Villain of Fate: The Tyrant System

Chapter 172: Marrow Cleansing at Midnight

Marrow Cleansing at Midnight

Back in the hotel room, Julian D’Aurelius sat on the sofa, silently chanting in his heart.

The suite was quiet now.

Too quiet compared to the chaos from earlier.

The distant city lights of Woodland shimmered beyond the floor-to-ceiling window, painting gold across the carpet. Somewhere far below, traffic murmured like a river.

And Julian sat there, black-haired, golden-eyed, looking far too serious for a man mentally arguing with a system.

Inside his heart he called out.

"Shitty System, where’s my reward?"

There was a pause.

Then the familiar mechanical tone rang in his mind.

"Beep, reward: physical enhancement, and a significant boost to the weakling host’s strength."

"Weakling host?" Julian muttered aloud. "You give rewards and still insult people?"

But the moment the system’s cold voice faded, his expression changed.

Something moved inside him.

No—surged.

Like invisible rivers were tearing through his muscles and bones.

Heat rose from his spine.

His skin prickled.

His pulse hammered.

Then suddenly—

thick black foul-smelling liquid began oozing out of his pores.

Julian stared.

Then recoiled.

"Damn, which author came up with this marrow cleansing setting?"

The smell hit him a heartbeat later.

Brutal.

Fermented death.

Like old sewers, rotten herbs, and a battlefield latrine had been blended together.

Even Julian, who usually handled absurdity well, nearly gagged.

"It’s like I got thrown into a cesspool and told to swim laps."

He leaped off the sofa.

No hesitation.

Ran straight for the bathroom.

The suite’s bathroom was almost decadent.

Polished black stone.

Steam rising in silver threads.

And beyond the marble partition—an indoor hot spring pool.

"Now this..." Julian muttered approvingly, stripping and stepping under the shower, "this is what rich villains should have."

Water thundered over him.

The black impurities washed away in dark streaks.

His skin seemed clearer.

His body lighter.

Every muscle felt rewoven.

After cleaning off the filth, he eased into the hot spring pool.

A sigh escaped him.

Pure satisfaction.

The water wrapped around him with healing warmth.

His body hummed.

According to the Tyrant System, after this round of marrow cleansing, he now possessed a top-notch martial arts physique.

And more importantly—

his strength had directly advanced into the Iron Realm.

An ordinary man...

no longer ordinary.

An Old Martial Arts practitioner.

Julian flexed a hand underwater.

Power gathered differently now.

Not overwhelming.

But real.

Solid.

Controlled.

Although this level was still too low to slap Evan or Lucas to death...

it greatly increased Young Master Julian’s capacity for bullying the weak and fearing the strong.

He grinned to himself.

"Excellent. Growth."

Then added solemnly,

"I shall now oppress small fry with my fists."

He imagined some arrogant rich fool stepping up.

And him dropping the man with one punch.

Very satisfying.

"In the future when clueless fools come knocking..."

He raised a fist from the water.

"...wouldn’t I be able to take them down with a single punch?"

He admired the idea.

Then frowned.

"This shitty system finally decided to give me something good..."

His fingers rubbed his chin.

"...but something feels off."

Because truly—

he hadn’t gone all out against Lucas tonight.

He had mostly let chaos do the work.

So why such a high reward?

There had to be hidden contribution points.

Or...

Julian’s eyes narrowed.

"...did the system count psychological damage too?"

If humiliating Lucas counted as combat output—

then perhaps the reward made sense.

Just then his phone vibrated beside the spring.

He reached over.

Checked the message.

The Scythe Division.

Hemil and his brothers.

He opened it.

Read.

Then froze.

Then read it again.

Learning that the four of them had given Lucas a beating—because he disguised himself as Julian and got mistaken for Julian—

Julian was dumbfounded.

"Damn... is this even a thing?"

He stared at the screen.

Pretending to be him...

just to get beaten up.

What kind of tragic comedy was this?

"As expected," he muttered reverently.

"The snitches are very dedicated to their work."

There was almost emotion in his voice.

Loyal traitors.

Rare species.

Such service deserved reward.

So to thank them for boosting his performance and increasing his system rewards—

Julian sent each of the four a high-end club membership card.

Each loaded with one million Euro.

Enough for a year’s indulgence.

And because it was a nationwide chain—

they could use it anywhere.

A moment later the replies came flooding in.

Hemil:

(Young Master Julian is divine.)

Second member:

(Club people, club soul, clubs are for the elite!)

Third:

(I’ll die for you after tonight’s massage package.)

Fourth:

(Long live Young Master Julian!)

Julian laughed so hard water nearly splashed out.

"Madmen."

But he was pleased.

Very pleased.

The four collectively left the hotel soon after to have fun.

As for Lucas’s arrangements—

sorry.

Those were all Young Master Julian’s tasks now.

After contacting the Scythe Division, Julian soaked comfortably in the hot spring a while longer.

Steam curled around his shoulders.

His thoughts drifted.

To Bianca.

To how she had clung to his arm.

To bunny-girl jokes.

To the way her eyes sparkled when teasing him.

And he abruptly submerged his face in water.

"No dirty thoughts."

He resurfaced.

Then muttered.

"...Maybe a few."

Eventually he rose.

Dried off.

Changed.

Prepared to head back to bed.

At that moment—

knock knock knock.

Sharp against the quiet.

He stopped.

A woman’s voice came through the door.

"Julian, open up, I need to talk to you."

Bianca De Dominicis.

Julian blinked.

At this hour?

"Looking for me?"

Something felt strange.

What could she want so late?

He moved quickly.

Opened the door.

And paused.

Standing outside, Bianca looked... distressed.

Her long red hair was loose over her shoulders.

Red eyes slightly watery.

One hand held her stomach.

There was even a faint vulnerable softness to her expression rarely shown in daylight.

Julian’s teasing mood vanished.

"Bianca?"

She stepped inside slowly.

Without ceremony.

Without asking.

And walked straight to his bed.

Then lay down on it.

Like she belonged there.

Clutching her stomach.

"Julian..."

Her voice softened.

"My stomach hurts."

Julian stared.

Concern rose.

But because he was Julian—

his mouth betrayed him before compassion did.

"Are you here to take a dump?"