I Became the Villain Alpha's Omega (BL)

Chapter 253: A Lifesaving Squeeze

Cherion didn’t waste a single second. Shoving past a hysterical noble who was currently trying to force a heavy goblet of wine down the suffocating boy’s throat, he stepped directly behind Derrick’s chair.

Before Marchioness Avery could even process what was happening or scream at him to stop, Cherion hauled Derrick upright by his armpits. He wrapped his arms tightly around the young lord’s upper abdomen from behind, balled his right hand into a fist, and placed it thumb-side-in just slightly above Derrick’s navel.

As he locked his grip, Cherion’s mind flashed back to a violently chaotic Friday night shift during his Taco Hell days. A customer had aggressively inhaled a carne asada taco at the restaurant. Cherion had been forced to drop his mop and perform the Heimlich maneuver right next to the self-serve salsa bar while his manager yelled about table turnover times.

Leaning into his stance, Cherion delivered a sharp, sudden upward abdominal thrust, pulling his fists forcefully inward and up to pop the stuck food right out of the boy’s throat.

Derrick gasped, his whole body jerking violently against Cherion’s chest, but nothing came up. Cherion didn’t pause or panic, instantly resetting his grip and delivering a second, much more powerful squeeze with everything he had.

THAK

With a pathetic, wet sound, the dense, heavily frosted chunk of pastry flew out of Derrick’s mouth, sailing clean across the table and landing squarely on a pristine silver platter. Derrick collapsed forward against the edge of the table, drawing in a loud, ragged, incredibly desperate breath of fresh air as his ribs expanded. He coughed weakly, his hands trembling as they moved away from his neck.

The entire garden went dead silent. The surrounding nobles stared at Cherion with wide eyes and dropped jaws, completely bewildered by the bizarre, aggressive-looking physical maneuver they had just witnessed.

Cherion calmly stepped back, adjusting the cuffs of his tailored suit jacket and smoothing down his lapels without a single hint of panic. He glanced down at the dislodged pastry resting on the silver platter, then shook his head, looking thoroughly disappointed.

"No wonder he choked," Cherion commented, his voice deadpan and entirely clear in the quiet pavilion. "These pastries from that highly anticipated new shop are dry as fuck. Did the bakers forget that moisture is a required ingredient, or is choking out the aristocracy the capital’s new culinary trend?"

Derrick, still coughing lightly as the normal color slowly returned to his pale cheeks, looked up at Cherion with watery, terrified eyes, completely dazed.

Cherion sighed, giving the young lord a look of practical, older-brotherly advice. "Next time you eat something new to you, Lord Derrick, let’s start with a little bite. Bite slowly, and chew thoroughly. Your throat isn’t a garbage chute."

"Derrick! Oh, my darling boy!" Marchioness Avery sobbed, finally snapping out of her absolute paralysis. She threw her arms around her breathing son, checking his frantic pulse and wiping his face before looking up at Cherion. Her face was incredibly pale, her refined, untouchable aristocratic mask completely shattered by genuine terror.

She stood up, her expensive silk skirts rustling loudly, and gave Cherion a deep, remarkably low bow, a gesture almost unheard of from a veteran Marchioness like her.

"Lord Cherion... I cannot begin to express my words," she whispered, her voice shaking with raw, unscripted emotion. "You saved my son’s life when everyone else in this room did nothing but yell. I swear to you, here and now, that the Avery family owes you a massive, unpayable debt of gratitude. Anything you ever need while you are in the capital, you need only ask, and it will be yours."

Almost instantly, the heavy, suffocating atmosphere flipped entirely. Seeing the highly influential Marchioness practically throw herself at Cherion’s feet, the other nobles eagerly jumped on the bandwagon, their previous coldness and snobbery completely evaporating into loud, fawning praise.

"A miraculous technique! Truly, the quick wit of the North is unmatched!" one lord proclaimed, clapping his hands together.

"To remain so entirely calm under pressure... Lord Cherion is truly exceptional!" a young lady murmured behind her lace fan, her eyes wide with newfound fascination.

"The capital is deeply blessed by your presence today, my lord!" another chimed in, stepping closer to try and catch his eye.

Cherion blinked, subtly caught off guard by the sudden, overwhelming warmth of their praise. Just ten minutes ago, these exact same people were quietly snickering at Heinrich’s petty provocations and looking down on his background. Now, they were treating him like an esteemed savior of the high court.

But as the crowd of fawning nobles began to close in around him, offering their forced congratulations and trying to secure his favor, Cherion’s eyes shifted through the tiny gaps in the surrounding crowd.

Standing entirely alone near the edge of the pavilion, completely abandoned by the shifting social tide, was Philia.

Philia wasn’t smiling. He stood incredibly rigid, his hands clenched tightly inside his wide, ornate sleeves, watching Cherion with a dark, calculating glare that dripped with absolute venom.

With the tension broken and Derrick fully conscious, the realization of what had just transpired finally settled over the imperial pavilion. The elegant atmosphere of the afternoon was completely shattered. The high-society facade had cracked, replaced by a tense, deeply awkward energy. After all, the host’s only son had just narrowly escaped death, and a half-chewed, sticky piece of pastry was still resting very visibly on a silver platter in the center of the elite gathering.

It was the ultimate social mood-killer.

The surrounding nobles looked at each other, their smiles suddenly feeling incredibly forced. Half of them were terrified that Marchioness Avery would remember how they had stood around doing absolutely nothing while her heir suffocated. The other half were desperately eyeing the exits, realizing that staying any longer would mean enduring a deeply uncomfortable, somber afternoon.

"Well," a countess cleared her throat. "It seems... heavens, what a dramatic turn of events. Perhaps it is best if we give the Marchioness and Lord Derrick some space to recover from this dreadful shock."

That single comment opened the floodgates. Almost instantly, the remaining guests began murmuring in agreement, eager to flee the scene before any political fingers could be pointed. The tea party was, for all intents and purposes, entirely dead.

"Yes, indeed. Lord Derrick needs rest."

"We should leave."

"A tragedy averted, thank goodness! But we must take our leave."

A flurry of polite, hurried excuses filled the air as the capital’s elite began to rapidly scatter like mice, bowing to the Marchioness and practically power-walking toward their carriages. Within minutes, the once-crowded, exclusive garden party had thinned out to almost nothing.

Cherion casually turned away from the fleeing crowd, catching Marielle’s eye. She was looking at him with a mix of absolute awe and fierce pride, her chest puffed out as if she had personally delivered the life-saving squeeze. Behind her, Reiner and Ezek had finally relaxed their tight stances, though their sharp eyes still tracked the few remaining nobles who were lingering near the exit.

"Marchioness Avery," Cherion said, his calm voice effortlessly cutting through the remaining chatter as he stepped back toward his own table. "Lord Derrick has had a severe shock to his system. I highly suggest you have a proper royal physician check his throat for any swelling, and perhaps get him some actual water, not wine. If you will excuse us, I think it’s time my family and I take our leave as well."

"Oh, Lord Cherion, please," the Marchioness said quickly, her voice still thick with emotion as she held tight to her son’s hand. She looked down at Derrick, who was nodding weakly in agreement. "I want to escort you to your carriage myself. It is the absolute least I can do."

"There is absolutely no need to trouble yourself under these circumstances," Cherion replied with a smooth, polite bow, using his best customer-service manners. "Please, tend to your son. His health is the priority today."

The Marchioness pressed a hand to her heart, deeply moved by his apparent selflessness. "You are too kind, truly. A true gentleman of the North. I will not forget this, Lord Cherion."

With a final nod, Cherion signaled to Marielle and his guards. As they turned to leave, Cherion caught one last glimpse of Philia, who shot him a resentful glare.