Raising the Villain in Wrong Way

The whip cracked. The old man cowered.

Ji’an frowned. "Cliché," she muttered. "Why is it always the City Lord’s nephew?"

She intended to walk around. She wasn’t a hero; she was a survivor. But as they passed, the young noble spotted Wangchen.

Or rather, he spotted Winter’s Sigh.

"Hey! You!" The noble pointed his crop at Wangchen. "That sword. Where did a servant get a sword like that?"

Wangchen stopped. His hand rested on the hilt. His eyes went cold.

"It was a gift," Wangchen said calmly.

"A gift? Ha! You probably stole it!" The noble jumped down from his carriage. He was surrounded by four lackeys. "That is a Cold-Iron blade. It’s too good for a slave. Hand it over as compensation for my scratched carriage."

Wangchen didn’t move. "No."

"You dare refuse me?" The noble’s face turned red. "Beat him! Take the sword and break his legs!"

The lackeys surged forward. They were cultivators, rough thugs at the early stages of Qi Condensation.

Ji’an sighed. She finished her candied hawthorn and tossed the stick into a nearby bin.

"Hold my fan," she said to Wangchen.

"Young Master, I can handle—"

"I said, hold my fan."

Wangchen didn’t speak anymore as he took the fan.

Ji’an stepped forward. She didn’t have her giant spatula, but she had her hands. And she had a body with a special constitution.

To her, these thugs didn’t look like warriors at all. Rather, they looked like... dough. Soft, unkneaded dough.

The first thug threw a punch.

Ji’an caught his wrist. She didn’t block; she kneaded. She twisted his arm with a motion used for wringing out noodle dough.

Crack.

"Argh!" The thug screamed as his arm was twisted into a pretzel.

Ji’an spun him around and kicked him into the second thug. ’Tossing the Salad’.

The third thug tried to draw a knife. Wangchen moved, his hand blurring toward his sword, but Ji’an was faster. She stepped in close, her shoulder slamming into the thug’s chest.

’Pounding the Garlic’.

The impact was heavy, solid, and devastating. The thug flew backward, crashing into the noble’s precious carriage.

The fourth thug looked at his fallen comrades, then at the slender, pretty "boy" dusting off his hands. He dropped his weapon and ran.

The noble stood there, his mouth agape. "You... do you know who I am?!"

Ji’an walked up to him. She towered over him (thanks to boots with lifts inside).

"You’re the guy blocking traffic," Ji’an said.

She reached out and flicked the noble on the forehead. It looked like a playful tap. In reality, she infused a tiny strand of her "Boiling Oil Qi."

"Ouch!" The noble recoiled, clutching his forehead. It burned like he’d been touched by a hot iron.

"Take your trash and go," Ji’an said, her voice dropping an octave. "Before I decide to peel you like a potato."

The noble, sensing the genuine danger radiating from this strange youth, scrambled back into his carriage. "You’ll regret this! My uncle..."

"Yeah, yeah, uncle, city lord, doom and gloom. Go away."

The carriage sped off.

The crowd erupted into whispers. Ji’an ignored them. She turned back to Wangchen, who was still holding her fan and his new sword. He was looking at her with an expression she couldn’t quite place. It was awe, mixed with a terrifying amount of possessiveness.

"See?" Ji’an smoothed her robes. "Martial arts are just cooking with different ingredients. Sometimes the ingredients are people."

Wangchen handed her the fan. "The Young Master’s ’Garlic Pounding’ form was impeccable."

"I know, right?" Ji’an grinned. "Now, I’m starving. Let’s go eat."

Sunset at the Drunken Moon Tower

They sat on the balcony of the highest restaurant in the city. The sun was dipping below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple.

The table was full. Roasted duck, spicy tofu, crystal shrimp dumplings, and a pot of pear-blossom wine.

Ji’an ate with gusto, but she noticed Wangchen was barely touching his food. He was just watching her.

"What?" Ji’an asked, pausing with a dumpling in her chopsticks. "Is there sauce on my face?"

"No," Wangchen said. He took a sip of tea. "I was just thinking."

"About?"

"About the Sword Sect." Wangchen looked out at the darkening city. "They say the Sect is a place of strict rules. Hierarchies. It will not be like the Mansion."

"It’ll be worse," Ji’an agreed cheerfully. "More talented people, more arrogance, more drama."

"I will protect you," Wangchen said again. He said it like a fact. Like stating that water is wet.

Ji’an put down her chopsticks. She looked at this boy she was raising. This future Calamity Lord.

"Wangchen," she said softly.

He looked at her.

"You don’t have to just protect me," she said. "You have a Flawless Spirit Root now. You have a sword. You have a future. When we get to the Sect... you should fly. Climb as high as you can."

’So you don’t resent the world. So you don’t destroy it.’

Wangchen looked at her for a long, silent moment. The wind ruffled his new white robes.

"I will climb," he said. "But only so I can make a place where no one can touch you."

Ji’an blinked. Wait. That sounded... oddly specific.

"Right," she laughed nervously, picking up her wine cup. "To climb high."

"To the Young Master," Wangchen corrected, clinking his cup against hers.

As they drank, Ji’an felt a warm, fuzzy feeling. ’See? He’s such a good brother. He wants to make a safe space for his bro. Friendship is magic.’

[System Notification: Target Xie Wangchen Favorability: 65%.]

[System Note: Host, your density is defying the laws of physics. But keep it up. Ignorance is bliss.]

Ji’an ignored the System. She watched the sunset, feeling the hum of her own cultivation core, a mix of martial power and culinary essence, and felt ready.

Ready for the Sect. Ready for the Protagonists. Ready to save the world, one meal and one face-slap at a time.