NTR: Minor Villain Wants to Be the Main Villain

He gingerly picked up the lacy panty like it was some divine artifact, setting it on the desk with the reverence of a monk arranging sacred scrolls.

Once the "treasured relic" was secure, he plopped cross-legged on the bed, completely stark naked. His reasoning? Clothes were a distraction.

Plus, cultivation was serious business—no robes flapping around, no "wardrobe malfunctions" interrupting his flow.

"Alright, time to unlock my true potential. Phew~ Let's do this."

He took a deep breath, then another, closing his eyes like some enlightened sage. He focused on his heartbeat, trying to drown out the world.

'Mind free of distractions. Total isolation.'

He repeated like a mantra. The cultivation manual had been clear on this point.

But instead of reaching the tranquil void, his brain promptly summoned the soft, jiggly images of Juliana's and Nadia's curvaceous glory. Their supple skin, tantalizing curves, and, oh gods, those forbidden valleys of decadence.

"Not now! Damn it!" He groaned, smacking his own forehead. "Focus on something serene. Grass. Waterfalls. Majestic trees. Nature. Yeah, that's it."

But instead of verdant fields or babbling brooks, his mental slideshow replaced the scenery with Juliana arching her back, Nadia biting her lip, and their... well, very enthusiastic assets bouncing in glorious slow motion.

"Son of a—!"

His eyes snapped open, and he grabbed his head like it might explode.

"Come on, brain! One time! Work with me here!"

He sighed, flopping back onto the bed, glaring at the ceiling like it owed him money.

"How the hell am I supposed to cultivate when all I can think about is wet, sloppy... UGH!"

Clearly, inner peace was overrated. Then he jumped back to lotus position and once again closed his eyes.

He suddenly thought about home and his mother—bam!—instant peace. It was like his brain had been hijacked by a stern parental glare, zapping every indecent thought into oblivion.

As the world around him seemed to dissolve into a surreal haze, his awareness sharpened to an almost absurd degree.

He could feel everything—the tickle of air crawling into his lungs, the rhythmic thrum of blood racing through his veins, even his cells doing their microscopic hustle: dividing, multiplying, and dying like a relentless cosmic dance.

He briefly wondered if his mitochondria were having a rave in there.

Then it hit him—his body was gone. No hands, no legs, no head, just… nothing. Instead, he sensed a tiny wisp of qi. No, scratch that—more like the ghost of a fart after a hearty meal.

It was there, but not really. Like an empty jar of perfume, long devoid of its scent, teasing him with traces of what once was.

"Okay, focus, focus..."

He muttered, mentally reaching for the elusive qi. But the damn thing acted like a bratty toddler playing tag—darting around the moment he tried to grab it. He tried again. And again. The result remained the same.

When he finally opened his eyes, what greeted him wasn't enlightenment—it was a soaked, sweaty mess.

The once-pristine white sheets beneath him were now a soggy disaster zone, as if someone had dumped a bucket of water on them. His skin gleamed like he'd been basted for a roast.

"Fuck! What the hell?"

He groaned, his chest heaving like he'd just sprinted a marathon uphill—naked.

"Might be because it's my first time tapping into qi."

He muttered, running a hand through his damp hair, which now looked like it had been glued to his scalp with desperation and regret.

"Fuck! If I'm this much of a soggy mess just from this, how the hell am I supposed to outgrow these assholes?"

He thought back to the hierarchy of power outlined in the novel: 16 cultivation bases, starting from the humble Body Refining Stage all the way to the god-tier Divine Ascension Stage.

Each base had five sub-stages, meaning the path to greatness was like climbing a mountain where every step was covered in banana peels.

"Right now, on this side of the kingdom, the Patriarch's the top dog with his Golden Core Stage ass," he grumbled. "The fifth stage of cultivation… That's way out of my league. Everyone else is playing in the kiddie pool by comparison."

Take Chen, for example. The guy was built like a tank, as loyal as a dog, and somehow still young enough to have women swooning.

He was already in the Core Formation Stage, just one step below the Patriarch.

And let's not forget Jin—the young master with a silver spoon up his ass and access to more resources than an entire alchemist guild. Spirit roots, ginseng, mystical herbs that probably made him fart rainbows—Jin had it all.

"I'm 19! There's no way I can keep up with those bastards if I go the traditional route of meditating, training, and guzzling spirit juice like it's happy hour. They'll be ascended to heaven while I'm still stuck down here pretending to know what qi even feels like."

He shifted his gaze to the bed where the divine scripture lay, carelessly tossed earlier like it was some cheap paperback novel. It practically oozed ancient mystique, but right now, it just looked like a crumpled homework assignment. He smirked.

"You, my glorious pink ticket to greatness… You're going to be my one-way golden ticket to excellence."

He declared with the confidence of a man who just found a cheat code in life.

"No more sweaty meditations or feeling like a cosmic joke. It's just you, me, and whatever the hell this thing promises."

Like martial arts, cultivation was about finesse, not brute force. The sheer variety of techniques out there made it a buffet of absurd possibilities.

One could learn to fly, shoot fire, or even grow a third arm, depending on how far you wanted to go—or how twisted your imagination was.

He pondered for a moment, tapping his chin.

"Think of qi like clay."

You give it to 50 people and tell them to sculpt something. Most would end up with lopsided bowls or some sad attempt at a vase. But the one who knows the clay's nature—the texture, the moisture, the right amount of force—now that guy makes Michelangelo look like an amateur.

"Whoever understands qi better can mold it quicker, faster, harder… Just like sex, really. Gotta know the rhythm, the pressure, the right spots to hit."

He leaned over and picked up the old scripture, his fingers brushing off the lingering dust like it was some sacred relic—or, in his case, the keys to cheat-mode cultivation.

The familiar picture greeted him once again: a man and a woman tangled together in a way that screamed ancient erotic fan art. He snorted.

The text was still an incomprehensible jumble of foreign characters, but for some bizarre reason, he could understand it. Well, most of it. Enough to know this wasn't exactly PG-rated bedtime reading.

"Looks like it's going to be a long, long night."

He cracked his neck like a man about to grind for hours in a dungeon crawler and dove in, reading with a focus that would put scholars to shame.

...

In the early morning, someone tiptoed through the house like a cat burglar on a mission. Draped in a nightie so sheer it could've been mistaken for a fancy mosquito net, Nadia made her way to Artis's door.

Her goal? Retrieve the lacy little treasure she'd left behind the previous night—a casualty of her strategic retreat from a very hungry beast. 

As she reached the door, her heart raced faster than a brothel during festival season. Slowly, carefully, she slid the door open, bracing herself for... what exactly? A half-asleep man snoring in an unflattering pose? 

What she saw, though, almost made her drop to her knees. 

Her eyes bulged, her mouth went dry, and her body betrayed her faster than a bad friend in a drinking game. She felt her cheeks heat up, her skin flush, and—oh no—that unmistakable tingle down there. 

Instantly, her legs wobbled, her breath hitched, and she was undeniably, hopelessly... wet. 

'What the fuck did I just walk into?'

She thought, her mind spinning as her body threatened to melt on the spot.