Villains Aren't Stepping Stones!

The quiet stone path leading away from the grand landing platform was paved with smooth river pebbles, worn flat and cool by decades of gentle foot traffic.

High walls covered in climbing green ivy kept out the cold mountain drafts, leaving the air fresh, still, and fragrant with the scent of wet moss and blooming winter plums.

Haoran and Ye Hongyan walked side by side, their hands still loosely linked.

The hard, icy glare she had directed at the clan elders had melted away completely, replaced by a quiet, reflective calm that softened the sharp lines of her face.

As they moved deeper into the residential quarters of the estate, Ye Hongyan began pointing toward the courtyards and towers they passed, introducing places she remembered and how it had changed over the years.

”Over there,” she said softly, nodding toward a low, circular stone enclosure half-hidden behind a thick grove of weeping bamboo. ”That used to be the outer sword-testing ring. When I was eight years old, my father made me stand on that central pillar from sunrise until dusk with a heavy wooden blade balanced flat across my wrists. If my elbows dipped, the instructor would strike my calves with a split bamboo rod.”

She smiled faintly, a small trace of dry amusement touching her lips.

”Now look at it. They tore down the iron dummy posts, paved over the bloodstained dirt, and built an ornamental lotus pool with heated water so the elder’s children can feed fat carp on sunny afternoons.”

Haoran walked at her pace, his tall frame relaxed as he listened without interrupting, his eyes casually sweeping across the roofs and garden bridges.

Soon, they crossed a high, arched bridge made of grey granite that spanned a wide, bubbling stream.

”That pavilion by the water,” Ye Hongyan continued, her fingers tightening just a little around his hand as she gestured toward a two-story wooden building painted in peeling red lacquer. ”My mother used to sit on that second-floor balcony every fifth day of the month to mend my inner tunics. Back then, the stream was narrow, clear, and full of small mountain crabs that I would catch in my tea tin. Five decades ago, the clan elders diverted the mountain springs to build a private bathhouse for the branch elders, turning the creek muddy and slow. The water never ran clean again.”

She pointed to an old, gnarled plum tree whose thick roots had cracked through a stone walkway, its branches bearing white blossoms that dusted the pavers.

”I planted that with my mother when my cultivation base first broke through the Qi Gathering realm,” she murmured, a gentle warmth seeping into her voice. ”The clan wanted to chop it down a hundred years ago to widen the cart road for spirit-stone wagons. My mother stood in front of the trunk with a kitchen cleaver in her hand, swearing she would cut off the ears of any servant who touched the bark. Even my father didn’t dare cross her that day. The tree stayed, but they built the road around it, turning the corner awkward and narrow.”

She walked him past ancient library halls where the paper windows had been replaced by polished spirit-glass, past overgrown training yards where young cousins she barely recognized sparred with dull iron rapiers, and through narrow, shaded corridors where the clan’s long history felt heavy and stagnant.

With every step, she laid out the pieces of the home she had left behind—a place that had grown richer and wider on the outside, but colder and emptier on the inside.

Just then, as they walked, a clear, sweet voice suddenly resonated directly within Haoran’s mind.

’...Young Master.’

It was Qing’er. Her tone was light, crisp, and completely clear, slipping through their mental link without causing the slightest ripple in the air around them.

’I have sensed someone,’ Qing’er reported, her mental voice carrying a note of mild curiosity. ’The energy signature belongs to a peak Heavenly Saint realm expert. However, judging from her energy fluctuating, she is likely injured.’

Qing’er paused, awaiting his instructions.

In a city like this, a peak Heavenly Saint was a figure of terrifying weight, someone capable of tearing down the entire city with a flick of their wrist.

If such a person was lurking in a ditch near the clan’s back gates, it usually signaled an impending storm.

Haoran did not stop walking. His boots clicked against the smooth river pebbles in the exact same steady rhythm, not a single muscle in his shoulders stiffening.

’Leave them be.’ Haoran replied.

He couldn’t care less about a Heavenly Saint realm expert anyway.

Whether they lived, died, burned the city down, or rotted in on the side of the road meant nothing to him.

’Understood, Young Master,’ Qing’er replied softly, her presence receding like morning mist, leaving his sea of thought quiet once more.

With that, he continued walking beside Ye Hongyan.

They turned a corner past a high bamboo fence, passing beneath a round stone moon-gate draped in fragrant purple wisteria.

And before long, they arrived in a massive yard.

The courtyard was wide, peaceful, and secluded, completely isolated from the noisy bustle of the clan’s main avenues.

The ground was covered in soft, velvety green moss that swallowed the sound of their footsteps.

A quiet stone fountain trickled fresh spring water into a shallow stone basin, while dozen-year-old potted orchids sat in neat rows along the whitewashed brick walls.

At the center of the yard, beneath the broad shade of an ancient sweet-scented osmanthus tree whose tiny yellow flowers drifted down like sweet-smelling rain, sat a round stone table.

A woman was sitting on a carved wooden stool, resting her hands loosely around a warm porcelain teacup.

She wore a simple, unadorned gown of pale lavender cotton, without any of the heavy gold embroidery or glittering jade ornaments favored by the other wives of the clan.

Her hair was neatly gathered in a low bun, secured by a plain silver hairpin that had lost its shine decades ago.

Her face was fair and gentle, bearing a striking resemblance to Ye Hongyan around the eyes and brow, though the corners of her mouth held faint lines of long patience and quiet endurance.

As the pebbles crunched softly beneath their boots, the woman turned her head, and her eyes lit up with instant, unmistakable warmth, the teacup trembling slightly in her fingers.

”Hongyan?” she called out, her voice soft and melodious, like water trickling over smooth river stones.

”Mother,” Ye Hongyan said, her voice dropping into a tender, gentle tone that no elder in the academy had ever had the privilege to hear.

She let go of Haoran’s hand, hurried forward across the moss, and dropped to her knees beside the stone stool, wrapping her arms around her mother’s waist.

She buried her face into the soft lavender cotton of her mother’s lap, breathing in the familiar scent of dried jasmine, sweet osmanthus, and old tea leaves that had comforted her childhood.

Yan Renhua set her cup down on the stone with a soft clatter, her slender, slightly calloused hands reaching down to cup her daughter’s cheeks.

She gently pushed the hair back from Ye Hongyan’s forehead, her eyes shining with quiet tears of relief.

”You’re already so old, yet you still act like a child,” the mother whispered, her thumbs lightly wiping a speck of dust from Ye Hongyan’s cheek. ”Look at you. You’ve grown thinner again. Are the cooks at that grand school not feeding you proper meat?”

”The food is fine, Mother,” Ye Hongyan laughed softly, looking up from her lap with a bright, beautiful smile. ”I came back for your eleventh cycle. How could I stay away when you are turning eleven hundred years old?”

”A cycle is just another turn of the seasons, nothing to make a fuss over,” Yan Renhua scolded gently, though the joy on her face was undeniable.

Then, her gaze shifted.

Standing three paces away on the green moss, tall and upright beneath the falling yellow flowers, was the young man in pristine robes.

Haoran stood with his hands tucked loosely inside his wide sleeves, his posture relaxed, his eyes looking down upon the pair with calm, polite quietness.

Even without releasing a single thread of his terrifying aura, the sheer noble dignity woven into his very bones made the simple courtyard feel like the receiving hall of an imperial palace.

Yan Renhua’s eyes widened slightly, a sudden fluster touching her gentle face as she began to rise from her stool to offer a formal greeting, knowing that anyone who accompanied her daughter in such garments could not be an ordinary person.

Ye Hongyan quickly stood up, catching her mother’s elbows to keep her comfortable, and turned toward Haoran with a warm, proud smile.

”Mother, please sit,” Ye Hongyan introduced, her voice clear and proud. ”This is Shen Haoran. He is... someone very dear to me, from the Imperial Academy. When he heard that your cycle celebration was arriving, he agreed to leave his own matters behind and accompany me all the way here to pay his respects.”

Haoran took a smooth, measured step forward.

He did not put on the haughty airs of an imperial young master, nor did he offer the false, oily flattery that Ye Liuman had displayed at the gates.

He simply brought his hands together in front of his chest, bowing his head slightly from the shoulders in a clean, perfectly measured gesture of respect suitable for a matriarch.

”Greetings, Aunt,” he said, his deep voice smooth, polite, and calm. ”Hongyan speaks of you often while we are at the academy. It is an honor to meet the mother who raised such an exceptional woman.”

Yan Renhua looked at his clear, steady eyes, then looked at the way her daughter’s shoulder leaned naturally toward his side, noting the subtle, comfortable closeness between the two of them.

The fluster on her face melted away, replaced by a deep, motherly smile that reached all the way to her eyes.

”So this is the young master who has kept my daughter’s heart so steady,” Yan Renhua said, her voice warm and welcoming as she gestured to the empty stone stools around the table. ”Please, Young Master Haoran, sit down. Do not stand on ceremony in this small yard. Hongyan has always been proud, stubborn, and quick to draw her blade when provoked. If she has caused you any trouble, you must tell me so I can scold her properly.”

”Mother!” Ye Hongyan pouted, her cheeks coloring slightly as she pulled out a stool for Haoran.

Haoran took his seat smoothly, a faint, amused smile playing at the corners of his lips as he looked at the flustered crimson-robed woman beside him.

Yan Renhua chuckled softly at her daughter’s rebuttal, the sweet sound mingling with the trickle of the stone fountain as the three of them settled into an easy, peaceful conversation beneath the golden blossoms.

*

*

*

At this moment, far across the sprawling compound in the forgotten eastern corner.

Creak.

A rickety wooden door was pushed open just wide enough for a thin figure to slip inside.

Ye Fan returned to the room where Wei Zhingyi is.

He stepped over the worn threshold, his boots coated in grey street mud from his secret meeting in the abandoned warehouse.

He quickly shoved the wooden door shut behind him, throwing the iron latch and sliding a heavy timber beam across the frame to ensure no wandering servant could push it open by accident.

The room was dim, illuminated only by the faint, dying embers in the corner charcoal brazier.

On the narrow wooden cot, Wei Zhingyi lay exactly as he had left her.

Her long silver hair was spread across the clean pillow, her nine fluffy tails resting neatly along the cotton blanket, her beautiful, delicate face pale and motionless in the shadows.

The green spirit-jade bangle he had placed on her wrist hours ago glowed with a faint, steady light, slowly feeding warm energy into her battered arms.

Ye Fan stood by the bed, his chest rising and falling with fast, shallow breaths.

The meek, frightened expression he had worn in front of the Five Families was gone, replaced by a cold, sharp fever of dark ambition.

His fingers twitched as he reached into his inner robe, pulling out a long, slender stick of incense.

It was a special tool he had received from the system—the ’Nine-Tears Awakening Incense.’

He walked over to the small bronze burner resting on the wooden table beside her pillow.

”Rest easy, senior,” Ye Fan whispered in that soft, gentle, devoted tone he had practiced for thirty days, making sure his voice sounded full of pure, selfless care in case her dormant senses were catching his words. ”This is a rare soul-clearing incense I traded my remaining spirit stones for. Its smoke enters the sea of thought, clearing the stagnant blood from the spirit channels. This will help you recover your strength and soothe your troubled dreams.”

He snapped his fingers, igniting his qi into flames, igniting the tip of the dark stick.

A tiny, cherry-red ember flared to life in the dim room.

A thin, wispy thread of pale grey smoke rose into the air, curling lazily toward the wooden rafters before spreading out in a thin, almost invisible veil over the sleeping woman’s face.

In truth, this will just temporarily wake her up.

The smoke did not mend meridians, nor did it heal broken bones.

It was just a potent, volatile spiritual stimulant designed to forcibly shock a sleeping soul back to the surface of the flesh.

It worked like a sharp needle piercing a dormant pool of water, disturbing the protective slumber of her mind and dragging her consciousness up from the deep dark.

When the smoke touched her nostrils, it would slowly dissolve the numbness that held her spirit captive.

She would open her eyes, she would feel the cold air on her cheeks, she would hear the wind rattling the paper window, and she would see the wooden ceiling above her bed.

Of course, this wouldn’t take effect instantly, and in fact, it will take a few hours.

The crimson flecks in the incense burned at an agonizingly slow crawl, releasing their stimulant drop by drop into the air.

The medicine had to seep through her pores, travel through her blood, and slowly loosen the spiritual knots that held her comatose body still.

It would take half the night for the smoke to fully dissolve the barrier.

Just enough time for the attack tonight.

Ye Fan stepped back from the bed, his pupils reflecting the tiny, burning red ember in the bronze burner.

A cruel, twisted sneer slowly spread across his lips in the gloom.

The timing was immaculate.

Right now, the sun had fully set, plunging the city into the dark of night.

In the central banquet hall, the matriarch’s celebration would be starting.

The music would be playing, the roasted meats would be served, and the poisoned lotus wine would begin flowing into the cups of the proud elders.

And around midnight, when the blades of the Five Families breached the eastern walls and set the outer buildings ablaze, the smoke from this burner would finally reach the center of Wei Zhingyi’s brain!

She would wake up, she would open her eyes to the sound of screaming servants, crackling fire, and the heavy boots of bloodthirsty mercenaries kicking down her door!

She would find herself paralyzed, her meridians still broken, her terrifying power suppressed to less than one percent, completely unable to lift her arms to save herself from the filthy men tearing through the room!

And then, he would step between her and the blades.

He would bleed for her, he would take the cuts, he would be her sole savior in the dark, breaking the thousand-year ice of her Emotionless Dao in a single night of manufactured terror.

Ye Fan chuckled quietly into the empty room, turned his back on the sleeping fox, and slipped out into the cold night to wait for the slaughter to begin.