NTR: Minor Villain Wants to Be the Main Villain

The market wasn't exactly high-class. It wasn't the shiny, posh inner court where nobles pranced around pretending their shit didn't stink.

But it had energy.

It was lively. Messy. Chaotic.

And unlike the uptight assholes in the inner court, the people here weren't busy trying to out-cultivate each other or flex their family lineage every five minutes.

Here? Barely anyone was a cultivator.

And the ones who were? Low-rank nobodies who probably spent more time trying to look mysterious than actually cultivating.

He grinned.

'No self-respecting cultivator stays out here once they get powerful enough to move inside the walls.'

Why would they? Inside, everything was better.@@novelbin@@

The food. The alcohol. The luxury. The women.

But then again…

Artis tapped his chin, his smirk widening.

'Nah. I bet corrupting innocent housewives is way more fun than buying overpriced whores who fake their moans for a few gold coins.'

It was a simple equation, really.

Noble courtesans? Expensive, trained in seduction, but ultimately faking it for the paycheck.

Bored housewives? Deprived, neglected, dangerously easy to turn into cock-hungry sluts.

And nothing beat the thrill of seeing a prim, proper wife fall apart under him, moaning like she just discovered God's personal cheat code.

His cock twitched at the thought.

Artis shook his head, stuffing his hands into his pockets as he strolled through the crowded, chaotic street, dodging merchants who were one step away from physically dragging him into their shops.

Small sweet shops with rows of sticky pastries. Makeup stalls run by older women with hawk-like sales skills. Fruit vendors who swore on their ancestors that their apples were fresher than anyone else's.

And then—

A flower shop.

Wait. Hold on. Back up. Your journey continues at My Virtual Library Empire

Just a few steps away, a quaint little flower stall stood tucked between two larger shops, its display table covered in delicate, colorful blooms.

The flowers weren't exactly inner court level—those rare, spirit-infused blossoms that could make a man last three hours in bed—but they had charm.

What really caught his attention, though, wasn't the flowers.

It was the mother and child standing behind the stall.

The woman—now that was a beauty. Not in the flashy, high-maintenance way, but in the soft, inviting, I-bake-pie-and-fuck-my-husband-senseless way.

What stood out the most?

The way she kept sneaking glances at him.

Sure, everyone was staring—either trying to sell him something or picturing what was hanging between his legs.

But she?

She was just peeking.

Not in the blatant, panty-soaking way that most of the women in the market were.

No, this one was trying not to look.

And failing miserably.

Every time he caught her staring, she quickly looked away, pretending to focus on adjusting a flower pot, straightening a ribbon—anything but acknowledging him.

'Oh? A shy one? That's adorable.'

With a slow, knowing smirk curling on his lips, Artis adjusted his posture, letting his muscles flex just a little under his thin shirt.

Then, he made his way toward the stall, fully aware that the woman's stolen glances had just turned into wide-eyed, nervous staring.

And gods, he loved watching pretty little things squirm.

"How much for this one?"

Artis lazily pointed at a bouquet of roses, the deep red petals looking almost as tempting as the cleavage peeking out from the flower seller's modest dress.

The woman, however, didn't even glance up at him. No flirty smile, no subtle attempt to lean forward and flash him an extra glimpse of skin—nothing.

For once, after entering this market, a woman wasn't immediately melting at the sight of him.

Fascinating.

"Wild Northern Carena," she said coolly. "Wise choice, sir. It's just seven—"

"It's seven silver!"

A small, defiant voice cut through her words like a tiny little knife.

Artis raised a brow as a kid—no older than six or seven, with a face full of mischief and zero fear of consequences—stood next to the woman, his little fists clenched, his eyes narrowed like he was running the toughest scam of his life.

The moment the words left the boy's mouth, however—BAM!

A small fist landed on his head.

The kid groaned dramatically and crouched down, rubbing his skull.

"…Seven coppers, sir."

The woman corrected through clenched teeth, glaring down at the boy.

"But Mom!"

The boy whispered, still clutching his head, but loud enough for Artis to hear every word.

"He looks filthy rich."

Artis snorted.

"Rai, shut up," the mother hissed.

"But Mom—"

While the mother and son squabbled like two street dogs fighting over a half-eaten bone, Artis had real priorities—his eyes locked onto the woman like a wolf spotting fresh meat.

And fuck, what a feast.

There was something about this woman that was making his brain go tingling.

Mature yet youthful, probably in her late twenties, though life had clearly given her the seasoned woman special—the kind of body that had been through some shit but still came out looking dangerously fuckable.

That brown linen dress hugged her curves like a desperate ex who couldn't let go, the fabric stretched just enough to tease, just enough to make a man wonder what was barely hidden underneath.

And that apron? It wasn't just a decorative bitch-badge—this woman worked. Not like those noble sluts who screamed at the sight of dirt; no, this one actually put her hands to use.

'Oh, the things she could do with those hands…'

Now, was she carrying the absolute fuck-you-up-in-bed milkers that Nadia had? No. Was she rocking the split-me-in-half breeding hips that Juliana flaunted? Not quite.

But she had something else—a perfectly tight, toned body sculpted by labor and hardship, curvy enough to tempt a monk into breaking his vows.

And her face? Way too fucking pretty for a mud-hut village. Dark blue hair flowed down her back like a midnight waterfall, framing features that didn't belong in a place like this.

No, this was the face of a woman who belonged somewhere grand, somewhere sinful. Somewhere she could be properly appreciated.

Which could only mean one thing.

'An important character from the novel?'