Every ti one of them swung, Artis dodged and countered with sothing vicious.
A man swung wildly—Artis side-stepped and planted a fist into his gut, making the guy double over, wheezing like an old man.
Another one lunged—Artis pivoted, kicked him square in the ass, and sent him flying into his buddy like a pair of bowling pins.
One desperate fool tried to bear-hug him—Artis responded by grabbing his face and slamming it into his knee.
THUNK!
The poor bastard collapsed like a wet sack of laundry.
It was brutal.
It was beautiful.
And for Lily... it was dangerously sexy.
The sounds of cracking bones, pained screams, and moaning n filled the air. The ground was littered with bodies—groaning, twitching, rolling in pain like pigs in mud.
Artis finally stretched, rolling his shoulders like he had just finished light exercise.
"What a bunch of pussies."
The remaining workers groaned in pain, so clutching their ribs, others rolling around on the ground like toddlers mid-tantrum.
But one man...
One man would not accept this.
The bicep guy, the very first dumbass who had the misfortune of catching an uppercut straight to the jaw, suddenly twitched. His fingers clawed at the dirt, his veins bulging with pure, unfiltered rage. His mouth?
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Wide. Hanging open.
Because his fucking jaw was broken.
It just dangled there, his bottom lip swinging uselessly like a loose barn door in a windstorm. Drool spilled out uncontrollably, glistening in the dim light as his tongue flopped around like a dying fish.
But the fire in his eyes? Oh, that shit was still burning.
"Gggghhhrrrnnn...!"
He groaned like a caveman discovering fire for the first ti.
Then, like a true dumbass, he forced himself onto his feet, wobbling like a newborn deer, and—with a pained grunt—he charged straight at Artis.
Artis just smiled.
And then... He turned. And fucking bolted.
The entire scene froze. Lily blinked.
The remaining workers—who had been bracing for another brutal ass-whooping—suddenly exhaled in relief.
"Oh thank fuck," one of them muttered, wiping the sweat off his brow. "He's running away."
"Yeah, about fucking ti," another grunted. "I thought we were done for."
But there was one man who did not share this relief.
The one man who, up until now, had only suffered psychological damage.
The man who had earlier—by accident—suggested that maybe, just maybe, Artis was a little too pretty.
The man whose sexuality had been publicly questioned and was still desperately trying to clear his na.
The homo-suspect.
And he?
He saw exactly where Artis was running.
"OH FUCK NO!"
His eyes widened in pure horror as the absolute madman barreled straight toward him—smiling, wild-eyed, moving like a predator that had just found its prey.
"G-GET AWAY!"
The poor bastard shrieked, his voice cracking like a teenage boy's.
"STAY THE FUCK AWAY FROM !!"
He tried to move.
Oh, he fucking tried.
But, oh, tragedy of tragedies—he had been leaning against a bench the whole ti, his battered and bruised body too weak to react in ti.
"SOONE HELP, HE'S COMING FOR MY ASS!"
anwhile, Biceps Guy was sprinting after Artis like a panicked cow chasing after its lost calf. But, of course, against a cultivator? He might as well have been a drunken tortoise on stilts.
Artis barely even acknowledged the struggle behind him. He ca to an abrupt, dramatic-as-fuck stop right in front of the poor bastard, skidding like he was making a goddamn entrance to a duel.
The montum nearly sent him barreling into the man, but he caught himself just in ti, flashing that ever-present, shit-eating grin.
"I don't know how you feel."
Artis said, his tone so sincere it had no business coming out of his mouth.
"But just know—I support it. Alright?"
Homo Guy blinked.
'Support what?'
He wanted to ask. Desperately. But there was sothing so completely unhinged about Artis that his survival instincts kicked in before his curiosity could.
He swallowed hard and just nodded along like a good little victim, silently praying this lunatic would get bored and walk away.
But no.
Artis clapped his hands together, as if he were about to deliver a sermon.
"Alright! Ti to make everyone accept you."
The entire room went dead silent.
Not because they gave a single shit about what he was saying, but because everyone—everyone—had that sa wary, sinking feeling deep in their guts.
That sixth sense that told them so serious fuckery was about to go down.
And then—with the kind of speed that only soone absolutely deranged could execute—Artis crouched.
No warning. No hesitation. One second, he was standing there, looking smug as hell. The next? He was right the fuck down there at lightning speed, hands moving with the swiftness of a man on a holy mission.
Before Homo Guy could even process what was happening—
RIIIP.
The front of the man's pants exploded off his body like a cheap curtain at a peep show.
For a second, nobody moved.
Then, all eyes dropped down.
And there it was.
His very average, trembling, frightened little soldier.
Looking like it wanted to crawl back inside and file a restraining order.
A soft breeze brushed against it.
The poor guy let out a whimper.
...
The entire world seed to pause for a solid three seconds.
The homo guy froze.
The thugs?
Their eyes went wide.
Lily?
She slapped her hands over her mouth, her cheeks turning an impossible shade of red.
And Artis?
That absolute nace, that walking disaster, that glorious bastard—
He just stood there.
Grinning.
Triumphant.
Like a goddamn hero who had just slain a dragon and saved a kingdom.
The homo guy's mouth flapped open and closed like a fish out of water, his mind completely shutting down from the sheer violation of it all.
Then, like a slow-building earthquake, the room exploded.
"WHAT THE FUCK?!"
"HE RIPPED HIS DAMN PANTS OFF?!"
"OH GOD, PUT IT AWAY, PUT IT AWAY!"
"My eyes—my virgin eyes! WHY?!"
The homo guy?
Oh, he wasn't just panicking.
He was fucking dying inside.
His entire soul left his body and was now watching this scene from the afterlife, screaming in agony.
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