What does it mean that the Demon King was killed by a wheelchair?

"Sigh..." House slumped in his wheelchair. If one word could describe his current state, it would be "post-coital period."

He now understands that the so-called "wise time" doesn't necessarily have to be expressed through venting. When you're truly at your lowest point, sadness can suppress your excitement.

House is like that now... He feels like he might be a virgin for life, and that's no exaggeration...

Based on his own experience, with this level of strength, a single spinning slash (in real life) would probably send someone to their death. There's simply no possibility of finding an opponent with whom he can fight with all his might.

Does this mean that my only chance to gain experience from now on will be to roast dung on a frying pan—like frying shit?

Holy crap, no way! This is so bizarre! Even a yellow license plate on the riverbank would scare me to tears!

Okay, let's calm down first... House pinched his brow as he thought. Actually, he had been considering it for a while downstairs, whether to share a room with Chiaran or Omia. It seemed like a simple choice, but in fact, it involved a lot of factors.

If he chose Chiarand, House wanted to take this opportunity to ask her tonight about something she hadn't told him before:

For example, who exactly is she? What exactly is a hero? What terrible things did the heroes do to be so hated by the world?

These questions had been bothering him for a long time, but he hadn't had time to ask them during the series of life-or-death races. Now that he had the chance, House really wanted to know.

But if he chose Omia, things would be different. To be honest, House didn't have much to ask her, but... the suggestion from "Genshin Impact" kept lingering in his mind.

Although he didn't trust the guy's words, he couldn't help but think about it.

Show concern for Omia...what is there to care about? How did that guy even know all this? He seems to know everything that's happening around him...

But in reality... fate doesn't seem to want House to make a choice.

Before he could even make a decision, Chiarand made the decision, saying that she had always slept alone and didn't like living with others, so Omia and House could live there.

And that's how the current scene came about.

With a creak, a gust of hot, humid air squeezed out from the crack in the bathroom door, carrying the scent of soap and white roses, and softly brushed against the back of House's neck.

His whole body stiffened suddenly.

The heat seemed alive, swirling around his neck, slipping into his collar, climbing up his earlobes, leaving a faint dampness on his skin... House heard his heart pound against his ribs, making him feel dizzy.

He couldn't help but glance back. The bathroom door was ajar, and a bare, white foot peeked out first, stepping onto the dark down carpet. Omia's feet were small, but their shape was very beautiful.

Her arches curved naturally into a soft arc, her toes curled up in a small way, with water droplets still clinging to the tips. Just as her foot was about to land, her other foot followed, and they stood together. There was a faint mark around her ankle, probably from the edge of her leather boot.

Two wet footprints were left on the carpet, leaving two dark water stains...

"I'm done washing."

Omia's voice was soft, with a gentle sweetness that came from a bath, like a sticky rice ball soaked in honey, clinging to my ear.

There was another rustling sound—the sound of fabric rubbing together, but softer and slower than before, carrying a kind of cautious probing.

House didn't dare to move.

He could picture her wearing that nightgown hanging on the hanger, the off-white linen nightgown he'd just caught a glimpse of out of the corner of his eye and quickly looked away. The neckline probably wasn't too low, the fabric probably wasn't too thick, and it should feel soft against her skin…

No, don't think about it.

"You can turn around now."

The voice came closer, carrying a shy smile, yet also a forced naturalness.

House took a deep breath and slowly turned his wheelchair.

Omia stood by the bed, her wet purple hair cascading down, water still dripping from the ends and soaking the fabric of her clothes at the shoulders. She was clumsily drying her hair with a towel, and as she raised her hand, her off-white linen nightgown stretched slightly—

A deep shadow fell into House's eyes at the neckline... The shadow was dazzlingly white and incredibly soft, trembling gently as she dried her hair, like two clouds wrapped in a thin fabric.

The fabric was stretched into a soft curve, and the neckline was slightly open, revealing a small patch of delicate skin, still damp with moisture, and gleaming with a warm glow.

House knew he couldn't stand watching any longer and it might cause trouble, so he quickly and abruptly looked away.

But that moment was etched into my mind and I couldn't shake it off.

White, soft, trembling, and with a faint mist and fragrance...

"Um...are you alright?"

Omia put down the towel and tilted her head to look at him.

Having just taken a shower, she seemed to have shed her previous tense exterior. Her face was still flushed from the steam, her eyes were bright, her lips were moist, and the corners of her mouth curved into a slight smile.

"Oh dear... House, your face is so red..." she said softly, a hint of playfulness in her voice. "Is it too hot in the room?"

House opened his mouth and found his throat as dry as a riverbed that hadn't seen rain in three years.

"Yes... a little bit."

Omia smiled and continued drying her hair. Water droplets were shaken off, and a few splashed onto House's hand, cool yet hot.

The air was filled with a damp, warm scent, carrying her body's fragrance.

House felt like he was about to drown in the air... but just before he died, he suddenly realized something was wrong...

This is absolutely wrong! Omia's reaction is completely different from before! How come she's not shy at all!

She moved closer to the bed, wrapped her arms around her waist, and pulled her clothes up along the curve of her hips, assuming a very standard "Fat Ren sit".

"Hmm..." Omia narrowed her eyes, crossed her incredibly long, snow-white legs, and stared at House with her chin in her hand, saying, "You don't need to be so reserved, okay? Most things in the soul realm are not very understandable to humans, you know? But a bed is a bed, just relax and sleep."

House's mind flashed back to the four gay guys at the front desk downstairs, and he thought to himself, "Damn it, those four guys are probably incomprehensible to any living being..."

"House".

Omia suddenly called his name softly. House was startled at first. When he saw her waving at him, he instinctively wanted to push his wheelchair over, but as soon as his hand touched the wheelchair, his whole body suddenly stiffened as if he had been petrified!

and many more.

Wait...wait, wait, wait!

"What did you call me...?"

Omia raised an eyebrow in confusion. For some reason, she had been squinting at House from the beginning. She repeated herself, still puzzled:

"House? What's wrong? You don't like it?" She licked her lips seductively. "Oh... so what do you want me to call you?"

"Who are you?"

"well?"

- Swish!

House slashed sharply with his right hand, and the black steel chair wheel reversed rapidly in an instant. At that moment, House awakened an astonishingly keen perception:

"Omia has always called me 'Mr. House,' never just 'House'! And her tone, her expression, her actions—none of these are things that innocent little girl would do!"

"Damn it...who are you?!"