NTR: Minor Villain Wants to Be the Main Villain - Chapter 87

Chapter 87: A Cat Warrior with a Whole Bakery!

Artis squinted at the so-called hero, who was staring at him like he’d just crawled out of the underworld, and a single thought screamed through his mind like a drunk uncle at a wedding:

‘How the fuck does he know about that damn event?’

That particular episode was supposed to be locked tighter than a chastity belt in a nunnery. The palace workers who knew about it had been silenced so thoroughly you’d think they’d been buried alongside the incident itself. And yet, here was this cocky asshole, spouting plot points like he was the narrator of Artis’s private blooper reel.

But then another thought wormed its way into Artis’s mind’

‘How does this guy knows about the original novel’s plot?

The two men locked eyes across the room, both radiating wildly different energies.

Artis’s was full of confusion, paranoia, and oh-shit-did-I-leave-the-oven-on? Meanwhile, the hero was grappling with an existential crisis so severe you’d think someone told him his cock wasn’t the biggest in the kingdom after all.

For Reiner, this moment wasn’t just about Artis. Oh no, this was a direct brick-to-the-face revelation: He didn’t know everything.

The self-proclaimed hero—poster boy for abs, arrogance, and all things alpha—realized his airtight knowledge of this world was leaking faster than a drunkard’s bladder on a bumpy carriage ride.

It was like someone told him Santa wasn’t real, but instead of Santa, it was his entire fucking worldview.

Artis studied Reiner’s face, digging through his expression like he was trying to find gold in a pile of shit.

Gone was the smug, cocksure prick who had swaggered into the room like he owned it. No, this was the real Reiner—the hero Artis remembered from the book.

Humble, cautious, and radiating just the right amount of “oh-shit-what-now” energy to make anyone question if they’d bet on the wrong horse.

‘What the fuck is going on?’

Artis thought, his mind spinning like a drunk chicken trying to fly.

‘What the fuck is going on?’

Reiner thought, staring back at Artis with the same level of confusion as a guy who just walked in on his parents roleplaying as orcs.

The two men locked eyes, their mutual bewilderment thick enough to choke a horse.

Meanwhile, Chen and Jin were still riding the wave of their earlier laughter, their giggles turning into chuckles, then finally tapering off.

Jin, his face flushed from the hilarity, reached for a glass on the table only to discover it was emptier than a broke gambler’s pockets.

He frowned, then looked at Chen, who mirrored the same realization. Both their heads turned toward Artis like synchronized predators sniffing out their next meal.

“Dear brother-in-law…”

Chen drawled, leaning back like he was about to deliver some sage wisdom,

“I know you’re pissed this guy managed to expose your true self, but seriously, we’re fucking parched over here. You sent the girl away, so who’s pouring the damn booze now? Ghosts?”

He gestured lazily at the untouched bottle on the table. It was right there, mocking them, as if to say, Oh, you big strong men can’t even lift me? Pathetic.

“Yeah, brother…”

Jin chimed in, his tone half-serious, half-drunk-on-laughter. He lightly tickled the girls on his lap, who squealed and giggled like they’d just heard the funniest joke of their lives.

“If I don’t get a drink soon, I’m going to get violent. You know how I get.”

The girls, apparently drunk on something other than wine, began pawing at Jin’s face like he was some kind of oversized plush toy. Jin didn’t seem to mind, grinning like the cocky bastard he was.

Artis sighed dramatically, still staring into Reiner’s golden eyes like they were locked in some unspoken battle of wills.

“Oh, why, dear brother and brother-in-law, if only we had some competent people around here to handle basic tasks like pouring drinks. Such a shame, really.”

The tension at the table was palpable, but not for Reiner, who was still stuck in his own head, probably questioning his life choices.

It wasn’t until Galore, clearly done with the awkward silence, elbowed Reiner in the ribs that the so-called hero snapped back to reality.

“Y-yes, of course, Milia can handle that. She’s an expert at it.”

Reiner said, coughing into his fist while trying to plaster on a smile, which only made him look like he’d swallowed a fly.

As the words left his mouth, the cat woman—now conveniently rebranded as Milia—stepped forward with a grace that could only come from years of slinking around as a professional badass.

Daphne, or whatever alias she was pretending to have, bent down to grab the bottle.

Artis’s vantage point was, well, chef’s kiss.

Her breasts hung with the kind of gravity that could make an astrophysicist weep, straining the tight cloak holding them in place.

And her ass? Goddamn, it curved so perfectly it could’ve been sculpted by some horny Renaissance artist who’d been locked in his studio for way too long.

Artis felt like he’d been smacked in the face with a divine revelation. The sight was, in a word, breathtaking. In several words, it was holy fuck, how is this legal?

Daphne picked up the bottle with the practiced ease of someone who had poured a thousand drinks—or spilled them on purpose for leverage. She was about to pour the wine when Artis’s hand shot out like a cobra, grabbing her wrist mid-pour.

“Na, na, Milia, you’re not assigned to do that at all.”

Daphne blinked, her cool demeanor cracking just a fraction.

“Wh-what? B-but I know how to pour a drink for a lord!”

She stammered, her voice smooth but laced with confusion.

It was the first time she’d spoken since she’d stepped into the room, and Artis wasn’t about to let this moment slip by.

Reiner had ordered her to “watch and learn some bartending tricks” like she was some aspiring mixologist instead of the princess’s personal guard.

And now? Now she was supposed to pour drinks for the young master and his gaggle of horny, self-important bastards?

It was fucking insulting. She wasn’t just some maid in an apron with a tray of cocktails—she was the goddamn protector of the elven princess!

Pouring drinks for these assholes was a special kind of humiliation she didn’t sign up for.

So naturally, she’d told Reiner to shove his idea where the sun didn’t shine. Politely, of course. Okay, maybe not that politely.

But then the bastard had pulled his ultimate trump card: turning to her princess and asking her to do it. Her! The actual fucking princess.

The princess—graceful, noble, and apparently prone to bad decisions—agreed. AGREED! Like it was some noble sacrifice to mix drinks for sweaty men. Daphne’s jaw had practically hit the floor.

Cue several rounds of back-and-forth arguing. Daphne, of course, wanted to throw Reiner out the window and remind her princess of her actual royal duties.

But the princess? Stubborn as a mule in diamond-encrusted heels. She insisted it was “a good diplomatic gesture” or some other bullshit excuse that made Daphne’s eye twitch.

Finally, Daphne caved. She’d rather swallow her pride than watch her princess—her goddamn princess—humiliate herself by playing barmaid to these degenerate pricks.

But that didn’t mean she was happy about it. Oh no, as she begrudgingly accepted the task.

‘Damn bastard! Grabbing my hand like I’m some street vendor handing out fucking samples!’

Daphne seethed internally, her cat ears twitching in barely-contained rage.

Her fiery glare darted to Reiner, who had the audacity to close his eyes, lean back, and wordlessly gesture for her to calm down. Like he wasn’t the one who shoved her into this mess to begin with.

‘Oh, calm down he says. Fuck you, Reiner.’

Still, she took a deep breath, her mind reminding her of the bigger picture.

‘Mission first. If we get the Ginseng, we cure the Queen. No throttling cocky assholes today.’

Plastering on the fakest smile this side of the kingdom, she turned her attention back to Artis, whose hand was still firmly around her wrist. It was taking every ounce of restraint not to claw him into ribbons.

“Why, brother…”

Jin chimed in, his grin widening like a fox watching chickens panic,

“you’ve got plans for this one?”

He was practically salivating at the chaos he knew was coming. This was Artis, after all, and restraint wasn’t exactly his strong suit.

“Of course I do, brother.”

Artis replied, his grin sharp enough to cut diamonds. His eyes closed briefly, his head tilting just enough to make him look like a smug bastard monk about to drop some divine wisdom.

When he opened his eyes, the mischief in them was brighter than ever.

“We can’t waste such exceptional talent on something as mundane as pouring alcohol, brother…”

Jin raised an eyebrow, his smirk mirroring Artis’s in perfect unison.

“Then what is she good for, brother?”

The question hung in the air like a loaded crossbow, aimed squarely at the tension between Daphne’s murderous rage and Artis’s reckless, shit-stirring tendencies.

The room collectively held its breath, waiting for the bomb to drop.

“I mean, have you seen this piece of cake, brother? This isn’t just a slice—this is the whole damn bakery!”

And with that, he released her wrist, his hands moving faster than a thief on market day, sliding straight to the curve of her hips.

Before she could even process what was happening, he spun her around like she was some kind of prize wheel at a festival.

“W-what the fuck?!”

Daphne yelped, her cat ears flattening as she stumbled to keep her balance. But Artis was already two steps ahead, his hands firmly planting themselves on her upper thighs, just below her ass cheeks.

Then, to the horror of everyone—and the rage of one particular feline warrior—he started jiggling.