"Against the Heavens: The Villain's Return"

It was finally Alex's turn to participate in the ongoing battle event.

The crowd shifted restlessly, eyes turning toward the stage. As the name "Alex" echoed through the loudspeakers, a figure dashed forward, leaping high into the air.

With dramatic flair, Alex landed on the platform with a flashy spin, his boots skidding slightly before stopping.

He struck a confident pose — chest out, shoulders angled, and one arm reaching toward the sky as if claiming victory before the fight even began.

A beaming smile spread across his face.

He was expecting cheers.

He was expecting the girls to swoon.

He believed — no, he knew — this entrance would daze them all.

It had worked in the past.

Every other time, his dramatic entrances had been met with wild applause, heart eyes, and dreamy sighs from the girls in the audience. But now?

To his absolute surprise — no reaction.

Not a single cheer.

Not a single scream.

Not even a whisper.

The audience was still.

No one looked excited. No one looked impressed.

Confused, Alex glanced around subtly, his smile twitching. Why were the girls not reacting? Why weren't they blushing and calling out his name? Wasn't this his trademark move?

Then he realized the brutal truth.

Recent accusations had shattered his image. Rumors had spread like wildfire, and worse, Leo — the ever-dominant Leo — had publicly stood in opposition to Alex, indirectly making him a rival.

No one had the guts to approach or support someone who stood against Leo, the golden icon of their generation.

And so, the crowd avoided him. Their admiration had turned cold.

Except for one.

Sophia.

Sitting firmly, her hands clenched and eyes shining with silent support, Sophia still believed in him.

She was the only one who didn't waver. She didn't care about rumors. Her loyalty remained unshaken.

Meanwhile, Selena and Roxanne sat nearby. Their expressions were both irritated and childish.

They puffed their cheeks in frustration — not because of Alex's actions, but due to their own personal quarrel.

Neither of them even glanced at Alex. Their rivalry kept their attention locked elsewhere.

Their stubborn pride refused to let them show any support, especially not when it might appear like siding with the other.

Rio, on the other hand…

Looked like a beaten pig.

Literally.

His face was swollen, bruised, and nearly unrecognizable.

One eye was half-closed, his lips puffed like overcooked dumplings. Sitting on the edge of the seating area, he looked like he had been hit by a steamroller.

And he had.

Well, figuratively.

Rio had made the grave mistake of trying to mediate between Selena and Roxanne during their fiery quarrel earlier.

He regretted it.

He regretted everything.

"Why did I even get involved in those crazy girls' fight?" he murmured with deep remorse. "I should've run. I should've played dead."

And despite the pain coursing through his body, one thought floated in his mind.

He looked at Leo.

Leo, who always managed to handle these same crazy girls.

"How does he do it? How does Leo make them all submit to him?"

Admiration filled Rio's heart — or what was left of it after being beaten into a lump of regret.

Back on the stage, Alex finally turned his gaze to his opponent.

The young man before him was calm.

Not excited.

Not smug.

Just serious.

He stood tall with a spear in hand — long, sharp, polished, and deadly. His grip was steady. His posture was perfect. His face showed no emotion.

A true warrior.

The match began.

Their weapons clashed immediately. Metal rang against metal.

Alex danced around his opponent, trying to inject style and grace into each movement. He swung with elegance, posed after each block, and tried to maintain his signature flair.

But then, disaster struck.

A sudden pang in his stomach.

Sharp.

Deep.

Twisting.

Alex's entire demeanor changed in an instant.

His confident smirk turned into a tight-lipped grimace.

His glowing eyes dimmed.

His stomach rumbled.

An unpleasant, swirling pressure built deep inside.

He knew what it was.

Stomachache.

A terrible one.

And with it — came the dreadful urge.

A fart.

A powerful, gassy, and threatening fart.

He felt it trying to escape.

His cheeks tightened. His body tensed. His internal alarm bells screamed.

Not now!

He clenched his stomach with one hand, sweat forming on his forehead. With the other, he still held his sword.

His opponent didn't notice.

The battle continued.

Alex could barely focus. Each movement sent waves of danger up his body.

He couldn't dodge too fast. He couldn't jump too hard. One wrong twitch — and the gates would open.

His face twisted through multiple expressions — pain, panic, nausea, desperation.

He circled the stage, dodging sluggishly. He defended. He avoided. He tried his best to keep distance.

Minutes passed.

The crowd grew restless.

"This is boring!" someone yelled.

"Finish the match already!"

"Booooo!"

Discontent spread through the audience.

Selena clicked her tongue, clearly irritated. "I really made the right decision ignoring this idiot."

Roxanne didn't even argue. She simply frowned.

Rio, despite his swollen face, couldn't hide his shock.

"Is Alex… really this weak?" he wondered.

Sophia's brows furrowed. "Why is he dragging this match for so long? His performance score will drop. Why isn't he ending it?"

Back on the stage, the spear-wielding opponent stepped forward.

He didn't mock.

He didn't smirk.

He simply said in a composed tone, "Accept defeat. I will end it gently."

Those words hit Alex like a slap.

"Defeat? Gently?"

His lips twitched.

His blood boiled.

"If I was in my right condition," he thought, "this bastard wouldn't last a minute!"

But he couldn't respond. He couldn't talk.

Because talking might make him lose control.

If he even let out one ounce of breath the wrong way… he might let it out.

That deadly fart.

The audience's curses, the boos, the mockery — it all mounted.

Alex clenched his sword harder.

He couldn't take it anymore.

"I need to end this match and rush to the washroom…!"

With fire in his eyes and turmoil in his gut, he launched forward.

A sudden flurry of attacks — fast, sharp, aggressive.

The audience blinked.

Was this the same Alex?

He dominated the match. His swordplay came alive. He cornered his opponent.

He had the upper hand now.

"This is it…!" Alex thought.

"I will win… with style!"

He imagined ending the match with a final handsome pose.

But then —

The opponent threw his spear.

Alex twisted his body and dodged.

Just barely.

But in that twist — something shifted.

His stomach cried.

He staggered. His knees shook.

"Not now!" he begged.

His opponent closed the distance.

And drove his fist — straight into Alex's stomach.

Everything collapsed.

Alex froze.

He felt the flood.

He was losing control.

He clenched every muscle he had.

The opponent didn't stop. He advanced, spear retrieved, launching a rapid strike toward Alex.

Alex barely managed to lift his sword.

He was sweating. Trembling.

Every fiber in his being focused on suppression.

Then came the final blow.

A hard, brutal kick.

Right into his stomach.

And that was it.

His worst fears — realized.

Pppppppprrrrrrrrrrttttttttttttt!!!

A loud, sharp, ear-splitting fart exploded from his backside.

The sound echoed through the arena like a war trumpet. It wasn't subtle. It wasn't quiet. It was monstrous. Thunderous. Grotesquely powerful.

Alex froze.

His eyes widened.

His face twisted in absolute horror.

He had tried everything—dodging, blocking, holding, clenching. He had fought his opponent, the pain, and his body. But that kick… that one final, ruthless kick had shattered his last defenses.

The fart — the monstrous, hellish gas he had fought so hard to suppress — was released.

And with it… came the stench.

A deadly, vile, overwhelmingly disgusting odor erupted across the stage like a toxic fog. It spread rapidly, engulfing the air, slipping into noses, suffocating senses.

It was the kind of smell that could not be described — only survived.

Alex staggered, falling to his knees, gripping his gut. His entire face turned crimson, not from pain… but from sheer shame. Humiliation drowned him like a tidal wave.

His opponent — the once calm, stoic, spear-wielding warrior — froze mid-strike.

His eyes trembled.

His spear wobbled in his hand.

His mouth opened in shock as the cloud of Alex's fatal gas reached him.

Then it hit.

The smell.

It attacked his brain like a hammer. His expression collapsed instantly.

"Ughh… what… is this… stench…" he muttered with great difficulty.

He stumbled.

He coughed.

He swayed.

Then…

Thud!

He collapsed face-first onto the ground.

Unconscious.

Knocked out.

By a fart.

The crowd was silent.

Not a breath.

Not a sound.

For a moment, time itself paused.

And then—

"BWAHAHAHAHAHA!!"

"NO WAY!!"

"HE KNOCKED HIM OUT… WITH A FART!!"

The entire arena exploded into a frenzy of uncontrollable laughter.

People clutched their bellies, falling from their seats. Some rolled on the ground. Others cried tears of laughter. The air was filled with disbelief, hilarity, and chaos.

"THE FART KING WINS!!"

"CALL HIM TOXIC KING!!"

"FART STYLE: DEADLY GAS EXPLOSION!!"

"PUT THAT THING ON THE BANNED JUTSU LIST!!"

Selena blinked.

Then she frowned harder than ever before.

She turned her head away and muttered, "This is why I ignore idiots like him."

Roxanne didn't speak a word.

She simply buried her face in her hands, trying to hide her existence from the world.

"I have never met that man in my life," she said flatly.

Sophia, though embarrassed beyond belief, couldn't help but giggle slightly — mostly in disbelief.

She stood up, visibly panicked but also torn between wanting to hide and wanting to run over to Alex.

Rio, the beaten spectator with the pig-faced swelling, looked on in pure awe.

He couldn't believe what he just witnessed.

"This guy… actually won?" he muttered. "Is this… the legendary secret weapon… Fart Release…?"

His bruised eyes widened in admiration, though his lips twitched in reluctant horror.

The announcer struggled to even speak, holding a cloth over his face, his voice muffled and hesitant.

"L-Ladies and gentlemen… The… victor… by uhh… unintentional flatulence-based knockout... is… Alex!"

Another wave of laughter tore through the audience.

"Fart King! Fart King! Fart King!" they chanted.

Alex couldn't even look up.

He lay on the stage, hands covering his face, curled in utter misery. His eyes were wet. Whether from pain, shame, or both — even he didn't know.

Then came the rescue team.

Several masked support members stormed the stage, armed with incense sticks, gas-neutralizing scrolls, and cloths wrapped over their noses.

They stepped carefully around the unconscious opponent, hoisted him away, and then approached Alex like he was a nuclear warhead.

"Keep him stable!" one shouted.

"Don't breathe through your mouth!" yelled another.

They wrapped him gently, yet firmly, and carried his body off the battlefield — not in victory, but in defeat… of his dignity.

As Alex passed by the rows of laughing students and elders, chants continued:

"All hail the Fart King!"

"The silent killer!!"

"Alex, teach us your secret technique!!"

Tears streamed down his face.

He didn't wave.

He didn't lift his head.

He didn't speak.

All he could think was—

"Why didn't I just go to the damn bathroom before the match…"

End of Chapter.

---

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