Raising the Villain in Wrong Way

The Drunken Peak was bathed in the soft, ethereal glow of floating crimson paper lanterns, casting a warm, festive light over the remnants of the flour-covered courtyard.

The scent of perfectly steamed pork belly dumplings, rich soy-honey glaze, and aged plum wine hung heavy and intoxicating in the crisp mountain air.

After the catastrophic kitchen explosion, Lin Ji’an had successfully wrangled the most dangerous men in the Northern Territories into a relatively peaceful outdoor banquet, forcing them to sit around a massive, magically expanded wooden table beneath the ancient peach trees.

Everyone was full, slightly tipsy, and nursing their bruised egos. But peace, in a courtyard filled with alpha-male Protagonists and volatile villains, was always a temporary illusion.

Jiu Zui, already three gourds deep into the festive spirits, suddenly slammed his cup onto the table. "A Spring Festival banquet without entertainment is just a glorified feeding trough!" the Drunken Sovereign declared, his amethyst eyes gleaming with chaotic, drunken intent. "I propose a Sword Dance Competition! The winner gets the final, untouched plate of Ji’an’s premium crispy pork belly and plum wine!"

The stakes could not have been higher.

Instantly, the atmosphere shifted from festive to bloodthirsty.

Lu Jianheng, the Tsundere Sword Lord, stood up so fast his chair tipped over. "I shall demonstrate the pinnacle of the Sword Peak’s elegant forms!" he announced, drawing Cloud-Piercer.

His "dance" consisted of aggressively chopping an unfortunate, dead pine tree into perfectly symmetrical toothpicks while glaring at Ji’an for validation.

Yan Lie, the Demon Lord, scoffed loudly. He stepped into the clearing, swinging his massive blood-red halberd in a terrifying, fiery arc.

His performance was less of a dance and more of a brutal, terrifying execution of invisible enemies, resulting in a localised crater and several singed peach blossoms.

Mo Wuchen attempted a delicate, shadowy fan dance, but was disqualified after accidentally launching a poisoned throwing dagger into the roasted wild boar.

Through it all, Lin Ji’an sat on the porch, wrapped warmly in her Silk-Weave cloak, munching contentedly on a dumpling.

Beside her, maintaining a chilling, protective perimeter of absolute zero, sat Xie Wangchen.

The Ice Demon had spent the entire evening glaring at anyone who dared look at his "Young Master Lin" for longer than three seconds.

"Well?" Jiu Zui slurred, pointing a wavering finger at the Ice Genius. "Are you going to show us the Eternal Cloud Peak’s forms, ice block, or are you just going to sit there and pout?"

Wangchen did not rise to the bait.

He slowly set down his teacup; instead of stepping into the centre of the courtyard alone, he turned his body entirely toward Lin Ji’an.

The murderous, freezing aura that usually surrounded him vanished, replaced by a suffocating, heavy intensity that made Ji’an’s breath hitch. Wangchen extended a pale, flawlessly sculpted hand toward her.

"Brother Lin," Wangchen murmured. His voice was pitched low, a rough, gravelly vibration that sent a completely involuntary shiver straight down Ji’an’s spine. "A solo form of dance lacks... warmth. Will you accompany me?"

The courtyard went dead silent.

Ji’an blinked, her dumpling halfway to her mouth. "Wangchen, I’m a chef. My footwork is designed for dodging hot grease, not elegant swordplay. I don’t even have a sword!"

"You have your blade," Wangchen replied softly, his dark, bottomless eyes dropping to the sleek, black Wind-Rune Steel carving knife she had strapped to her waist, a souvenir from the Black Market. "And I will guide you. You only need to follow my lead."

The sheer, magnetic pull of his gaze was impossible to resist. Before her rational brain could scream ’Stranger Danger!’, Ji’an found herself placing her hand in his.

His skin was cool, but the electric jolt that shot up her arm the moment their fingers intertwined was scorching hot.

Wangchen led her to the centre of the courtyard.

Gu Zhiwei, ever the enthusiastic golden retriever, pulled out a bamboo flute and began to play a slow, hauntingly beautiful, and rhythmic festival melody.

"Draw your blade," Wangchen whispered, standing so close that Ji’an could smell the crisp scent of pine and snow clinging to his pristine white Ice-Silk robes.

Ji’an unsheathed the black carving knife. Wangchen drew Winter’s Sigh.

The dance began.

It was supposed to be a martial spar, a demonstration of opposing forces.

But the moment they moved, it transformed into something entirely different. Wangchen did not strike at her, but he flowed around her.

He stepped inside her guard, his movements impossibly fluid and graceful. The flat of his icy, glowing blue blade slid gently, almost caressingly, against the dark metal of her knife.

Clack. The sound of the metal meeting echoed in the quiet night. Ji’an, operating on pure instinct and the muscle memory of the Dao of the Iron Wok, pivoted.

She unleashed a burst of her golden, warm Harmonious Five-Grain Qi to counter the freezing air radiating from his sword.

The clash of their energies, the absolute, freezing winter and the blazing, golden warmth of the hearth created a thick, swirling mist of steam that instantly enveloped them, isolating them from the staring eyes of the audience.

In the centre of the mist, the tension skyrocketed.

Wangchen’s hand slipped from the hilt of his sword, his long, elegant fingers coming to rest firmly on the curve of Ji’an’s waist. He pulled her flush against his chest.

Ji’an gasped, her dark eyes flying wide open. She could feel the hard, lean muscle beneath his robes. Her chest felt tight all of a sudden.

’We are too close,’ her internal alarms shrieked in absolute bisexual panic. ’This isn’t a spar anymore! This is more like a tango!’

But she couldn’t pull away. Wangchen’s dark eyes were locked onto hers, burning with a heavy, possessive hunger that entirely stripped away his cold facade.

He spun her, their blades tracing beautiful, lethal arcs in the air, but the weapons were merely props.

The real battle was the magnetic, undeniable gravity pulling them together.

Every time Ji’an stepped back, Wangchen stepped forward, invading her space, his gaze dropping to her lips before flicking back to her eyes.

He dipped her low, his face hovering mere inches from hers. The cold air mingled with the hot steam of their breath.

"You are so radiant, Brother Lin," Wangchen whispered, the words brushing against the shell of her ear, sending a flush of brilliant, scandalous crimson creeping up Ji’an’s neck.

To the audience sitting outside the mist, the performance was a visual masterpiece of terrifying implications.

The two figures moved in perfect, seamless synchronisation. It didn’t look like two sworn brothers demonstrating martial prowess.

It looked like two lovers tangled in a fierce, passionate, desperately intimate embrace.

The way the Ice Demon handled the grey-robed chef, with such deliberate, gentle, and undeniable possessiveness, was completely unambiguous.

Lu Jianheng dropped his teacup, the porcelain shattering on the stone. His mouth hung open.

Xiao Yichen’s fan stopped mid-flutter, the Second Prince’s eyes narrowing as he witnessed the sheer, territorial dominance Wangchen was exhibiting.

Yan Lie squinted through the steam, a low, rumbling growl in his chest as he realised the Ice Demon was quite literally marking his territory through interpretive dance.

At the head of the table, Elder Qin Changxu clutched his chest, his face turning a sickly shade of purple. "Heartless Dao... my ass! Hahahah!" the ancient elder wheezed, visibly fighting off a secondary Qi deviation. "That is not a sword form... are they... is this a courtship dance?! In front of the entire sect?!"

"Beautiful!" Gu Zhiwei cheered obliviously, lowering his flute to clap his hands as his eyes sparkled like they held stars. "Look how carefully Brother Xie catches Brother Lin! This is true, unbroken friendship!"

Jiu Zui simply threw his head back and cackled, taking a massive swig of wine as he watched his rival’s disciple completely compromise his own Dao.

Back in the mist, the music faded. The dance came to a breathtaking halt.

Wangchen had Ji’an pinned gently against his chest, his arm securely wrapped around her waist, their blades crossed in a final, elegant pose.

He was looking down at her, his chest heaving slightly, his eyes dark, heavy, and undeniably full of unspoken promises.

The sexual tension was so thick it could have been sliced with a meat cleaver.

Ji’an stared up at him, her heart hammering wildly against her ribs, her face burning hotter than a wok on maximum heat.

She suddenly realised the music had stopped, and that every single, terrifyingly powerful man in the courtyard was staring at them in stunned, scandalous silence.

’Ahhh! What was that just now?! Damn, I’m going to die of embarrassment!’ Ji’an realised, her survival instincts finally overriding the hypnotic spell of the Ice Demon.

With a frantic, desperate surge of energy, Ji’an shoved herself out of Wangchen’s grip.

She sheathed her carving knife, reached blindly into her apron pocket, and pulled out a slightly squished, cold dumpling.

Before Wangchen could say a word, she forcefully shoved the dumpling directly into his mouth.

"Ten out of ten for such amazing footwork, Wangchen!" Ji’an squeaked, her voice cracking violently as she backed away toward the safety of the kitchen. "You win the pork belly! Okay, the show’s over! Everyone, go home! The kitchen is closed!"

As Lin Ji’an fled into the sanctuary of the Drunken Peak’s kitchen, Xie Wangchen stood in the centre of the dissipating mist, slowly chewing the cold dumpling.

A faint, devastatingly smug smile touched the corners of his lips, the tips of his ears glowing a faint, satisfied red.

The Spring Festival had been a resounding success. He had won the pork skin, and more importantly, he had shown every other man in the courtyard exactly who she belonged to.