Chapter 8: Be my dog!

Nanbo City, roadside alley.

A scarred man leaned against a telephone pole, his sleeve rolled up to reveal a dragon tattoo snarling across his shoulder. The scar slicing from his brow to his jaw twitched as he took a drag from his cigarette.

The butt burned down to the filter, making him flinch. He opened his mouth to curse, but a soft sound from the alley’s entrance cut him off.

Tap.

The tip of a golden high-heeled shoe grazed the bluestone slab, its needle-thin heel glinting. Another step revealed a shapely foot, a dazzlingly pale calf catching the sunlight, the fine hairs visible, lending the grimy alley an unexpected charm.

The cigarette slipped from the man’s fingers, hitting the ground with a pop. He didn’t notice it singeing his leather shoes.

His gaze climbed: a cinched dress, a fur vest, white lace gloves, and then her face—long black hair cascading to her waist, stray strands framing her temples, a high nose bridge, pale pink lips, eyes calm as a still pond yet radiating innate nobility. She was like a socialite stepping out of an old oil painting, so refined it made his chest tighten.

“F*ck…” he muttered, not out of disrespect but because words failed him.

His mind lurched from awe to a desperate urge to approach her. His heart pounded, a sickly softness mingling with inexplicable timidity.

The woman turned slightly, her gaze sweeping over him like he was a pebble. She raised a lace-gloved hand, her index finger curling lightly. “Come here.”

Her voice was honey-sweet but carried an undeniable command.

The man lurched forward, stopping three steps away, head bowing instinctively.

“Kneel.”

Thud. His massive frame hit the ground, knees aching, yet a strange calm settled in his chest. Her scent enveloped him—orchids laced with post-rain honey, dizzyingly clear.

“Be my dog.”

The words floated lightly but landed like an imperial edict. He shuddered, a whimper escaping his throat, forehead pressed to the dirt like a tamed hound.

A golden heel lifted, its point resting lightly on his head.

Not heavy, but it felt like a mountain pinning him.

He sensed the heel’s curve, smelled the leather, and a bizarre satisfaction mixed with the humiliation, as if he was born to kneel here.

The alley was silent, save for the wind’s faint whine through wall cracks and his ragged breathing.

This “socialite” was none other than Lu Qingqi, gender-swapped and dressed up.

She wasn’t into women’s fashion—just testing her research.

Desire weakens mental resistance, and men’s physical impulses toward beautiful women are primal, uncontrollable.

“Be my dog” was her test: her transformed beauty stirred the man’s base desires, cracking his rationality; [Mental Domination] then slipped in, binding his will through that fracture.

In short: swap genders to seduce, then control when their “little head” takes over.

Combining [Gender Swap] and [Mental Domination] was ten times easier than using the latter alone, with longer-lasting effects.

Even if Scarface ran off, the subconscious imprint of obedience would linger.

Her findings:

[Gender Swap] + [Mental Domination] = [Be My Dog]

“Go buy me an iced cola,” Lu Qingqi said, nudging the “large dog” away with a light kick.

She watched his hurried retreat, a faint smirk curving her lips.

She pulled a gilded mirror from her handbag, her breathtaking reflection staring back.

Her fingertips grazed the mirrored cheek, feeling its delicate softness.

Another discovery.

[Gender Swap]: Transform any gendered creature into the opposite gender.

Biologically, humans are male or female, but socially, they’re divided by class—like beauty.

Initially, she thought [Gender Swap] only flipped genders.

Wrong—it was a conceptual skill.

She could morph a man into any woman, or a woman into any man.

Want a Western beauty’s deep-set eyes? Lashes like tiny fans. A Jiangnan woman’s softness? Brows like an ink painting.

Her current “vintage socialite” look was crafted meticulously from old pictorials, down to the brow bone’s height and lip line’s curve, precise to the millimeter.

“Conceptual skills…” she murmured, fingers brushing her lips in the mirror.

The pale pink deepened to rose. “This face could make my own heart skip.”

“Tch, 99% of guys would fall for it.”

“What should I call this combo?” Lu Qingqi frowned.

As a chuunibyou novel fan, naming powers was serious business—explosive or layered with meaning.

Mixed abilities? Composite powers? Ultimate move?

Her eyes lit up. “Killing Move.”

For now, it was just two powers, a “Killing Move Prototype.”

Later, with more abilities, it’d earn the full title.

She looked up at the alley’s sky, sliced into strips by buildings, clouds drifting lazily.

Tomorrow’s birthday party flashed in her mind: crystal chandeliers casting rainbow light, Liu Wangjiang with a champagne glass, laughing with rich second-gens, his profile sharp under the glow, a “child of destiny.”

Then she’d appear—maybe bolder.

Fiery red lips, a high-slit cheongsam, 10cm red-soled heels, stealing every gaze.

She’d stride to Liu Wangjiang, ignoring his shock, and hook her finger.

Just like with Scarface.

She pictured him frozen, his polished pride shattering like dropped crystal as desire overwhelmed him.

Lu Qingqi laughed softly, the alley’s breeze carrying a teasing edge.

Crush his dignity, make him grovel like a dog before everyone.

What would his admirers think? Shock? Disdain? Or fake composure, looking away?

Just imagining it sent a numbing thrill through her.

‘Liu Wangjiang, be my dog!’