and more importantly, the idea that Artis of all people had apprehended the culprit, drove him onward.
But behind the fervor, Pliney's brows furrowed in confusion. His steps were slower, more deliberate, his portly body not suited for the frenzied chase ahead. Dabbing his slick forehead with a silken kerchief, he muttered under his breath,
"What's going on here? If Artis isn't the one caught... then who?"
He puffed as he half-jogged, half-waddled behind the cultivators, suspicion gnawing at him. Something didn't sit right. Artis, the pervert, had somehow turned the tables—and that worried Pliney far more than he cared to admit.