Raising the Villain in Wrong Way

Would his Master really be so generous as to take Lin Ji’an in as he promised?

The ice around him melted instantly. ’We will share the same courtyard. I will see him every morning. I can protect him.’

’He will be mine to guard, completely isolated from the rest of the sect.’

Wangchen looked up at his Master with profound, uncharacteristic gratitude. He thought Elder Qin was finally accepting his bond with Ji’an.

But Lin Ji’an, standing at the base of the stairs, felt her blood turn to actual, literal ice.

She wasn’t a lovestruck teenager. She was a genre-savvy reader who knew exactly how the "Heartless Dao" trope worked.

She looked up at Elder Qin and saw the cynical detachment in his eyes.

She saw the way his eyes flicked toward Wangchen’s joyous face, and the microscopic tightening of the Elder’s jaw in response to his disciple’s emotion.

’He doesn’t want to teach me,’ Ji’an realized, a cold sweat breaking out on her palms. ’He already sees me as a flaw in Wangchen’s cultivation, a mortal tether holding his perfect weapon back. If I go to the Eternal Cloud Peak now... I am going to have a tragic, fatal "training accident" within a week. He’s putting me in a gilded cage so he can quietly dispose of the distraction!’

Ji’an’s mind raced frantically.

She couldn’t refuse. To refuse a direct invitation from a Peak Master in front of the entire sect was a severe offense, punishable by expulsion or crippling.

"Elder Qin is too generous," the Sect Leader laughed nervously, breaking the tension. "To take on a second pupil! Lin Ji’an, you must thank the Elder for this boundless fortune!"

Ji’an gritted her teeth. She slowly raised her hands, preparing to bow and accept her impending doom, desperately trying to calculate how many exploding chili peppers it would take to blind a Transcendent Realm master so she could escape the mountain.

"I..." Ji’an started, her voice tight.

"OBJECTION!"

Crash.

The booming, entirely slurred shout was immediately followed by the sound of shattering clay.

A large, earthen wine gourd sailed out of the sky, completely bypassing the sect’s supreme defensive arrays, and smashed directly onto the pristine white marble of the Jade Terrace, right between Lin Ji’an and the Peak Masters’ thrones.

The scent of incredibly potent, thousand-year-old Peach Blossom Wine exploded into the air, instantly making half the front row of disciples feel lightheaded and tipsy.

The Peak Masters leaped to their feet, summoning their weapons.

"Assassin?!" Lu Jianheng roared from the sidelines, drawing Cloud-Piercer.

"Stand down!" the Sect Leader suddenly bellowed, his face turning pale as he recognized the scent of the wine and the shape of the shattered gourd. He waved his hands frantically at the guards. "Everyone, lower your weapons! Immediately!"

From the sky, a figure descended. He didn’t float with the ethereal grace of a Daoist immortal.

He plummeted like a rock, landing with a heavy, uncoordinated thud right next to the puddle of spilled wine.

He slowly stood up, swaying precariously on his feet.

He was, without a doubt, the most aggressively disheveled man Ji’an had ever seen. He wore robes of faded, indeterminate gray that were currently slipping off his right shoulder.

His dark hair was a wild, untamed bird’s nest, held back by a crooked wooden hairpin. His cheeks were flushed a deep, alcoholic red, and he held a second, smaller wine gourd in his hand, which he brought to his lips for a long, noisy swig.

But beneath the grime, the mess, and the overwhelming scent of alcohol, the man was devastatingly, ruggedly handsome.

He had sharp, aristocratic features, a strong jaw covered in dark stubble, and eyes that were a piercing, vibrant shade of amethyst purple.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve, letting out a loud, entirely unabashed burp that echoed across the silent plaza.

"Qin Changxu, you cold-hearted, miserable icicle," the man slurred, pointing a wavering finger at the frozen Peak Master. "You think you can just snatch up a perfectly good kid and bury him in a snowbank so you can play your little mind-games? Bullshit!"

The entire plaza gasped in collective horror. Nobody, absolutely nobody, spoke to Elder Qin like that and kept their tongue.

But Elder Qin did not attack.

The ancient master of the Heartless Dao actually took a half-step backward, his eyes widening in genuine shock.

"Martial... Martial Uncle Jiu?" Elder Qin whispered, the cold authority completely stripped from his voice.

The Sect Leader hurried down from his throne, practically tripping over his own majestic robes. He bowed deeply, fully ninety degrees, his voice trembling with profound respect.

"Martial Uncle Jiu Zui! You... you have emerged from your closed-door seclusion! We did not sense your awakening! Please, forgive our lack of a formal greeting!"

A shockwave of murmurs ripped through the spectator stands.

Jiu Zui. The Drunken Sovereign.

He was a living legend. A relic from the previous generation. He was the martial brother of the previous Sect Leader, making him the senior to every single Peak Master currently sitting on the thrones.

He was the highest-ranking, oldest surviving member of the Celestial Sword Sect, possessing a cultivation base so terrifyingly high that it was said he had once cleaved a mountain in half because it was blocking his sunlight while he was hungover.

He hadn’t taken a disciple, attended a meeting, or been seen sober in over a hundred years.

Jiu Zui ignored the Sect Leader entirely. He stumbled forward, stopping right in front of Lin Ji’an.

He leaned in close. He didn’t look at Ji’an’s face; he simply closed his eyes and took a long, deep sniff of Ji’an’s robes.

Ji’an stiffened, fully prepared to hit this legendary alcoholic with her spatula if he tried anything weird.

"Mm," Jiu Zui groaned happily, opening his bright purple eyes. "You smell like roasted rhino meat, high-grade ginger, and absolute, unadulterated trouble. You have the Dao of the Iron Wok in your bones, kid."