Raising the Villain in Wrong Way

Giant banners fluttered in the wind.

The massive illusion screens floating in the sky were flashing the faces of the final survivors.

Out of the thousands of Outer Disciples who had entered the Myriad Illusions Realm, only a mere ten individuals had materialised in the victor’s circle.

Lin Ji’an. Mo Wuchen. Yan Lie. Chi Yun. Su Wan. Zhang Min and four other battered but breathing members of Class 7.

The moment their boots hit the pristine white stone of the plaza, the grand restorative arrays embedded in the sect’s foundation activated.

A wave of gentle, healing green light washed over the survivors.

Ji’an felt the superficial scratches on her arms close instantly. The bruising on her ribs faded, and the soreness in her muscles eased.

But as she tried to stand up straight, a wave of dizzying vertigo hit her.

The sect’s arrays were designed to heal physical wounds and restore baseline Qi, but they could not instantly replenish the profound spiritual damage caused by a Golden Core Ghost Cultivator directly draining a victim’s Yang energy.

Her soul felt bruised, and her spiritual sea was sluggish, the Harmonious Five-Grain Qi reduced to a mere trickle.

She swayed, and Su Wan quickly tightened her grip, keeping her upright.

"Steady, Senior Brother," Su Wan whispered, looking up at Ji’an’s pale face with deep concern. "The Elders will provide restorative pills soon. Just lean on me."

Ji’an nodded weakly, blinking against the harsh morning sunlight.

All around her, the plaza erupted into joyous chaos.

The barriers separating the spectating classes were momentarily lowered, allowing friends and sect-mates to rush the plaza floor to congratulate the victors.

"Zhang Min! You did it!" A horde of Class 7 disciples swarmed their leader, hoisting the battered boy onto their shoulders with deafening cheers.

A group of senior female disciples from the Inner Sect had already rushed onto the field, surrounding Mo Wuchen.

The assassin had flawlessly resumed his helpless, sickly persona.

He leaned delicately against a senior sister, coughing softly into his sleeve while offering them teary-eyed, grateful smiles that had the girls practically swooning and fighting over who got to offer him water.

Even Yan Lie and Chi Yun, disguised as wandering rogue cultivators who had been assigned to Class 8, were surrounded by admiring disciples who had watched their brutal, overwhelming display of power on the screens.

Yan Lie looked profoundly bored, ignoring the praises and keeping his glowing red eyes fixed squarely on the back of Lin Ji’an’s head.

Ji’an looked around, searching the surging crowd.

She was looking for Tang Bo’s ridiculous hair. She was looking for Liu Liu’s bright rouge. She was looking for Princess Ling’er’s crimson dress.

But they weren’t there.

Because they had shattered their tokens and forfeited the tournament, the rules dictated that they were automatically relegated to the spectator stands.

They were currently trapped in the upper viewing galleries, waving frantically and screaming Ji’an’s name, but their voices were entirely drowned out by the roar of the massive crowd.

For a brief, staggering moment, Lin Ji’an felt profoundly isolated.

She stood in the center of a roaring plaza, surrounded by thousands of people, yet she was entirely alone.

The adrenaline was gone, leaving only the biting cold of the spiritual drain. The other survivors were basking in the glory of their respective classes, hailed as heroes.

But Ji’an was from Class 9. The "trash" class.

Her squad was in the low seats, and the rest of the sect was too busy fawning over the handsome assassin, the brutal warlord, or the noble Class 7 leader to approach the strange, gray-robed cook who had beaten a ghost with a kitchen utensil.

She was the anomaly.

The glitch in the system that no one knew how to categorize.

.

.

.

From his spot amidst a flock of blushing senior sisters, Mo Wuchen’s amber eyes missed nothing.

He saw Lin Ji’an standing alone, supported only by Su Wan. He saw the pale, exhausted droop of Ji’an’s usually proud shoulders.

He saw the way Ji’an looked around the plaza, searching for familiar faces and finding none.

’He is drained of his spiritual powers, and isolated by the sect’s disciples, the very people for whom she was fighting so hard all the way. Heh, humans...’ Wuchen’s sociopathic mind calculated with the speed of a supercomputer.

To an assassin, isolation was the ultimate vulnerability. This was the perfect moment.

Lin Ji’an had rejected his charms when he was strong and surrounded by allies.

But now?

Weakened, alone, and experiencing the inevitable post-battle crash?

If Wuchen swooped in now, offering comfort, offering his own shoulder to lean on, offering the public validation that the rest of the sect was currently denying the chef’s ability... it would create an emotional debt.

It would crack the fortress of Ji’an’s indifference.

"Excuse me, Senior Sisters," Wuchen murmured, his voice laced with gentle, apologetic honey. "My heart aches for my fellow disciple. Senior Brother Lin fought so bravely for us. I must go to him."

The girls parted with sympathetic sighs, praising his noble, caring heart.

Wuchen adjusted his willow-green robes, ensuring he looked appropriately concerned and deeply empathetic.

He began to walk across the white stone plaza toward Ji’an, formulating the exact pitch of his voice, the exact angle of his sympathetic smile.

"Senior Brother Lin," Wuchen called out softly, extending a pale, elegant hand as he approached. "You look so pale. Please, allow me to..."

Suddenly, the temperature in the Assembly Plaza did not just drop; it plummeted with the violence of a collapsing glacier.

A sudden, howling gale of pure, localised winter ripped across the plaza floor. The cheering crowd gasped, pulling their robes tight as a layer of sparkling frost instantly materialised over the white stone tiles, spreading rapidly from the base of the elevated jade terrace.

Before Mo Wuchen could take another step, a figure landed directly between him and Lin Ji’an.

The impact was completely silent, but the spiritual pressure that rolled off the figure was so immense, so utterly crushing, that it forced Wuchen to physically stumble backward, his breath catching in his throat.