Shuriken of Gender Flux—this concept-level skill had been acquired by John some time ago. But it had always required a direct hit to activate.
Back then, with his pitiful combat abilities, even landing a hit on a slightly stronger awakener was a laughable dream.
But now…
Now that it was paired with Sure Shot, the story had changed.
It had become a divine skill.
If anyone dared to mess with him in the future, he could just reverse their gender and teach them a very personal lesson about the harshness of society.
"Hm… if Shuriken of Gender Flux works so well with Sure Shot, then…" John's eyes suddenly lit up. "The Evil God's Little Tadpole should work too!"
As the realization struck, John's expression turned gleeful. He reached out and grabbed the now-female parrot in one hand, holding it tightly.
The Evil God's Little Tadpole—another concept-level skill. If the tiny black tadpole hit any living being, regardless of gender, it would forcibly impregnate them. The victim would immediately begin experiencing the full range of pregnancy symptoms, complete with the associated discomfort and pain.
"You… what are you doing to me?" the female parrot asked in a trembling voice, staring into John's grinning face, panic rising in her eyes.
"You're a demon! A demon from the pits of Hell!"
John chuckled, completely unfazed. "My dear little parrot… even now, you dare talk back? You really think I'm just going to let that slide? No no—today, you're going to experience the miracle of childbirth."
As he spoke, John flicked his fingers.
A jet-black tadpole shot through the air and landed squarely on the parrot.
Standing not far away, Celia had followed John in and happened to witness the entire thing.
Her jaw slackened in disbelief.
It was as if she were watching some kind of perverted ritual.
No wonder he's never shown any real interest in me…
So this was it. John had strange, deeply unsettling preferences.
She thought the rumors about John and Old Jaque were already outrageous, but this?
Now he was trying to impregnate a parrot?
What the hell was this man?!
As her thoughts spiraled into chaos, she felt as if she had been forcibly dragged into some twisted adult fairy tale where nothing made sense and every living thing was fair game.
And the worst part?
She had pity for the parrot.
Once upon a time, she thought John was a gentleman. But now she knew—
He was that kind of gentleman.
The "tie-you-up-and-feed-you-pigeon-seed" kind.
Celia clicked her tongue in disgust, shook her head, and walked away without another word.
If she stayed any longer, she was genuinely afraid her own sanity would begin to erode.
Meanwhile, John was completely absorbed in the results of his unholy experiment.
As the evil tadpole merged into the female parrot's body, it tried to resume its normal chatter.
But then it began to gag violently.
Its formerly flat belly bulged rapidly.
Waves of nausea overtook it, and the parrot twisted and writhed in John's grasp, shrieking as if some egg were forcing its way out of its body.
Of course, it wouldn't actually lay an egg.
The entire effect was simulated.
But it felt real—every painful stage of pregnancy, from swelling to labor, compressed into moments.
John had never dared to use this skill before. After all, the Evil God's Tadpole moved extremely slowly, making it practically useless in real combat.
But now, paired with Sure Shot?
It had become something terrifying.
Who could keep fighting while experiencing childbirth?
No matter how powerful you were—pregnancy would still sap your strength, drain your will, and leave you vulnerable.
"I wonder…" John murmured, curiosity gleaming in his eyes, "What would happen if I used it on a human?"
He turned to glance at someone napping nearby.
Old Jaque.
As if sensing John's gaze, the old man stirred. His eyes popped open, his body suddenly tense.
He felt it.
Something… bad.
It was like a sixth sense—a dark omen passing over his soul.
John stared at him for a moment, deep in thought, weighing his options.
In the end, he let out a breath and turned away.
"No," he decided. "He's too old. If he had to go through pregnancy and childbirth, even if he's a hidden master, his body might not survive it. It'd be a mental and physical critical hit."
John sighed.
Old Jaque had treated him fairly well over the years.
When John had been homeless and lost, it was Old Jaque who took him in. There was no need to repay that kindness with such cruelty.
Better to save the Tadpole for someone else.
There'd be plenty of opportunities later. No need to rush.
Just then, Old Jaque rose from his bed, that ominous feeling having somewhat subsided.
Unable to sleep, he stepped outside to take a walk and clear his mind.
But as soon as he opened the door, he locked eyes with John—still standing in the courtyard, sword in hand.
Thud.
His heart skipped a beat.
That cold, crawling sense of dread earlier—was it from John?
Was John about to ask him to "practice swordplay" again?
The memory of humiliation resurfaced like a slap to the face, and Old Jaque shuddered.
With lightning speed, he slammed the door shut and pretended he hadn't seen anything.
Meanwhile.
In a quiet corner beyond the city, four of the White Gloves—personal enforcers for the local lords, including Rocky—stood shivering.
But it wasn't the freezing wind or falling snow that made their hands and feet go numb.
It was the hunched old man in front of them.
His back was bent, his skin yellowed and wrinkled like ancient parchment. Death clung to him like a second skin, and it seemed like he already had one foot in the grave.
Yet none of the White Gloves dared make a sound.
The aura he exuded silenced them. Under his gaze, they couldn't even breathe loudly.
"The scroll," he rasped. "Where is it?"
Rocky swallowed hard. His mouth was dry as dust. "In the hands of a female assassin… and John. That Furniture Maker. They're still inside the city. We just… haven't been able to locate them yet."
The old man nodded slowly. "So what you're telling me is—this simple task… you've completely failed it?"
The five men flinched.
Before they could even explain, a layer of frost began to form on their skin.
It hardened rapidly, turning flesh and blood into unmoving ice.
From a distance, they looked like statues—eerie ice sculptures frozen in agony.
"No need to search any longer," the old man whispered. "This place will soon become a living hell."
Then he vanished—without a sound, without a trace.
And as he disappeared, a savage gust of snow swept through the valley.
The frozen statues shattered—splintering into jagged shards of ice.
Wisps of translucent souls drifted from the debris, following the old man like haunted moths to a dying flame.
Time passed.
Heavy snowflakes drifted down like feathers from heaven.
In the courtyard, John stood under the falling snow, still practicing his swordplay.
Old Jaque spotted him and was surprised.
"John, you're already a Swordman, and your sword art is pretty impressive. Why are you still practicing like this?"
John kept swinging. "There's no end to learning. You've got to keep working."
Old Jaque nodded, stroking his beard. "Wise words. Swordsmanship is like rowing against the current—if you don't advance, you fall behind. Still… your method seems a bit odd. You're just… swinging up and down?"
"That's all I need," John replied with a nod.
His sword art had already evolved into the concept-level skill—Absolute Diarrheasword Art.
With this, every swing—no matter how simple—increased his proficiency.
Old Jaque stared at him, eyes glazed in disbelief.
That's impossible!
If mastering swordsmanship was really that easy, then why had he failed so miserably all those years ago?