I am the Villain

The Escape Plan

The late morning sky was draped in grey silk. Clouds hung heavy over the Shen Temple, pressing low on the rooftops like the weight of grief pressing down on everyone's backs. Shen Muxian was gone.

The announcement had rippled through the temple like a slow wave, and though everyone had known the end was near, the confirmation still hollowed the halls. Elders walked with slower steps. Disciples bowed their heads in silence. And Luo Zelin...

Zelin had locked his door and refused to come out. He sat cross-legged on the cold floor, his back leaned against the wall. His wine jar sat beside him, half-empty, forgotten.

His eyes burned. He wiped at them again. Still wet. "Tch," he muttered, glaring at the wall. "You again?" He didn't need to wonder who was crying this time. It was Shen Liang. Even through stone walls and sealed doors, Zelin could feel it. The strange pull in his chest, that buried weight, the fog behind his eyes. It was him. Always him. Zelin muttered under his breath, "Get over it already..."

But the tears came anyway, quiet, stubborn, stupid. He pressed his fist to his temple and cursed. He didn't cry. He never cried.

Feng Wuxin didn't cry. So why...? He didn't leave his room for the rest of the day.

The next morning, the funeral bells rang. Zelin stood in the back of the crowd, hood drawn up over his head. His silver-and-white robes were crinkled and spotted from last night's wine, but no one noticed. The attention was on the altar, on the beautifully carved coffin that rested atop a platform of stone and incense. Dozens of Shen disciples knelt. Elders lined the altar with solemn expressions.

And at the very front stood Shen Liang. Zelin's eyes narrowed. Shen Liang was dressed in formal white robes, long hair bound neatly behind him, face drawn but controlled. His eyes were dry. But his expression... It was hollow. He didn't need to cry now. He had already cried too much the night before.

Zelin clenched his jaw. That old bastard Muxian was dead, and for some reason, it was affecting him too. Everyone looked so lost, so pathetic. Whispered prayers filled the air as the coffin was sealed, and Shen Liang stepped forward to light the fire beneath it with a flick of his fingers.

Flames rose. Ash began its slow dance into the sky. Zelin didn't watch. He turned and walked away before it was over.

Back in his room, he lay sprawled on his mat, staring up at the wooden beams overhead. His hand dangled lazily off the edge, fingers brushing against the cool floor. The rest of the world kept moving outside, mourning, cleaning, burning incense, but in here, Zelin was frozen.

He felt tired. More tired than he had ever felt. Maybe even more than when he died the first time. He hated it. But this wasn't just about grief. It was bigger than that. He couldn't stay here anymore. The Shen clan had served its purpose. Shen Muxian was dead, and there was no one else here he needed. Not the stiff elders. Not the sword-obsessed brothers. And definitely not Shen Liang.

Zelin sat up slowly, brushing hair out of his face.

"I'll run," he said out loud to no one. "In a few days. Slip out before dawn, take the side path by the eastern cliff." He smirked.

"But not without my sword."

That night, he didn't drink. He needed to be clear. He needed to get his sword back. The artifact room was at the back of the main temple hall, sealed by heavy doors and protected by wards, talismans, and a rotating watch of disciples. Only elders had access. But Zelin knew the schedule. Knew who guarded when. Knew when the patrols switched. He had planned things like this before.

Feng Wuxin didn't earn his reputation by being careless.

He waited until the third bell of the night. Most of the temple would be asleep by then. He wrapped himself in a muted grey cloak and stepped soundlessly into the night.

The wind had picked up. Leaves rustled across the stone paths like whispers. Zelin moved like a shadow. He made it to the rear of the temple undetected, slipping through the garden hedge and scaling the lower roof like he'd done dozens of times before. From there, it was a short drop into the inner courtyard. The artifact room loomed before him. Tall. Silent. Guarded by a single ward glowing faintly in the doorway.

Zelin narrowed his eyes at the seal. "A fourth-rank barrier. Cheap," he muttered. He reached into his sleeve and pulled out a talisman of his own, a counter-inscription he'd crafted it two nights ago. He slapped it onto the glowing ward and whispered a few words under his breath.

The glow flickered... then faded. The door cracked open with a soft creak. Inside, rows of relics glowed faintly behind glass. Scrolls. Swords. Old instruments. Broken demon horns. Bottles of cursed fog. And in the center, a long black box with heavy gold clasps and burning red talismans plastered across its surface.

Zelin approached it slowly, reverently. His heart pounded. There it was. His sword. Feng Wuxin's sword. "Hello, old friend," he whispered.

He knelt beside the box and placed his hand on its surface. The talismans sizzled beneath his fingers, but he didn't flinch. "I missed you." He whispered the words in demonic tongue, low, guttural, ancient. The talismans curled and burned away one by one. The box unlatched itself. He opened it. And there it was. Black bone. Crimson grooves. Still humming with power.

As soon as his hand wrapped around the hilt, it was like a piece of him returned. The blade pulsed faintly in his grip, recognizing him, whispering to him in a voice only he could hear. "You are whole." Zelin exhaled. He stood tall. The sword was back. And now, now he could leave.

He slid the weapon into the cloth wrap on his back, sealed the box again, and slipped out of the artifact room as quietly as he had come.

Back in his room, he sat on his mat and unwrapped the sword again, staring at it in the moonlight. So much had happened. So much had changed. But this blade... It was the only part of him that had never betrayed him. And soon, soon he would leave.

Let them chase him if they wanted. Let them try to stop him. But Feng Wuxin was whole again. And this time, he would burn the world slower. Smarter. Maybe he wouldn't destroy it all at once. Maybe he'd start with just one. Shen Liang. He smiled. But this time, it wasn't bitter. It was quiet. Deadly. Resolute.