Villain of Fate: The Tyrant System-Chapter 104: The Pantsless Escape

The Pantsless Escape

With his rear split and aching, Evan’s performance collapsed.

Every movement sent a savage pulse through him, like he’d smuggled a lump of molten iron where no man ever should. Dignity? Gone. Comfort? A myth.

His breathing grew ragged.

His movements slowed.

And when more than thirty elite bodyguards closed in around him—

For the first time tonight, the goddess of victory chose someone else.

He still fought like a wounded beast.

He knocked one man down with a backfist.

Elbowed another in the throat.

Kicked a third so hard the man spun sideways.

But his balance was off.

His lower body screamed in protest every time he twisted.

A baton slammed into his shoulder.

A knee struck his ribs.

A fist caught his jaw.

Then three men tackled him at once.

He staggered.

Five more piled in.

This time—

The Obsidian King was pinned to the ground and beaten.

Fists rained down.

Boots hammered into him.

"Hold him!"

"Don’t let him get up!"

"Hit harder!"

Out of nowhere, the moment felt broken - no flow, only mess. One body after another pressed down, arms and legs crashing together, shouts piling on top of one another, every hit arriving like a thick, heavy slap against flesh. From below, dirt rose, sticking fast to wet skin and red streaks without care.

Out came Julian D’Aurelius with the rest, barely missing the wild tangle of bodies. The scramble unfolded fast - no warning, just motion. He arrived at the edge as limbs thrashed and shouts cracked through the air. Others followed close behind, drawn by noise, eyes wide. Nothing slowed the mess already spilling across the ground.

Julian blinked.

"...This has nothing to do with me."

Fingers splayed wide, he raised his arms slowly, like a shield against what unfolded before him. Quiet in voice, yet his gaze darted - sharp, picking apart every detail.

"I’m innocent. I only punched him once."

No one listened. Not that they cared.

The bodyguards were beating Evan so viciously that even Julian felt a phantom ache in sympathy. Each hit looked heavy. Personal. The kind meant to break more than just bones.

Evan barely resembled a person anymore beneath them—just a battered shape struggling to exist under the weight.

(If the Obsidian King actually gets beaten to death here...)

Julian’s expression tightened, just slightly.

(How the hell is the plot supposed to continue?)

One of the men drove a knee into Evan’s ribs.

"Stay down, you freak!"

Another grabbed his collar, slamming his head back into the ground.

"Thought you were untouchable, huh?!"

A weak, hoarse breath escaped Evan’s lips—more instinct than strength.

Then—

"Enough."

Gwen Valquin’s voice cut through the noise, sharp and controlled. She stood a few steps away, untouched by the chaos, her gaze cold as she raised her hand slightly—ready to end it or escalate it further.

Just as Gwen Valquin lifted her hand, ready to signal her men to join the beating—

Evan, face swollen and nearly unconscious, suddenly reached into his pocket with trembling fingers.

For a moment, it looked almost pathetic. His arm barely responded, shaking under the strain, moving inch by inch like it no longer belonged to him.

One of the bodyguards noticed.

"Hah—what’s this idiot trying to do now—"

But Evan didn’t stop.

His fingers fumbled, slipping once, twice—before finally grasping something.

He pulled out a small glass bottle.

Crack!

He smashed it against the pavement.

A cloud of red smoke burst outward.

The bodyguards closest to him inhaled it first.

Then they froze.

One scratched his neck.

Another clawed at his arms.

Then chaos.

"Ahhh—what the hell?!"

"It’s itching!"

"My back—my face—my—AH!"

The itch was unbearable.

It spread like wildfire under their skin.

Men who had been punching with righteous fury seconds ago now dropped to the ground, scratching like lunatics.

One rolled on the pavement.

Another tore at his collar.

A third screamed, "It’s inside my pants!"

Julian stepped back.

"...That’s disgusting."

With the circle broken, Evan seized the chance.

If he stayed one second longer, he really would die here.

He gritted his teeth, forced himself upright, and staggered toward the row of cars.

(Today’s humiliation...)

(I will repay it a hundredfold!)

Just as he reached a vehicle—

A bodyguard lunged and grabbed his pants.

The man’s face was red, veins bulging, eyes wild from the itching.

"The young lady said—beat him to death!"

He gritted his teeth.

"Year-end bonus ten times!"

His voice trembled, half from rage, half from itching.

"If I personally capture him, that’s at least twenty million!"

Twenty million.

His eyes gleamed like a starving gambler seeing gold.

"That’s Cadillac money! That’s club money for life!"

He clung on like his future depended on it.

"Don’t think about running!" he roared.

Other bodyguards, still scratching themselves like possessed monkeys, staggered forward.

"Grab him!"

"Don’t let the bonus escape!"

Evan was on the verge of a mental collapse.

It was the first time in his life someone had resisted his itching powder long enough to grab his pants.

These people...

They were insane.

Left with no choice, he unleashed his final move.

"Golden Cicada Shedding!"

He released the last of his true energy.

Bang!

His pants exploded into shreds.

The bodyguards grabbed nothing but fabric scraps.

And Evan—

Freed.

At the same time—

His bloody, wounded rear end was fully exposed under the courtyard lights.

For a brief, frozen second—

Silence.

Then—

"Shit!"

"Holy hell!"

"Cover your eyes!"

It was blinding.

Painful.

Traumatizing.

Even if he escaped alive—

Socially, he was already dead.

Evan didn’t care.

Dignity was a luxury. Survival was mandatory.

He rushed toward a Mercedes.

Pulled the handle.

Locked.

"Hurry! Lock the cars!" one bodyguard shouted, scratching his own neck raw.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

All the vehicles locked simultaneously.

Evan yanked at another door.

Locked.

His face twisted with fury.

He turned and bolted toward the roadside.

A taxi sat idling there.

Without hesitation, he jumped into the passenger seat.

"Drive. Now."

The driver, a young man in his twenties, stared at him in horror.

"Who are you?"

His eyes slowly lowered.

"...Why aren’t you wearing pants?"

"Just drive, damn it!" Evan roared.

The bodyguards were closing in.

"It’s not that I don’t want to drive," the driver snapped nervously, "but where the hell is your money?"

Evan punched him.

The driver’s head slammed into the window with a dull thud.

He slumped unconscious.

Evan shoved him out of the seat, slid over, floored the accelerator—

The taxi screeched forward and sped into the night.

The bodyguards skidded to a stop.

One collapsed to his knees.

"...The bonus..."

Another scratched his ear violently.

"...Twenty million..."

Gone.

Inside the courtyard, news spread quickly.

"He escaped?!"

Bianca De Dominicis’ face went frosty.

Gwen Valquin clenched her fists so hard her nails dug into her palms.

"That bastard got away?"

Julian stood off to the side, watching the taxi’s taillights vanish in the distance.

He wasn’t surprised.

(What is Fortune’s Chosen?)

(It means falling off cliffs and landing in treasure caves.)

(It means exploding your pants and still escaping alive.)

(It means surviving anything.)

That was why he wanted to lie low.

Avoid conflict.

Avoid cheats like this as much as possible.

But the entire world kept dragging him into fights with the cheat.

Julian rubbed his temples and sighed.

"I swear," he muttered under his breath,

"One day I’m just going to stay home and drink tea."