I CHOSE to be a VILLAIN, not a THIRD-RATE EXTRA!!
Chapter 182 - 182: Hellish Art

Ashok lay sprawled on the cold stone floor, staring at the ceiling, his mind fixated on what he had just done—even though, technically, it had been a mistake more like something he had done while performing a front flip.

'This sort of thing is possible?' Ashok thought, the realization settling about his Soul Trait in like a slow-burning fire. His breath was steady, but his pulse carried the weight of discovery.

He exhaled, then slowly pushed himself up to his feet. His movements were deliberate, his body still adjusting to the strange sensation of his newfound understanding.

Bending his knees slightly, he prepared to focus on his Soul Trait, his thoughts aligning in his mind—

SLAM!

The gate burst open, crashing against the wall with the force of an angry deity.

The Receptionist stormed inside, her expression a mix of exhaustion and barely contained rage.

"WHY IS IT ALWAYS YOU?!" she shouted, her voice echoing through the chamber like a war cry. "Can't you hear the bell? OR are you doing this on purpose?!"

Ashok, still mid-motion, looked up at her—his posture resembling someone casually doing squats, as if he had been caught in the middle of an impromptu workout session.

For a moment, they just stared at each other.

Then, without missing a beat, Ashok responded, completely unfazed by her outburst.

"I would like to book this room for an extra hour."

Silence.

The Receptionist blinked.

"Not possible." The Receptionist's tone was firm, her patience clearly running on fumes.

"Another student is already in queue, and if you want extra hours, you must inform us before your time ends. Yesterday was an exception since not many students applied for the Non-Elemental Spell Training Room, but this room has high demand. Now, don't waste any more time and leave."

Ashok sighed, slipping his hands into his pockets.

"How inflexible," he muttered under his breath, turning toward the exit.

Behind him, the Receptionist glared, her fingers twitching as if resisting the urge to throw something at him.

Her lips moved in a barely audible mumble—"Control yourself. He's just a kid. Control yourself."

Ashok, entirely unbothered, strolled out of the room.

As he stepped past the entrance, his gaze landed on Mira, standing right beside the doorway.

She was the one who had booked the room next.

The moment Mira saw Ashok, her feline-like eyes sharpened, pupils dilating in a way that was far too predatory for comfort.

Ashok barely spared her a glance.

He kept walking, hands still tucked in his pockets, his expression unreadable.

"I have to say," Ashok mused internally, "having eyes like those of a beast on human skin is kind of scary in some way."

Unlike the other students in the Aether Class, Ashok found the two Beastmen races to be rather unique.

For one, they were the only ones who didn't radiate any hostility toward him—an anomaly, considering the Elf had made his disdain painfully obvious.

The sharp glares, the dismissive remarks, the subtle yet deliberate attempts to undermine him—it was all there, clear as day.

Yet, the Beastmen? Nothing. No aggression, no scheming, just a quiet indifference that set them apart.

Second, unlike the rest of the class, Ashok knew that these two were the least likely to plot anything behind his back.

They lacked the patience for manipulation, the cunning required for deception, and frankly, the interest in playing mind games.

Their nature was straightforward, their actions direct.

And lastly, their lives—even within the prestigious Aether Class—were already difficult enough.

The silent prejudices from the other students, the constant struggle to prove themselves—it was all there, pressing down on them.

They had no time, nor any real reason, to concern themselves with Adlet.

Likewise, Ashok didn't particularly care what happened to the Beastmen either.

With that thought settled, he moved on with his day.

Ashok sat at his usual place outside the cafeteria, eating his costliest meal in silence, accompanied by a bottle of alcohol.

After finishing his lunch, he returned to his dorm, the quiet solitude of his room offering a brief respite.

He lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling, allowing his mind to unwind as he recovered from the mental fatigue of his training.

By 6:00 P.M., he made his way to the roof, the evening sky painted in hues of deep orange and violet.

It was time for the Evening Set of his External Art training.

This was the first time Ashok would be performing the Complete Set of the Helion Flow Technique.

Standing atop the roof, he watched the setting sun dip below the horizon, its golden light casting long shadows across the academy grounds.

The sky was painted in hues of deep orange and violet, the air carrying a crisp evening breeze that whispered against his skin.

Ashok took a few slow breaths, allowing his mind to settle. He was completely calm, his thoughts steady as he convinced himself that the Last of the 12 Movements wouldn't be too difficult.

But the moment he performed the First Posture, he realized—he was dead wrong.

The Early Morning Routine had been the easiest. The movements flowed smoothly, leaving his body feeling light and relaxed, almost refreshed.

The Mid-Day Routine, however, had been pure torture.

Under the merciless heat of the burning sun, each posture felt like his body was being pulled apart from all sides—his muscles stretched to their absolute limits, his joints screaming in protest.

The soreness that followed was unforgiving, a dull ache that lingered long after the session had ended.

But now, Ashok realized that the Early Morning and Mid-Day Routines were nothing compared to the Evening Routine.

The postures of the Evening Set were deceptively placed between the two extremes—slightly harder than the Early Morning Set, yet slightly easier than the Mid-Day Routine.

However, the areas they targeted were something Ashok had never felt before in his life.

Every movement in the Evening Set was designed to activate hidden inner muscles—the kind that remained untouched even under the most intense free workout sessions.

These were muscles that the body rarely acknowledged, muscles buried beneath layers of more commonly used ones, muscles that had never been trained, never been tested.

The moment Ashok performed the first posture, his entire right arm went numb in an instant.

His fingers twitched uselessly, his forearm felt hollow, and his shoulder refused to respond.

Ashok knew he hadn't made a mistake—he had followed the holographic figure in his mind perfectly, mirroring its movements with precision.

Yet, he couldn't even make it halfway through the posture.

His arm felt as if it had lost all sensation, as if it had simply ceased to exist.

Even twisting his arm wouldn't have caused this much pain.

Ashok gritted his teeth, feeling his right hand sink into a state of numbness so deep it was almost detached from his body.

Ending the first movement right there, he forced himself to move on to the second posture—only for his entire left foot to go numb next.

'There is no way in hell, a Paladin of the Sun created this art,' Ashok thought, his mind racing as tears—unbidden, unconscious—formed in his eyes from the sheer numbing agony.

'I am sure this is the creation of some masochist who enjoys torturing his body without the use of tools.'

The realization hit him like a cruel joke.

"No wonder External Arts were declared obsolete over time. Who in their right mind would willingly perform weird postures only to lose sensation in their hands and legs?"

He imagined the original creator of this technique—some old warrior, sitting in a cave, grinning like a lunatic as he twisted his body into impossible shapes.

"Yes… yes… this will make them suffer beautifully!"

Ashok wanted to punch that hypothetical lunatic.

But what choice did he have?

For the sake of his future, he had to endure this pain.

For someone without a single growth trait, hardships were the only path forward.

Ashok forced his body to move, even though every fiber of his being screamed against it.

Unlike the Early Morning Training and the Mid-Day Routine, where he could at least push through the pain, the Evening Set was on a different level of cruelty.

He couldn't even last a full hour.

After 30 minutes, his entire body was numb, his limbs useless, and even the slightest movement felt like someone had unleashed electric currents inside him.

'This isn't training—this is outright violation of human body,' Ashok thought, standing perfectly still, his body locked in place like a malfunctioning mannequin.

For ten minutes, he remained motionless, not even daring to flinch, waiting for the numbing sensation to fade.

Finally, as the feeling slowly returned to his limbs, he dragged himself down to his room, his movements sluggish, his legs barely cooperating.

Midway, he grabbed a protein shake, chugging it down like a man clinging to life itself.

For once, Ashok felt a rare flicker of gratitude toward the academy.

His room was perfectly positioned—right on the fourth floor, just one level below the roof, which served as his ideal training ground. No exhausting climbs, no unnecessary detours—just a single flight of stairs separating him from his routine.

"At least they got one thing right," he thought, dragging his sore body through the doorway.

The moment he entered his room, he collapsed onto the bed, his limbs giving up on him entirely.

Sleep took him instantly.

For an hour, he remained dead to the world, his body recovering from the brutal session—until—

KNOCK!

KNOCK!

The heavy pounding against his door jerked him awake.

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