Daily Life of a Transmigrating Villain

She had seen him the day before. His timing within the flower shop was completely accurate, coinciding with the library's closing time, leaving no doubt he was waiting for her young miss.

She hadn't mentioned it then, but today, the air between them was charged, as if they both understood something was being left unsaid.

She wasn't one to pry, though.

At least, not openly.

"Strange," she continued, her voice as calm as his. "I would've thought a man so keen on beauty would've stayed a little longer yesterday. Perhaps you were waiting for something—or someone?"

Damien chuckled softly, running his thumb across the stem of a lily, his gaze never leaving her.

"I've learned that patience is a virtue. But I wasn't waiting for anyone in particular."

A lie, perhaps.

But a lie well-delivered.

His words hung in the air, deliberately ambiguous, and the old woman could feel the faint shift in his energy.

She couldn't place it entirely—his internal power was weak, barely noticeable beyond the level of body refinement.

For someone with as little cultivation as him, he carried himself with an unusual confidence.

She glanced at the flowers he was admiring, her thoughts whirling behind those sharp eyes of hers.

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"Most men who come in here are looking for something. A gift, perhaps. A reason to linger."

Damien tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable. "And here I thought you'd take me for a man who enjoys the simple pleasures."

The woman's smile didn't quite reach her eyes.

"Men like you don't often appreciate simplicity. You strike me as someone who enjoys… complexity."

They were fencing now, each word carefully chosen, each tone measured.

Damien continued to appear unbothered, as though this exchange was merely part of the routine, but the tension between them lingered, a silent dance of observation and suspicion.

He was no fool, and neither was she.

He turned his gaze back to the flowers, plucking the lily he had been eyeing.

"This one," he said, holding it up for her to see. "How much?"

The old woman didn't answer right away, her eyes narrowing slightly as if still trying to probe deeper into his intent.

She could sense nothing unusual from him, no hidden strength or suppressed energy that would hint at him being more than what he appeared to be—a man with weak cultivation.

If anything, his presence was underwhelming.

But there was something else.

His composure.

His confidence.

A man who was low on internal energy really shouldn't consider being with a young lady who's so strong that she would totally overshadow him.

But whatever, both women finally felt relieved, thinking that maybe her doubts were just hollow. And this young man didn't possess any considerable strength, prompting her to just calmly add, "12 NR."

And as she did, he paid and took the flower before turning to leave.

"Huh? Are you not going to wait?" all the women looking at his departing back inquired, feeling that if he was not going to stay here and was leaving the place, unlike what she had anticipated, he was here to meet her young miss.

"What? Why? I have a date with a woman tonight," Damien raised an eyebrow, feeling confused, though of course he just showed it on the surface while inwardly he knew very well what he needed to do in hope of dealing with someone holding so much strength.

"I see...." As Damien departed, the old woman's keen eyes followed him to the door.

She caught sight of the faintest, almost imperceptible grin playing on his lips just as he exited the shop—a subtle expression that, despite her sharp senses, went unnoticed by her outward focus.

For someone who barely registered beyond body refinement, he had a presence that lingered.

He hadn't stayed, hadn't waited for the young miss as she had assumed.

Five minutes ticked by, and she mulled over the brief interaction. He had come and gone. The old woman couldn't shake the feeling that something about him was not as it seemed.

While his cultivation level was low, his control of the situation was unsettlingly high, as though he was playing a game on a board she couldn't yet see.

Just then, the bell above the door chimed again.

The old woman straightened reflexively, pushing aside her suspicions for now as her young miss, Akira, entered the shop.

Wheeled in by her attendant, the girl appeared regal and composed as ever, her sharp eyes immediately scanning the room, taking in the details.

Akira's gaze paused, narrowing as she surveyed the flower shop.

Her expression cooled noticeably when she realized the young man from the previous day—Damien—wasn't present.

She expected him here, it seemed.

"He didn't come today," Akira remarked, her voice low but laden with expectation.

Her eyes flicked toward the old woman as if searching for confirmation. .net

The old woman, sensing the young miss's unspoken question, quickly replied, "No, young miss. He indeed came earlier—just left five minutes ago."

Akira's lips twisted slightly in response, not quite a frown but more of an acknowledgment.

She was piecing something together in her mind, and the old woman could sense it.

"Hmm, I see," Akira mused, her voice calm but with a glint of amusement in her eyes. "So, he's trying to make me curious."

Akira was not easily ruffled.

She saw through Damien's tactic immediately.

The old push-and-pull, leaving just enough absence to create intrigue.

It was a common strategy, one that many had tried on her before.

But in the end, they found themselves in some butcher house or cemetery getting slaughtered or burned alive.

This was more amusing than threatening.

She knew the game, and she had no intention of falling for such a shallow ploy.

"He thinks by not being here, I'll wonder where he is," Akira said softly, more to herself than to anyone else. "He thinks he can draw me in, make me conscious of his presence without actually being here. A classic push-and-pull."

The old woman raised an eyebrow but said nothing, merely listening.