Nadia stared at her own reflection, trying to make sense of it all. Her face was flawless, her curves enviable—dammit, she knew she was hot.
She was a walking daydream. So why, in the name of all things sacred, was her husband pulling this nonsense?
"Am I not pretty? Am I not hot enough?"
"Why did he have to punish me like this...?"
Tears welled up, spilling down her cheeks like they were competing for a spot on the Olympic swimming team.
Her little brother had said it might be the alcohol.
"Yes, that's it! My husband wouldn't say something like that if he were sober."
But here's the kicker: she wasn't doubting Artis for a second. Why would she? He was her little brother, after all. He wouldn't lie about something serious like this.
Nope, no way, no how. He had no reason to spin a web of deceit—unless, of course, his aim was to rescue her from the clutches of marital despair. Because let's face it, when Chen was around, it was like living in a soap opera where everyone had a shady motive and no one could act.
But maybe Artis was just avoiding the situation, scared that digging too deep would lead to heartbreak for himself. After all, he loved her husband like an older brother, even if that older brother was a bit of a drunken jerk.
Her brother's last words echoed through her mind like a haunting whisper, tinged with mystery and unintended drama.
"Honestly, if I were you, I wouldn't want my little brother stalking my husband and digging up the truth either."
Nadia gasped, clutching her chest.
"Does that mean... he needs me to give him this job? So he can investigate fully, without holding back, without fear of what dark secrets he might uncover?"
Her heart raced, practically performing gymnastics in her ribcage.
"Oh, my poor, self-sacrificing little brother... willing to risk his innocence to uncover the truth."
She clutched her chest, struck by the sheer gravity of her revelation—while somewhere in town, Artis was blissfully unaware that his simple comment had sent his sister into a spiral of tragic inspiration.
…
Meanwhile, Artis headed straight for the palace. He cut through the crowd, completely oblivious to the complex web of "noble duty" his sister had woven for him.
The palace guards cast him a mix of looks: the lackeys of Lord Pliney glared as if Artis had strutted in wearing a neon sign that read "Troublemaker," while the younger, more unhinged guards stared with a sort of wild-eyed admiration, like he was the gritty hero they'd always wanted to be.
Everyone knew him here, but not everyone saw him the same way. Some thought he was a meddler; others thought he was a legend in the making.
'Idiots.'
Artis thought, shaking his head.
'Why bother fighting me? They could just keep lounging around in their cushy palace life, reaping the benefits of being guards, enjoying the perks, the women, the food. But nooo—they'd rather be morons and try to take on someone they can't beat. Absolute dumbasses.'
Artis could hardly believe the audacity of these palace guards. Here they were, living better than 90% of the world, yet they'd chosen to sign up for a losing battle.
He'd done his homework; he'd read all the shady little "chapters" on the major players in the area. He knew what these people were hiding, including Pliney. The so-called Grand Elder could try something dramatic, but Artis knew whose head would be rolling if it came to that—and it wouldn't be his.
Strolling through the courtyard, he flashed a cocky grin to the ladies who giggled as he passed, his long white hair glinting in the sunlight as he ran a smooth hand through it. A few women sighed, practically swooning.
'Once I get my hands on that dual cultivation scroll, all these beauties are coming with me on my next adventure.'
Leaving the courtyard, where a handful of cultivators were busy pretending to master martial arts, he headed straight for Young Master Jin's quarters. Just the thought of the scroll waiting inside made his blood pump a little faster.
Knock, knock.
Artis tapped the double doors, and they swung open dramatically from within, probably being pulled by two overworked maids.
And there he was—Young Master Jin, sprawled like he owned the place, legs stretched out on the massive bed as two maids dutifully massaged his feet. Standing nearby, Chen grinned like he was posing for a portrait, ever the loyal sidekick.
'Oh, don't worry, brother-in-law.'
Artis thought smugly, glancing at Chen.
'I'm getting you drunk again tonight whether you like it or not.'
"There he is! The man, the myth, the legend!"
Jin crowed, raising his arms like Artis had just won him a championship.
With a grin of his own, Artis strolled into the luxurious room, feeling the eyes of the maids on him.
"Ah, please, Young Master, no need to flatter me," he replied, feigning modesty. "I only did what any humble man would. After all, your mother is my Matriarch—I'd never let anyone dare to disrespect her."
Inwardly, though, he was already savoring the praise, ready to milk it until the cows came home and begged for mercy.
Jin clapped his hands.
"What a guy! I picked the right man to call my brother. You deserve a reward!"
The Young Master smirked, clearly thinking himself a generous patron of the arts—or at least, of loyal flattery. In truth, he was probably just proud that he'd managed to bag Artis as his personal hype man.
'Look at this guy.'
Artis thought, casting a sidelong glance at Jin.
'If "handsome villain" had a poster child, he'd be it. Arrogant young master vibes in every inch, like he came straight out of one of those tragic backstory novels… Ah, well, someone's gotta be the comic relief.'
Artis scratched the back of his neck and let out a sheepish chuckle, putting on his best humble act.
"Geez, Young Master, you know I thought we were more like brothers by now! But hey, if the world's most talented and gracious man insists on giving me a reward, who am I to refuse?"
Jin's face lit up like he'd just found out his allowance was doubled. He slapped his thigh and burst into laughter, sounding more like a villain than he probably intended. T
he maids, poor souls, jolted in surprise, their hands momentarily frozen mid-massage. But what could they do? They just kept on working, pretending this was all normal.
"See, that's what I like about you, Artis! No fake humility crap, no pretending to turn it down. You took it and still managed to butter me up like a damn pastry. You're a masterpiece, my friend!"
Jin leapt off the bed with all the enthusiasm of someone who had never worked a day in his life, his sudden motion sending the maids scrambling backward and landing on their butts with dazed expressions.
"Come on," Jin grinned, oblivious.
"Let's go meet my father! Huh? Why'd you stop? Keep massaging."
The young master said, waving a hand like he was dismissing a fly. Not a single maid, butler, or guard dared to blink. They knew better by now — this was just another Tuesday with their deranged young master.
"As you wish, Young Master."
The maids chorused, bowing obediently before crouching and getting right back to work on his legs. Artis had to bite his lip to keep from laughing.
'Yep, if pettiness were an art form, Jin here would be a masterpiece. Villain material for sure, just the discount version.'
Jin slapped Artis's shoulder, as if they'd just shared some deep bonding moment.
"Come on, brother!"
He said, strutting forward with all the grace of a deranged rooster, while the maids trailed after him in a sad little line. Artis couldn't help but chuckle at the sight.
Did he feel any pity for the maids? Not a bit. In a world where people got killed over a scrap of bread or a stray look, having to put up with Jin's absurdity was practically a spa day.
They made their way down the corridor, passing a parade of paintings that probably cost more than most villages.
Finally, they reached the grand balcony, where the imposing Lord of the palace was gazing out over his vast lands. At his side, Pliney was nibbling on a cake as if it were a matter of life and death, his fingers daintily pinching the tiny dessert.
"Father! Behold, I bring you the 'man' himself!"
Jin declared, snickering like he'd just delivered the punchline of the century.
His voice rang out across the balcony, startling Pliney so hard he nearly dropped his precious cake, looking every bit like a kid busted sneaking sweets before dinner.
He whipped around, first glaring at the interruption, then quickly softening as he recognized Jin—until his gaze landed on Artis, at which point his expression could have curdled milk.
In an instant, Pliney wiped the crumbs of cream and cake from his mouth with the speed of a ninja, like this was a ritual he'd perfected over the years.
But Artis was not about to let him off that easily.
He locked eyes with the elder, smirking with all the confidence of a man who had just witnessed the great and powerful Grand Elder indulging in a pastry like it was the last dessert on Earth.