I am the Villain

Shen Liang

Luo Zelin now, Feng Wuxin, wandered the streets with nothing but a torn red-and-black robe and his name, borrowed and pitiful. His stomach growled. He ignored it. No coins. No food. No allies. He sighed, rubbing the back of his sore neck. The boy he now inhabited had been a punching bag, a servant, a scapegoat, and unfortunately, he hadn't left behind a stash of gold or weapons.

Zelin glanced at the market stalls down the street, nostrils flaring at the smell of pork buns. For a moment, he considered just stealing one.

Then another idea crept in, like an old friend. "Maybe..." he muttered to himself, "...I could find a demon or two. Scare someone into giving me a few silver coins. Have them do a little... borrowing on my behalf." He smiled to himself. Demons didn't lurk in cities like this, though, not anymore.

Not since he'd died and the cultivators had grown bold. They'd purged them from the city borders, forcing them back into shadows and wild places. So he turned down a narrow path, the dirt crunching under his bare feet, and headed for the nearest forest. He didn't get far. A shrill voice sliced through the trees like a cleaver. "That's him! That's the brat! He owes me three months of labor!"

Zelin paused mid-step and groaned. The angry woman had followed him, the one who'd called him ungrateful, who'd screamed after him this morning. She was standing at the edge of the woods now, flanked by two city guards in dull brown armor. She jabbed a finger at him like she'd found a rat in her soup. Zelin smirked. "Oh? You again?" he called lazily. "What's up?"

The guards advanced, spears aimed at his chest. "Hands up! Now!"

Zelin lifted a single finger. "Wait, behind you. Demon." They blinked. Turned. With a flick of his wrist, the ground trembled.

Cracks split open in the dry forest floor. Smoke coiled upward. And then, like fingers clawing through a nightmare, rotting hands burst out of the soil, dragging twenty shriveled, hissing demons out of shallow graves. Their skin hung in ribbons. Their eyes glowed white. Their mouths split with crooked fangs. Zelin screamed, beautifully, full of mock horror. and stumbled back into the bushes.

The guards panicked. "Sound the alarm!"

The demons lunged. Spears jabbed, but the blades did little. The weapons bounced off like twigs against stone. The demons swarmed over the guards, tearing into them with a fury that had been buried for years. The woman screamed and ran. Zelin laughed, then quickly slapped a hand over his mouth and resumed flailing like a terrified i***t. He darted between trees, shouting nonsense about cursed lands and evil magic. Nearby villagers fled. Smoke thickened in the air. Flames licked up from one of the demons' mouths.

Then. light flashed.

A silver sword swept through the smoke like a beam of moonlight, clean and cold. One of the demons screeched and split in half.

More swords followed. A squad of cultivators in white robes stormed into the clearing, weapons glowing with embedded spirit seals. Their movements were precise, practiced, steel slicing through flesh and smoke. Demons fell one by one, limbs torn and heads shattered.

Zelin kept running in circles, yelling things like, "Help! Spirits! They're eating my face!" Then something changed. A sound.

A single note. A flute. It came soft and slow, like snowfall on an open grave. One delicate, haunting note, and then another, and another, weaving through the chaos like silk. Zelin froze. He turned his head toward the trees. There, perched high on a branch, untouched by ash and ruin, was a man dressed in white and pale blue. His sleeves fluttered in the breeze. His eyes were half-lidded. The bamboo flute at his lips looked almost too gentle for the m******e unfolding below. But with every note, a demon's head exploded.

Zelin stared, dumbfounded. Even after all these years, that face was unmistakable. Shen Liang. The boy who had once studied beside him. The genius disciple. The ice-cold prodigy. The one who had killed him. Zelin's heart pounded, not from fear. From a thousand memories surging up all at once. He turned to run. But a strong grip caught his arm. Zelin gasped and looked up to see a cultivator, a tall man with sharp features and silver-threaded robes, holding his wrist tightly. "No! No, let me go!" Zelin cried, flailing dramatically. "The demons, they'll come back! I don't want to die!"

The man narrowed his eyes. "Calm yourself. You're safe now."

A voice called out from above. "Let him go." The sound was low and smooth. Cold as still water. The cultivator hesitated, then obeyed, releasing his grip.

Zelin stumbled back a few steps and caught his breath just as Shen Liang descended from the tree like falling snow, light and graceful, his flute tucked into his robes. He walked toward Zelin.

Zelin gave a nervous laugh. "Uh... thanks?"

Shen's eyes didn't waver. They were sharp. Pale. Almost colorless, like glass under moonlight. "There's something strange about you," he said quietly. "You look weak, fragile. But I sense something deep. A power beneath the surface. One I don't understand."

Zelin's smile flickered. He scoffed. "What? Me? I'm just some useless kid who got yelled at for not making breakfast this morning."

The woman from earlier had returned, bruised and breathless. She pointed at him again and started ranting. "He's lying! That boy's a curse! Useless from birth, can't do a single thing right! Lazy, pathetic, always slinking around pretending to be pitiful—" Shen raised two fingers. A spell formed in the air like a silver seal, and suddenly, silence. The woman's mouth moved, but no sound came out.

Zelin blinked. "...I like him already."

Shen stepped closer. His gaze was intense now. "You're not what you appear," he said. "You may not know it, but there is an energy radiating from you. Something powerful. The Xuanjing Pavilion could use you."

Zelin's smile vanished. He remembered that name, the temple built on rules, justice, purity. The one where he'd once trained, been punished, been betrayed. The one that sent out execution orders with perfect calligraphy and moral speeches. "I can't," Zelin said, shaking his head. "I don't belong there. I'm not one of you."

"You are now," Shen said simply. Before Zelin could object, two of the cultivators stepped forward. They didn't speak. They just grabbed him.

Zelin squirmed. "Hey, wait! I said no!"

"You'll be fed. Housed. Trained," one of the men said. "You'll repay your debt to the world with service."

Zelin growled under his breath. He could easily overpower them if he wanted to, but not without revealing himself. Not without making things... complicated. So instead, he slumped dramatically and sighed. "Fine," he muttered. "But I'm not making breakfast for anyone."