CH: 190: Impotent Rage

Jade is bald?

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{Chapter: 190: Impotent Rage}

After leaving the store, Dex casually reached into his private space and pulled out one of the maps he had just acquired.

With the parchment in hand, he began walking down the bustling streets, unfolding the map with a flick of his wrist. His eyes quickly scanned over the detailed illustrations and neat columns of descriptive text. Every region listed had its own set of special resources, cultural quirks, and terrain features. It almost resembled a luxury-grade geography magazine—something you might expect to find in the home of a wealthy noble or a university library rather than on the road.

He couldn't help but chuckle.

"Wow, it even comes with pictures and detailed explanations... High-end magic tool product, for sure."

Internally, he thought, "No wonder the price was that steep. But then again, I paid with dead man's gold. That map was practically free."

Indeed, what he held in his hand was no ordinary navigation tool. It was a masterpiece—etched on enchanted beast-leather for durability, weather-resistant, and likely inscribed with minor magical enhancements to prevent wear and tear.

Meanwhile, the city had transformed.

Earlier in the morning, the streets had been eerily empty. But now, with the sun rising higher in the sky, life had flooded back into every alley and avenue. Merchants hawked their wares with unrelenting vigor. The air was filled with shouting, laughter, and the clanging of cookware from nearby food stalls. Pedestrians bustled past, some walking with purpose, others just wandering aimlessly in the chaotic rhythm of city life.

Dex's two normal eyes stayed glued to the map, quietly absorbing its contents. However, the third eye nestled in the center of his forehead had a different job. It rotated slowly, sweeping across his surroundings like a living scanner, observing, analyzing, and collecting all kinds of environmental data in real time.

He noted something strange: the people here were more refined—visually speaking—than the common rabble of lower-tier worlds.

This wasn't a coincidence. Due to the inherent magical nature of this realm, evolution and supernatural adaptation had led to extremes in both directions. The beautiful were extraordinarily beautiful—goddess-tier, even. Meanwhile, the ugly were so grotesque they could give monsters existential crises.

It reminded him of the aesthetic extremes found in the Abyss—where beauty and horror walked hand in hand.

Yet Dex couldn't help but feel slightly disappointed.

The armor design, specifically for women, was... underwhelming.

Sure, it was practical. It was probably forged with care and tailored for actual combat. But where was the drama? The flair? The noble tradition of "armor" that offered no real protection but maxed out visual appeal?

He sighed internally.

"Not even a single pair of boob plates in sight. What is this, a monastery?"

The only small—yet soul-crushing—problem Dex had with the otherwise impressive catalog of armors for female professionals was the complete and utter absence of what he considered to be true battlefield tradition.

He began mentally listing his favorite legendary armor styles—those heroic garments of questionable functionality but undeniable artistic value.

Dex searched for a long time with growing despair, but didn't find even a single trace of his beloved three-point armor, boob plates, Thigh Window Greaves, skimpy outfits, Battle Bikini / Bikini Mail, bikinis with metal straps, bondage wear, magical thong and heels, Lingerie-like armor, Midriff Exposed Plate, Butt Cape Armor, High Heel Sabatons, Nipple Pastie Armor, Cleavage Harness, Shoulder Spaulders of Seduction, Magic Thong Guard, Bareback Breastplate, Skimpy Sorceress Robes, Chainmail Lingerie, Strap-Based Bodysuit, Decorative Shoulder-only Armor, Armored Corset, One-Sleeve Wonder, Thigh High Armor Stockings, Breast Shelf Cuirass, Sideboob Battle Harness, Waist-Cut War Skirt, Peekaboo Plating, Navel Exposing Breastplate, Underboob Guard, Erotic Enchanter's Wraps, Goddess of War Loincloth, Skin Window Bodice, One Boob Pauldron, Backless Battle Dress, Armor of Suggestive Slits, Suspender Chain mail, Throat Guard & Nothing Else, Battle Bra of Seduction, Half-Glove Gauntlets, Magical Boob Window Cloak, Armor Pasties & Thong Combo, Chest Plate of Temptation, Bare Shoulder Justice Armor, and the mighty Chest Plate of TemptationBare Shoulder Justice Armor—which honestly sounded like it was forged during an orgy and blessed by a very confused war goddess.

The list continued… and continued.

Truly, it was a dark day for fashion-forward ladies. It has to be said that this is indeed a bit downside for Dex.

It was frankly impressive—no, concerning—how vividly he remembered each of these by name, classification, and approximate historical usage (real or imagined).

"A normal man forgets birthdays," he murmured. "But I remember erotic armor categories alphabetically. Gods bless my brain."

He paused in the middle of the street. A wistful look crossed his face.

"Some men memorize the names of kings. I memorized the names of sinful armor. Who's the real historian here?"

In a silent act of protest against this tragic lack of provocative design, Dex activated a minor interface tweak within his ocular system.

Visual Filters: Online.

Suddenly, all males in his vision blurred into obscurity, reduced to colorless shadows. Anyone he found aesthetically displeasing? Soft mosaic. Orcs with bad posture? Erased. Anyone under a '6' on his very personal attractiveness scale? Vanished into the ether.

His view now resembled the pages of a fantasy artbook—beautiful, exaggerated, vibrant.

The world looked brighter, the battlefield more inspiring.

He let out a relaxed, almost meditative sigh.

"Ah... there's that sacred fantasy feeling again."

And now, surrounded by this idealized version of the world, Dex was at peace. This was the sacred adventuring spirit he longed for—a perfect balance between carnage and curated eye candy. Life was good.

Within seconds, his field of vision became a living fantasy artbook.

He gave a satisfied sigh.

"Much better. War... war never changes, but I sure as hell can filter it."

And now, in this self-edited, improved version of reality, Dex could finally reclaim that sacred adventuring mood—the one balanced perfectly between bloodshed and beautiful bodies that couldn't possibly protect anything but the viewer's soul. In this way, he found the feeling that should be there from the beginning.

Then, his peace was disturbed by a weak ripple in the flow of movement nearby.

He sensed it immediately—a boy, probably ten years old, slipping quietly behind him, hand reaching out to snatch the map or maybe a coin pouch.

Without turning around, Dex spoke calmly, his tone casual but carrying the weight of authority.

"I strongly recommend you slap yourself a few times... and walk away."

The boy froze.

Caught in the act, the kid tried to play it cool. He turned toward Dex with big, watery eyes and the kind of innocent expression that could melt a nun.

"Big brother, what are you talking about? I didn't do anything," he said with practiced innocence.

Dex didn't even glance at him.

"I don't like repeating myself," he said, cold and flat.

The third eye flicked to the boy, and in that moment, the child felt as though something ancient had just locked onto him. No killing intent, no outward hostility—just pure indifference. That was what made it terrifying.

It was the way someone might look at a pig.

The boy's bravado cracked instantly. His instincts screamed.

If I keep pretending… I'm going to die.

The playful mask he wore shattered. His eyes widened. He took a step back, sweat forming along his brow. The weight of true fear settled on his shoulders, heavier than any scolding he'd ever received.

For a boy who'd spent most of his life surviving in the cracks of society, that look meant one thing: "You are nothing to me."

And that was the scariest thing of all.

The kid's expression suddenly twisted in absolute terror.

His knees buckled beneath him as though all strength had drained from his legs. Under the curious, confused, and sometimes amused gazes of passers-by, he collapsed to the ground in a trembling heap. Without needing further instruction, he began slapping himself across the face—again and again—each slap louder and more desperate than the last, until blood trickled from the corners of his lips and his cheeks swelled with bruises.

Dex, ever calm and detached, nodded in approval.

"Very good," he murmured, his voice low and smooth like oil over steel. With not so much as a backward glance at the trembling boy, he turned away—dismissal absolute, as if the entire exchange were nothing more than a fly he'd lazily swatted aside. His boots echoed down the stone street, each step languid, deliberate, as he slipped back into the thrum of life like a shadow folding into dusk. He let his gaze drift, slow, over the supple silhouettes gliding past—hips swaying, eyes lowering, breasts bouncing, scents thick with heat and perfume.

He drank in every sway, every daring glance, every unspoken offer—his view already undressing them, peeling back silks, metal and shame alike. The matter behind him was discarded like a bloodstained rag; the pleasure ahead, far more tantalizing.

---

The gathering crowd, though not privy to the entire exchange, was quick to put the pieces together. They didn't need to hear the full story—intuition and shared street knowledge were often enough in places like this.

Especially after a few locals recognized the boy's familiar face and his unfortunate "occupation," the truth spread quickly.

Murmurs rose from the crowd, and soon they were openly discussing it with chuckles, smirks, and amused expressions.

"This was a public execution in all but name," one man whispered to his companion, shaking his head. "Serves him right," another muttered, not even trying to hide the glee in his voice.

The boy, still half-kneeling with blood dripping from his chin, felt the weight of a thousand eyes. Each one was a dagger of shame, cutting deeper than any blow Dex had given. His humiliation burned hotter than his bruised face. He desperately wished the earth would open and swallow him whole.

Amid the gathering, a young man—perhaps in his late twenties—stepped forward. His brow was furrowed, his arms crossed as he stared at Dex's retreating figure. Unable to bear the sight any longer, he called out:

"Hey, brother! Don't you think that was a bit much? I mean… the kid didn't actually manage to take anything, right? You came out of it without losing a copper."

Dex didn't pause, didn't glance back. He simply kept walking and responded in a cool, dismissive voice:

"Who do you think you are to be worthy of my generosity?"

His words weren't just indifferent—they dripped with disdain. He made no attempt to hide the contempt in his tone. For Dex, there were few things more infuriating than someone trying to look virtuous at his expense.

The young man's face darkened immediately, veins bulging at his temples. He wasn't used to being brushed off like that, especially in public. The insult stung. His hand moved instinctively toward his weapon.

But before he could act, his teammates—two others in similar leather adventuring gear—quickly stepped forward and grabbed his arms.

"Forget it. He's not someone you want to mess with," one of them said under his breath.

"Look at him. That's not some passing merchant or a flashy rookie… He's dangerous," the other added with quiet urgency.

The young man hesitated, still glaring in Dex's direction, jaw clenched tight. But he understood. Strength didn't always shout—it could be quiet, patient, and lethal. And right now, every instinct told him that Dex was more than he appeared. Someone who didn't bluff. Someone who wouldn't hesitate.

In the end, practicality won out. With a sharp exhale, he turned his glare into a sigh and let himself be led away by his companions.

The boy on the ground, watching the brief flicker of hope vanish, lowered his eyes once again. His silent defender had tried, but reality was what it was. Strength was the final word in this world.

The gathered crowd, disappointed that there would be no sudden brawl to liven up their afternoon, began to scatter. A few laughed, others grumbled, and some tried to stir things up with mock outrage, eager to push someone—anyone—into starting a fight.

But none of them understood just how close they were to something far worse.

They had no idea what Dex would've done if pushed.

Because when Dex fought, there were no innocent bystanders. He didn't hold back. Not out of cruelty, but principle—his own twisted brand of it. In his mind, onlookers who chose to remain during a fight became part of it. They weren't spectators—they were potential threats, witnesses, distractions... or just opportunities. In the Abyss, that was standard. If you stood and watched a battle, you were fair game. Either you joined the fray or fled. Hesitation earned you a grave without a body or soul.

And Dex applied that logic everywhere. Every world he stepped into was subject to his inner laws, whether they matched the local customs or not.

So far, in all his travels across the multiverse—even if he'd only visited four worlds, two of which were brutal layers of the Abyss—nothing had challenged his worldview. He had never encountered a situation complex enough, nor a person terrifying enough, to make him second-guess himself.

His compass was warped, but steady.

He was, in a sense, the ideal Demon. His former humanity had not softened him—it had sharpened him. It had given him reason without restraint. Rational cruelty. Efficient madness. Compassion wasn't part of the equation.

---

Once the crowd had dispersed and the scene had settled, the young man who had stepped in earlier looked back at the little boy one final time. The child's cheeks were still raw and puffy, blood having dried at the corners of his lips. His pride was in tatters, his eyes hollow.

The young man sighed. "You need to be more careful from now on. Don't provoke people who are clearly untouchable. Some things… can't be undone."

With that, he turned and walked away, his companions at his side.

Their backgrounds weren't so different—both had grown up clawing their way through a world that didn't care. The only difference was that today, the boy was the one who'd drawn the short straw. The young man had done what little he could. But beyond that, he had his own battles to worry about.

He was willing to help… but not capable of saving anyone.