My Maids are All Final Villainesses

Meanwhile, as Clay stood there with Borv’s limp body still in his grasp, he gave the unconscious man a few light slaps across the face— not enough to injure him further, but enough to test whether there was any response— yet Borv remained completely still, his head lolling to the side with each slap as if he had already left this world for a brief moment and had no intention of returning anytime soon.

"Wake up."

Clay clicked his tongue, slightly annoyed.

"Hey. You still owe me something."

There was no response.

Clay paused for a moment, then his eyes flickered as if remembering something.

"System, can you wake him up?"

The answer came immediately.

Yes, but the host does not have sufficient pampering points.

Clay froze.

"What?"

His brows slowly knitted together.

"Pampering... points?"

The system replied in its usual calm tone.

Pampering points are points obtained through missions, interactions, and other conditions related to the host receiving care, attention, or emotional reinforcement from designated individuals.

Clay blinked.

Then blinked again.

And then—

"Huh?"

For a moment, his brain refused to process it.

Then suddenly, something clicked inside his head.

Wait...

This system...

His eyes widened slightly.

The pampering system...

He remembered it now.

The absurd system that made him stronger not through battles, not through cultivation, but through being spoiled.

He slowly raised his head.

"System."

His voice turned serious.

"Why aren’t you giving me missions?"

The system answered without hesitation.

Missions are generated based on opportunities for the host to receive pampering. The current conditions are insufficient.

Clay was clueless.

"What do you mean?"

The target who was supposed to give you pampering doesn’t seem to think you need pampering.

Clay was speechless.

"You mean... "

Clay slowly turned his head.

His gaze landed on Cerys.

She stood there quietly, watching him, her posture calm, her expression respectful.

"..."

Clay narrowed his eyes slightly.

"You mean she looked up to me and I seemed like I don’t need anyone so it’s insufficient?"

The system responded.

Yes...

The host must appear worthy of pampering. The current image projected by the host does not encourage such behavior.

Silence.

Then—

Clay’s face twisted slightly.

"Wait... wait... wait..."

He raised a hand as if trying to stop the world for a moment.

"System..."

"How am I supposed to look like I need pampering... if I’m overpowered?"

There was a pause.

Then the system replied.

That is the host’s problem.

Clay’s eyes twitched.

"You bastard."

He muttered under his breath.

"You gave me something broken... and now you expect me to act pitiful?"

He glanced at his surroundings.

The soldiers were still looking at him with admiration.

The Captain still had his head slightly lowered in respect.

Even Borzoi, who once stood arrogantly, now looked at him with caution.

Look at this...

Who the hell would pamper me like this?

His lips pressed into a thin line.

Should I act weak...?

The thought appeared.

Then he immediately rejected it.

No... that would look stupid...

They just saw me knock that guy out like nothing...

The system spoke again.

Correct.

Clay sighed.

"This is ridiculous."

Then suddenly, his eyes lit up.

Wait...

He slowly raised his head.

A strange idea formed in his mind.

"System."

Yes, host.

"What if... instead of acting weak..."

He paused.

"What if I act like I became too strong... and now I feel empty because of it?"

There was silence.

For the first time, the system did not immediately respond.

"..."

Then finally—

"That is... a valid approach."

Clay’s lips slowly curved upward.

"I knew it."

He dropped Borv’s body carelessly to the ground, the unconscious warrior landing with a dull thud.

Then he stepped forward.

His gaze lifted toward the sky.

His expression changed.

Gone was the casual calmness.

In its place was something else.

Something dramatic.

Something exaggerated.

"Is there no one else?"

His voice echoed loudly across the battlefield.

The soldiers flinched.

The archers on the wall turned their heads toward him.

"Is there no one else that can challenge me?!"

He spread his arms slightly, his voice filled with emotion.

"I feel empty!"

His shout carried across the land.

"I have reached the peak!"

"And yet... there is no one left to fight!"

He clenched his fist, raising it toward the sky.

"You!"

His gaze locked onto the dimensional crack above.

"You from the other side!"

"Give me a fight!"

"Give me your strongest soldier!"

His voice roared with a strange mix of arrogance and longing.

"Give me something that can satisfy me!"

For a moment...

There was silence.

Then—

A laugh echoed from the portal.

A deep, amused laugh.

"You too?!"

The voice was filled with interest.

The crack widened.

And then—

A figure stepped out.

The air around him trembled slightly as he descended, his presence far heavier than Borzoi or Borv, his aura pressing down like a mountain that had decided to walk among men.

He landed on the ground with a heavy thud.

Dust rose.

And when it settled...

He stood there.

Tall.

Broad.

Clad in tribal garments reinforced with pieces of armor that bore ancient totems glowing faintly with mana, each symbol pulsing with power that seemed alive, as if whispering of battles long past and victories carved into history with blood and bone.

His eyes scanned the surroundings slowly.

Then—

They locked onto Clay.

"I am Bufolk."

His voice was deep, steady, carrying authority.

"A warrior of the Bersuka Tribe."

His gaze sharpened.

"Born from the bloodline of those who shattered chains."

"Raised among warriors who do not kneel."

"Forged in battles where only the strongest survive."

Each word carried weight.

"I have crushed kings."

"I have broken armies."

"I have walked through lands that called themselves powerful... and left them in ruins."

He took a step forward.

The ground seemed to tremble slightly beneath him.

"I am not like those two."

He glanced briefly at Borzoi and Borv.

"They are strong compared to insects... but they are not close to someone like me at the top."

His eyes returned to Clay.

"I am among the strongest of my generation."

"And I do not lose."

There was no arrogance in his tone.

Only certainty.

Then—

He smiled.

Not mockingly.

But with genuine interest.

"You..."

"I can sense it."

His eyes gleamed.

"Your body..."

"Your muscles..."

"They are not tense... yet they carry terrifying strength."

"You are not even using mana..."

"And yet..."

His voice lowered slightly.

"I feel danger."

A pause.

Then he let out a small chuckle.

"It seems we were meant to meet."

He tilted his head slightly.

"What is your name?"

Clay lowered his arms slowly.

A grin spread across his face.

"My name?"

He stepped forward.

His voice carried a strange confidence.

"I am Clay Valmont."

"From the Holy Kingdom."

"Born to stand above others."

"Raised to be the strongest."

He placed a hand on his chest.

"And now..."

"I am bored to think I am the strongest."

His gaze locked onto Bufolk.

"I seek someone..."

"Someone who can give meaning to my existence."

His grin widened.

"Someone who can make my blood boil again."

Bufolk’s smile deepened.

"I like that."

He cracked his neck slightly.

"I hope your words match your strength."

Clay tilted his head.

"You want to find out?"

Bufolk nodded once.

"Of course."

And then—

His eyes widened.

Because in that instant—

Clay was already in front of him.

There was no sound.

No warning.

No movement he could follow.

Just—

Presence.

Right there.

Bufolk’s instincts screamed.

But before he could react—

A fist moved.

It was not fast.

It was not flashy.

It was simple.

Direct.

And unstoppable.

Boom.

The impact landed.

Bufolk’s body flew.

Sent across the battlefield like a projectile, crashing through the ground and kicking up a massive wave of dust as his figure disappeared into the distance.

Silence followed.

Clay stood there.

Lowering his hand slowly.

"Is that all?"