I am the Villain

A Body Borrowed

The sun had just begun its descent when Shen Liang and three senior disciples arrived at the Luo household, a crooked home that leaned slightly on one side, nestled on the outskirts of a modest village. The yard was bare. The chicken coop sat to the right, a squat wooden cage reeking of feathers and filth. A few worn sandals littered the steps. It was clear this wasn't a home of warmth, but survival.

A woman in a faded dress came to the door, her sleeves rolled to her elbows. She froze when she saw the cultivators, especially Shen Liang, whose white robes and silver crest marked him as someone important. A boy, about seventeen, peeked out from behind her shoulder. "Is this... about Luo Zelin?" the woman asked stiffly.

Shen Liang gave a shallow nod. "We have questions."

The woman shifted uncomfortably. "That boy's not here anymore. Been gone since he got accepted into that mountain temple. Don't know why you're here."

"We understand," Shen Liang replied. "This is an investigation, not an accusation."

The woman reluctantly stepped aside and let them in. Inside, the home was sparse and cold. The only warmth came from a weak fire in the corner hearth. The boy sat on a stool, chewing nervously at his sleeve while Shen Liang and his disciples stood near a warped table. Shen kept his arms behind his back. "What was Zelin like?"

The woman scoffed. "Awkward. Skittish. Fumbled over every word like a halfwit. Couldn't swing a broom, let alone a sword. A good-for-nothing burden, that's what he was."

The younger boy chimed in: "He burned porridge four times in one week."

"Has he ever shown signs of... cultivation? A surge of energy? Unusual strength?" Shen pressed.

"No," the woman replied quickly. "We'd have known. Kid could barely carry water without spilling it."

Shen turned to the boy. "Did anything change? Did he act differently before he left?"

The boy hesitated. His gaze dropped to the floor. "...One thing. The day he left, he didn't make breakfast. That never happened before." The woman's brows furrowed. "And when I found him," the boy continued, "he was sitting in the chicken coop... just staring. I told him to move, and he... he looked at me real cold. Not scared. Not sorry. Like... like he wasn't Zelin anymore." He paused, chewing his lip. "He said something like, about my weight. Then he just left. No stuttering. No bowing. Just walked out like he didn't care."

The woman scoffed. "He probably snapped. Lazy boys like him break easy."

"Enough," Shen said, his tone sharp. The air in the house dropped a degree. The woman scowled but said nothing more. Shen took a breath. "We believe that when Luo Zelin left your home that day... he was no longer the same person."

The woman blinked. "What does that mean?"

Shen Liang looked at her directly. "I believe he was already dead." The silence was instant. Only the crackling of the fire dared to speak. Shen Liang continued, "We suspect his body was overtaken. through a demonic ritual. The soul now walking in Luo Zelin's skin may not be him at all... but Feng Wuxin."

The name sucked the air from the room. The boy whimpered. The woman clutched her blouse, eyes wide with disbelief. "Th-That's impossible," she stammered. "Feng Wuxin is dead! Everyone knows—!"

"Dead once," Shen said. "But demons... are patient." He stepped outside, ignoring the woman's protests. The disciples followed. Shen's boots crunched against brittle grass as he approached the chicken coop. It looked like a cage. Because it was one. The door creaked as he pushed it open.

The air smelled of rot and feathers. He stepped inside. For a moment, he saw the boy, curled up in the straw, arms wrapped around thin knees, looking up at the world like it wanted to kill him. Not Luo Zelin. Not even Feng Wuxin. Just a forgotten child. Shen Liang knelt and swept the hay aside with one gloved hand.

That was when he saw it. A faded demonic circle, drawn in dried blood. Cracked. Weathered. But unmistakable. At its center, nearly invisible beneath the years of dust and feathers, was a name scrawled in sharp, ancient characters: *** — Feng Wuxin. Shen Liang stared. His stomach turned.

That evening, the Shen Temple Council assembled under urgent summons. All present were senior cultivators, historians, seal masters, and elders who had fought in the days of the war with Feng Wuxin. Shen Liang stood before them with the dried summoning parchment in his hand and a solemn fury in his eyes. "He wasn't reincarnated," Shen said. "He was summoned. Brought back through a blood ritual by the boy known as Luo Zelin, who may have willingly given up his life to resurrect Wuxin."

Elder Huo stared at the parchment, his face pale. "Do you mean to say... the child is dead? His soul, gone?"

Shen nodded. "Replaced. His body became a vessel."

The room filled with murmurs. A few younger disciples gasped. Elder Mo, who had fought against Wuxin's last stronghold, stood.

"Then it's true," he said. "Feng Wuxin lives again."

"But how did no one see it?" Elder Lian asked. "He's been among us for months."

"Because he's clever," Shen Liang said. "He acts like a fool. A drunk. A clown. But the sword forms he used, ancient techniques, long forbidden. His understanding of demonic language. The way demons fear him... obey him."

Shen Guang added, "And the cursed bond. No ordinary student could create a karmic curse like that."

Shen Liang stepped forward. "He fooled us. All of us." He slammed the parchment onto the meeting table. "But now we know."

The council fell into debate. Some demanded his immediate capture. Others questioned whether the real Zelin's soul could still be saved. A few elders even suggested that if Wuxin had been reborn into a new body... he might be redeemable. Shen Liang said nothing during this part.

He simply stared at the parchment. At the name that had haunted him since youth. At the memory of a dying breath, of a final strike and blood-soaked robes. Feng Wuxin hadn't died. He'd been waiting.

That night, as the temple lights dimmed and the gates were reinforced, Shen Liang stood alone in the courtyard beneath the falling dusk. He could still feel him, somewhere out there. That cocky excitement, the taste of freedom, the thrill of having his sword back.

He was hunting something. Or preparing.

And this time... it wouldn't end like before. Shen Liang drew his flute from his sash and played a low note into the wind, sharp and mournful. The flames in the lanterns flickered. The wind changed direction. The hunter had become the hunted. And Shen Liang would be ready.