"Hoho, Juliana, you should show us how much more you can take in."
One of the men murmured, leaning in so close that Axel was pretty sure he was trying to lick her earlobe. Juliana, thankfully, shook her head to dodge his slimy advance, but her glazed-over gaze showed she was a bit too tipsy to fully push them away.
Axel's jaw clenched, fury sparking in his eyes.
Slide~ Crash!
Axel yanked the shoji door open with such force it rattled, and the flimsy frame splintered as it crashed against the wall.
"You filthy, shameless bastards! I, the Great Artis, is here to save my Mommy dearest!"
The four men whipped their heads toward the sound, only to gape as they took in the figure at the doorway.
"It's… it's Young Master Jin's lackey, Artis!"
One of them stammered, the color draining from his face.
"Oh? You mean that cultivation-less clown who licks Young Master Jin's ass—I mean, that boy who can't cultivate and fawns over the young master?"
Another said quickly.
A vein pulsed on Artis's forehead. Sure, he might've had a reputation as a low-tier perv without much cultivation to his name, too busy ogling rather than practicing. And yes, he'd stuck close to Jin's side, knowing the guy's path would lead to influence and power. But a lackey? And ass-licker? These idiots were about to learn the hard way.
'These fools are getting a beating. Not a single one's getting out of this room unscathed.'
Artis thought, a dangerous glint in his eye.
"W-We were just drinking and having some fun, right, Juliana?"
One of them stammered, eyes darting to her in desperation.
But Juliana had already checked out, slumped over the table, just as oblivious as her useless husband.
Artis cracked his neck, letting a menacing smile spread across his face.
"Well, let me join the fun. How about a little hands-on education?"
Gulp~
The men glanced at Juliana's slumped form, then back at Artis, unsure whether to laugh or run.
"You mongrels, you sneer at me for not having cultivation, but what about you? Outer-sect nobodies scraping by, barely keeping yourselves fed."
Artis cracked his knuckles, each pop a promise of pain as he stepped forward.
"Let me show you what actual skill in a fight can do."
In the original tale, Artis was written off as a minor villain—a lackey, a sleaze, a footnote in the annals of the sect. He'd had no ambitions for cultivation, no known reason for staying stuck in the muck of the outer sect, and the author hadn't bothered to explain much else.
But Axel, now sitting in Artis's skin, had taken down that guard earlier with enough strength to feel a flicker of confidence. He was certain now: there was something in this body. Something real, even if Artis hadn't known how to use it.
And palace guards weren't pushovers; they weren't taking hires from the dregs of the outer sect. There was no way Artis could've taken one down if he didn't have at least some latent power waiting to be unleashed. He let a smirk tug at his lips.
'There's got to be something inside this body—a hidden power, maybe. Knowing Artis, the cunning bastard must've stashed something away.'
Axel mused, rolling his shoulders and shaking out his fists.
'If it's there, I'll find it. Let's see if I can bring it out right now.'
"W-Wait! This is all a big misunderstanding!"
One of the men stammered, scrambling to his feet, hands raised in defense. The four of them exchanged panicked looks. This guy was the young master's lackey, sure, but he could still go running to his master, and if he did that, there was no telling how badly they'd all suffer.
Axel grinned, not in the mood to let them talk their way out.
"Nah, I've seen enough already."
Bam!
His first punch landed square on the man who'd tried to negotiate. Axel planted his toes firmly, tightened every muscle he could—including his ass cheeks—and threw everything he had into it.
The man flew back, crashing into a wooden pillar and collapsing in a heap, out cold. Axel's arm buzzed with the aftershock, and he flexed his fingers, savoring the unfamiliar yet exhilarating sensation.
'Oh yeah, that felt damn good.'
He thought, a smirk twisting his lips.
'Not sure where that strength came from, but maybe Artis had some hidden skill after all. Let's see what else these hands can do.'
With a casual crack of his neck, he turned to the remaining men.
"You... you bastard!"
The three men staggered to their feet, glaring daggers at him.
Artis grinned, feeling the thrill of a fight run through him.
"Looking for a good smackdown? Come to daddy!"
That taunt was enough to make the men throw caution to the wind as they charged. Artis steadied himself, noting their clumsy, reckless movements. They were the dregs, barely scraping by in the outer sect, with no cultivation worth mentioning.
As the first man lunged, Artis raised his palm, aiming at the man's chest with a firm push. The result was spectacular—the man flew backward like he'd been struck by a thunderbolt, crashing into the wall with enough force to splinter the wood before crumpling unconscious.
Artis froze, looking down at his hand in awe. That wasn't just a slap or a push; it was like he'd tapped into a hidden well of strength.
'Heavenly Palm of the Spirit King? This technique... Artis somehow knew it? But how? This move is legendary! Even the patriarch failed to master it!'
It was almost laughable.
This was a move meant to channel intense qi for maximum power—yet here he was, no cultivation to speak of, sending people flying with the simplest touch. He couldn't suppress the grin tugging at his lips.
Mastering an advanced technique like the Heavenly Palm of the Spirit King wasn't something that happened overnight. It required deep understanding, the lore, the very essence of the technique.
Over generations, masters would pass down their teachings, each losing a bit of purity as cultivators failed to grasp the nuances of ancient texts. After a thousand years, the technique was practically a myth.
Lost language, lost lore... and yet, here was Artis, using it like it was his morning exercise.
Sure, without proper qi, the move only worked on non-cultivators, but damn if it didn't feel incredible.
The two remaining men stared wide-eyed at their friend, laid out flat with just one touch. Their faces went pale, realizing that this "useless lackey" had just wiped the floor with two of them without breaking a sweat.
Tap, tap.
One of the men felt a tap on his shoulder and turned, only to find himself staring into the eyes of a grinning maniac.
"L-let me tell you something!"
The man stammered, eyes wide with terror.
"Oh? Is it your last words?"
Artis asked, his grin stretching impossibly wide. The guy's face went pale, and with a whimper, he… well, he didn't just lose his nerve—he lost his bladder too.
"Not last words, more like last leakage."
And with that, he unleashed a storm.
Bam! Bam! Slap! Slap! Stomp! Stomp!
For a solid four minutes, Artis treated each of the men to their own personal beatdown, dragging their sorry, bruised bodies out of the house one by one. Finally, after piling them in the courtyard like firewood, Artis straightened up, dusting off his hands with satisfaction.
Then, as a very responsible son, he turned back to the house and lifted his lovely, unconscious step mommy in his arms.
"Tsk tsk, Mother, why are you wasting time with these perverts?"
He murmured, a smirk crossing his face.
Her slender, curvaceous body was warm in his arms, her breath tickling his neck. The closeness stirred him, his cock twitching as he caught a glimpse of her slightly parted robe, hinting at the swell of her cleavage.
Her soft breasts pressed against his chest, and he swore he could feel the tips of her nipples through the thin fabric.
"Damn… what a sight."
He muttered aloud, unable to help himself. She gave a little shiver at his words.
"Don't worry, Mother. your dutiful stepson will make sure you're safely tucked into bed."
But the temptation was too much to resist. He let his hand slide between her arm and side, easing the robe from her shoulder and exposing one perfectly rounded, milfy sized breast.
He took an audible gulp, eyes fixed on the sight before him.
"Damn. If the daughter's a firecracker, then this… this is an atom bomb."
He whistled, letting his gaze linger.
Her breasts were anything but saggy—soft, springy, with pink nipples that were just the right size, neither too large nor too small. Unable to resist, he reached out, his hand sinking into the warm, yielding flesh. He sighed, savoring the perfect fit of his hand on her.
"Soft, squishy, and warm. A well-deserved reward for fending off those other perverts tonight."
Gently, he scooped her into his arms and carried her to her room.
Once inside her room, he gently laid her down on the bed, but what happened next was completely unexpected. Juliana suddenly grabbed his hand, pulling it toward her, her eyes closed and a drunken haze clouding her expression.
"Eh?"
"More, more... touch me more."
"What the...?!"