Villain: Manipulating the Heroines into hating the Protagonist

The finality of turning his back on Green Bamboo Village settled over Wang Jian like a shroud, but one woven not of sorrow, but of release. The simple warmth of his mortal parents’ love, the familiarity of the fields and bamboo groves – they were anchors to a life that was no longer his. Pleasant memories, perhaps, but ultimately insignificant compared to the vast tapestry of his true existence and the boundless ambition that now surged anew within his soul.

He adjusted the simple pack on his back. Coarse cloth, sturdy boots, a sharp knife, dried meat, a waterskin, a small pouch with the remaining silver taels from Master Feng’s ’compensation’. Pathetically mundane compared to the spatial rings and divine treasures he once commanded, but functional. Necessary.

’First step,’ he thought, his gaze sweeping towards the hazy outline of the Serpent’s Spine mountains in the distance, then shifting towards the direction the village elder had always pointed when speaking of Willow Creek Town and, beyond it, the Prefecture Capital. ’Information.’

Green Bamboo Village was a speck of dust in this vast Xuanhuang Lower Realm. Willow Creek Town was slightly larger dust. The true hub of mortal power and, more importantly, information flow in this region would be the Prefecture Capital – Yueyang City.

’Cultivators won’t likely stroll through a mortal capital,’ he reasoned, recalling the general arrogance and seclusion of such beings from his past life. ’Even low-level Qi Condensation practitioners usually stick to their sects or designated territories, unless on specific missions. Mortals are ants to them.’

’But,’ his mind continued logically, ’news travels. Rumours persist. Large sects need resources, sometimes interacting with powerful mortal families or merchant guilds. There might be recruitment notices, legends of nearby immortal mountains, tales of wandering cultivators performing ’miracles’ or causing trouble. Yueyang City is the best place to sift through the noise and find a thread leading towards the cultivation world.’

He set a brisk pace, his deceptively powerful mortal legs eating up the dusty path. The month of intense body tempering had worked wonders. While he lacked Qi, his stamina, speed, and strength were far beyond any ordinary peasant youth. He could likely outrun a horse over a short distance and maintain a steady, ground-covering jog for hours.

The sun climbed higher, beating down on the fields. He passed other villagers heading out to work, their faces etched with the familiar lines of toil. They nodded respectfully, still slightly awed by the ’boy who beat the tax collector’s men’. He returned the nods curtly, his mind already leagues away.

’This world… the ambient spiritual energy is thin,’ he mused, trying to extend senses that were no longer there. In the Chaos cosmos, even as a mortal, one could feel the richness of the ambient energy if sensitive enough. Here? It felt… diluted. Stagnant. ’Cultivation here will be slow, especially in the early stages. Qi Condensation likely takes mortals years, decades even, without significant resources or talent.’

He thought back to his own effortless breakthroughs in the Chaos cosmos, fueled by stolen Providence and demonic arts. A faint smirk touched his lips. ’The Dragon Prince called it a challenge. He wasn’t wrong. Starting from absolute zero, without my usual shortcuts… it forces a different approach.’

Patience. Observation. Ruthless efficiency.

He walked for hours, the landscape slowly changing from familiar fields to rolling hills dotted with unfamiliar hamlets. He kept to the main paths, observing everything. The way people dressed, the tools they used, the quality of their livestock, the presence (or absence) of guards or patrols. Every detail was data, building his understanding of this new world.

By midday, his waterskin was half empty, and the dried meat, while sustaining, was profoundly unsatisfying compared to the spirit-infused delicacies he remembered.

’Mortals truly live harsh lives,’ he reflected, not with pity, but with detached acknowledgement. ’Constant struggle for basic survival. Vulnerable to everything.’ It reinforced his drive to regain power. Powerlessness was intolerable.

He spotted a small stream shaded by willow trees and paused to refill his waterskin and rest his legs. As he drank the cool, clear water, he scanned his surroundings. Habit. Even without divine sense, his combat instincts remained sharp.

A flicker of movement in the bushes upstream.

He tensed slightly, his hand casually moving closer to the knife at his belt.

A young deer emerged, cautiously stepping towards the water. It drank, its large eyes flicking nervously, then bounded away back into the woods.

Wang Jian relaxed slightly. ’Just wildlife.’ But the brief tension was a reminder. This wasn’t the relatively ordered (if dangerous) Chaos cosmos he knew. This was a lower realm, likely teeming with mundane and perhaps not-so-mundane dangers beyond human threats.

He pushed on. The sun began its descent, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple. He needed to find shelter for the night or risk traveling in darkness, which was foolish even for him in his current state.

He saw smoke curling up from a cluster of buildings nestled in a small valley ahead – a larger village or perhaps a small town. Hopeful, he increased his pace.

As he drew closer, he saw it was indeed a small town, larger than Green Bamboo but smaller than Willow Creek. It had a crude wooden palisade around it, likely for protection against bandits or beasts, and a pair of bored-looking men armed with rusty spears stood guard at the gate.

He approached confidently, projecting an air of a simple traveler.

”Halt! State your business!” one of the guards called out, straightening up slightly.

”Passing through,” Wang Jian replied calmly. ”Heading towards Willow Creek Town, eventually Yueyang City. Seeking lodging for the night.”

The guards eyed his simple clothes, his pack, the calluses on his hands. He looked like countless other peasant youths seeking work or traveling.

”From where?” the other guard asked gruffly.

”Green Bamboo Village, east of here,” Wang Jian answered truthfully.

The guards exchanged a glance. ”Bit far from home, ain’t ya?”

”Seeking opportunity,” Wang Jian said vaguely. ”Heard there’s work near the capital.”

They seemed satisfied. It was a common enough story.

”Alright. Five copper coins entry fee,” the first guard said, holding out a grimy hand.

Wang Jian suppressed a sigh. ’Even entering a mud-walled town requires payment.’ He fished out the coins from his pouch – a significant chunk of a peasant’s daily earnings. He handed them over.

The guard pocketed the coins. ”Inn’s down the main path, ’The Weary Traveller’. Don’t cause trouble.”

”Wouldn’t dream of it,” Wang Jian replied smoothly, stepping past them through the gate.

The town, named Riverbend according to a faded wooden sign, was cramped and muddy. Chickens and dogs roamed freely. The smell of woodsmoke, livestock, and unwashed bodies filled the air. Rough-looking men gathered outside a noisy tavern, while women hurried along with baskets.

It was primitive, but alive.

He easily found ’The Weary Traveller’ inn. It was a dilapidated two-story building, smoke billowing from its chimney. He pushed open the creaking door.

The common room was dimly lit by oil lamps, filled with rough wooden tables and benches. A few patrons – dusty merchants by their look, a couple of locals nursing cheap wine – glanced up as he entered, then lost interest. The air was thick with the smell of stale wine, pipe smoke, and greasy cooking.

A stout, red-faced innkeeper with a stained apron wiped down the counter. ”Need a room, lad?” his voice was rough but not unfriendly.

”Yes, please. Just for the night,” Wang Jian said. ”And perhaps some food?”

”Room’s ten coppers. Meal’s another five. Stew and black bread,” the innkeeper stated bluntly.

Wang Jian nodded, counting out the coins. Another significant expense. His silver wouldn’t last long at this rate. ’Need to find a way to acquire funds soon. Preferably without attracting attention.’

He took the heavy wooden key and found his room upstairs. It was tiny, containing only a straw-filled mattress on a wooden frame and a rickety stool. The single window overlooked a muddy alley. It was bleak, but private.

He returned downstairs for his meal. The stew was thin, greasy, with unidentifiable chunks of meat and vegetables. The bread was hard. He ate it anyway, listening intently to the conversations around him.

Mostly mundane gossip. Crop prices. Local disputes. Complaints about bandits on the northern road. A rumour about a strange glowing light seen over the Serpent’s Spine mountains again last week – dismissed by most as swamp gas or superstition.

Nothing useful.

He finished his meager meal and retreated to his room. He wedged the stool under the flimsy door handle – a minimal security measure, but better than nothing. He lay down on the lumpy mattress, staring into the darkness.

’This is slow,’ he admitted to himself. ’Traveling like a mortal, limited by mortal needs and dangers. If I had even Qi Condensation level one, I could travel faster, sense danger, wouldn’t need these squalid inns.’

The memory of soaring through the cosmos, commanding legions, bedding celestial beauties… it felt like a distant dream.

’Patience,’ he reminded himself firmly. ’This is the foundation stage. Every step, every observation, builds towards the goal. Rushing blindly without a plan is foolish.’

He focused on his breathing exercises, calming his mind, circulating the minuscule amount of blood-Qi his body naturally produced, refining it according to the foundational principles he knew, even without a formal Qi cultivation technique. It wouldn’t grant him power, but it maintained peak physical condition and kept his senses sharp.

Sleep eventually claimed him, his instincts remaining subconsciously alert even in rest.

The next few days followed a similar pattern. Walking, observing, resting in small towns or occasionally sleeping rough in sheltered spots when no village was near. He learned to read the signs of the land better, avoid potential trouble spots, and conserve his dwindling funds.

He saw poverty, hardship, resilience. He saw minor officials abusing their power, merchants haggling fiercely, families struggling. It was the unchanging backdrop of mortal existence.

On the fourth day out from Green Bamboo, he was traversing a sparsely wooded area when his sharpened senses caught the tell-tale signs: muffled voices ahead, the faint glint of poorly hidden metal off the path.

’Bandits.’ His hand rested on his knife hilt. ’At least three, possibly four. Amateur ambush setup.’

He could try to sneak past, but where was the fun in that? Besides, his coin pouch was feeling uncomfortably light.

He continued walking at a steady pace, seemingly oblivious.

As he passed a thick cluster of bushes, three figures burst out, brandishing crude swords and axes. They were gaunt, dressed in ragged clothes, their eyes holding a mixture of desperation and menace.

”Halt! Your money or your life, boy!” the leader, a burly man with a patchy beard, snarled.

A fourth man emerged from behind a tree, blocking the path behind Wang Jian.

Surrounded. For a normal traveler, a terrifying situation.

Wang Jian stopped, showing just a flicker of ’fear’ in his eyes, enough to make them overconfident. ”Money? I… I don’t have much. Just a traveler…”

”Don’t lie!” the leader growled, stepping closer. ”Hand over the pouch!”

”Alright, alright,” Wang Jian said, fumbling with the pouch at his belt, deliberately slow.

As the leader reached for it, Wang Jian moved.

His hand didn’t go for the pouch. It darted out, knife flashing in a blindingly fast, precise arc. Not a wild swing, but a targeted cut across the leader’s outstretched wrist tendons.

The leader screamed, dropping his sword, blood spurting.

Before the others could react to the sudden violence, Wang Jian exploded forward. He slammed the pommel of his knife into the temple of the second bandit, who had been rushing in with an axe. The man dropped like a stone, unconscious or dead.

The third bandit hesitated, momentarily stunned by the speed and brutality. That hesitation was fatal. Wang Jian spun, kicking the man’s knee sideways with a sickening crunch. As the bandit crumpled, Wang Jian drove his knife downwards into the man’s exposed neck. A clean, efficient kill.

The fourth bandit, blocking the rear, gaped in horror. He turned to run.

Wang Jian scooped up the fallen leader’s sword – crude, unbalanced, but better than nothing – and hurled it with practiced force. The heavy blade spun end-over-end, catching the fleeing bandit squarely in the back of the head. He collapsed without a sound.

Silence descended, broken only by the whimpering moans of the bandit leader clutching his ruined wrist.

Four bandits dealt with in less than ten seconds.

Wang Jian calmly wiped his knife clean on the clothes of the dead bandit. He surveyed the scene, his expression impassive.

’Crude. Desperate. Predictable.’

He walked over to the leader, who was staring at him with wide, terrified eyes.

”Where is your camp?” Wang Jian asked quietly.

The man whimpered, shaking his head.

Wang Jian pressed the tip of his bloody knife against the man’s good hand, pinning it to the ground. ”I won’t ask again.”

Pain and terror broke the man’s meager resolve. He sobbed out directions to a small cave hideout a mile off the path.

Wang Jian retrieved his thrown sword and his knife. He efficiently searched the bodies of the dead bandits, finding only a handful of copper coins and some stale bread. Pathetic.

He left the leader moaning on the path and followed the directions. He approached the cave cautiously. No other guards. Inside, he found a meager stash: a few more coins (mostly copper, one or two silver), some worn blankets, a pot, and sacks containing maybe a day or two’s worth of stolen, low-quality grain.

’Hardly worth the effort,’ he thought, though he took the silver and copper coins. Every bit helped. ’But good practice for keeping the mortal combat skills sharp.’

He didn’t linger. He left the cave and continued his journey, leaving the aftermath of the brief, brutal encounter behind him without a second thought. It was merely pest control.

Two weeks after leaving Green Bamboo Village, Wang Jian finally saw it in the distance: Yueyang City, the Prefecture Capital.

Even from miles away, it was impressive compared to the villages and towns he’d passed. High, sturdy stone walls rose from the plains, punctuated by watchtowers. Banners bearing the insignia of the Yue State fluttered in the breeze. A steady stream of traffic – merchant carts, travelers on foot or horseback, even a few sedan chairs carried by sweating porters – flowed towards the massive city gates.

’Now this is more like it,’ Wang Jian thought, a spark of anticipation igniting within him. ’Civilization. Which means structure, hierarchy, and most importantly… information hubs.’

The sheer scale compared to Riverbend Town was immense. This was a proper city, likely housing tens, if not hundreds, of thousands of people.

He joined the flow of traffic heading towards the main gate. Soldiers in polished leather armour and steel helmets stood guard, their eyes sharp, their spears held ready. They inspected carts, questioned travelers who looked suspicious, and collected an entry toll – significantly higher than Riverbend’s, requiring silver, not copper.

Wang Jian paid the fee without comment, his calm demeanor and simple appearance allowing him through without extra scrutiny. He stepped through the gate archway and into the city proper.

The noise hit him first. A cacophony of shouting merchants, rumbling carts, neighing horses, barking dogs, crying children, laughing patrons spilling from teahouses. It was a sensory overload after the relative quiet of the countryside.

The streets were wider here, paved with flagstones, though still crowded and dirty in places. Buildings pressed close together, ranging from simple wooden shops to multi-story brick structures with elegantly curved roofs. Banners and signs in unfamiliar scripts hung everywhere. The air was thick with a thousand smells – exotic spices, roasting meats, fragrant teas, sweating bodies, waste runoff.

He walked deeper into the city, absorbing the atmosphere, his eyes constantly scanning. He saw wealthy merchants in fine silks, stern-faced officials with retinues, beggars pleading for scraps, martial artists carrying weapons openly (though mostly mundane swords and spears, no sign of cultivator artifacts), scribes offering their services, vendors selling everything imaginable.

’Much more prosperous than the villages,’ he observed. ’Clear hierarchy. Wealth and poverty side-by-side. Opportunities exist here… and dangers.’

His first priority was finding lodging, somewhere relatively clean and secure where he could establish a temporary base. He avoided the cheapest-looking flophouses near the gate and sought out a moderately priced inn in a slightly less chaotic district.

’The Lucky Scholar Inn’. It looked clean enough from the outside. He entered.

The interior was bustling but orderly. The clientele seemed a mix of merchants, travelers, and perhaps students from a nearby academy, judging by their scholarly robes. This seemed like a better place to potentially overhear useful information than the rough taverns.

He secured a small, clean room for a few days, paying upfront with a portion of his ’acquired’ silver. He left his meager pack in the room and immediately headed back out.

Time to start listening.

He found a busy teahouse nearby, ordered the cheapest pot of tea, and took a seat in a corner where he could observe and overhear conversations without being conspicuous.

He listened for hours, filtering the endless stream of chatter. Business deals, family gossip, complaints about city taxes, discussions about recent government postings, rumours about border skirmishes with a neighbouring prefecture.

Then, a snippet caught his ear from a nearby table where two merchants were talking in low tones.

”...heard the Seven Stars Pavilion is looking for rare herbs again,” one merchant said. ”Paying top silver for anything potent. Especially anything that grows near the Serpent’s Spine.”

”Aye,” the other grunted. ”Dealing with them is risky, though. Heard they supply some… unusual clients. Folks who don’t like questions.”

’Seven Stars Pavilion? Dealing in rare herbs, specifically from near the mountains known for strange lights? Supplying ’unusual clients’?’ Wang Jian filed the name away. That sounded promising. Perhaps not cultivators themselves, but suppliers or intermediaries.

Later, from another table where some young men dressed like guards or mercenaries were boasting:

”...old Man Liao claims he saw a cultivator fly right over Blackstone Peak last month! On a sword!”

”Ha! Old Man Liao’s been drinking too much cheap wine again,” another scoffed. ”Flying swords? That’s stuff from storybooks.”

”Maybe,” the first speaker insisted, ”but others saw strange lights that night too. And Blackstone Peak… weird things happen up there.”

’Blackstone Peak. Another location near the Serpent’s Spine. Flying sword sightings, even if dismissed as drunken tales, are worth noting.’

He spent the rest of the afternoon and evening drifting through markets, eavesdropping in other teahouses and wine shops. He gathered more names, more rumours, more fragments.

The Jade Moon Sect, supposedly hidden deep within the Serpent’s Spine, rarely seen but occasionally recruiting disciples with ’special talents’.

The Blackwood Forest to the south, rumoured to be haunted by demonic beasts, sometimes attracting ’exorcists’ or ’masters’ seeking valuable beast cores.

Whispers of ’Spirit Stones’ being used as currency in certain high-end, exclusive transactions, far beyond the reach of silver or gold.

It was all fragmented, hazy, wrapped in layers of mortal ignorance and superstition. But patterns were emerging. The Serpent’s Spine mountains kept coming up. Specific locations like Blackstone Peak. Certain organizations like the Seven Stars Pavilion. The mention of Spirit Stones confirmed a cultivator economy existed separately from the mortal one.

’The information is here,’ Wang Jian thought as he finally returned to his inn room late that night. ’Scattered, unreliable, but present.’

He sat on his bed, organizing the fragments in his mind.

’Step one: Investigate the Seven Stars Pavilion. They deal in herbs, potentially supplying cultivators. They might have direct knowledge or contacts. Need to find a way to approach them without revealing my true interest immediately.’

’Step two: Gather more concrete information on locations like Blackstone Peak and the Jade Moon Sect. Maps, local guides familiar with the mountain paths, any records of recruitment drives.’

’Step three: Find a way to acquire Spirit Stones. Even one or two would be immensely valuable, perhaps allowing me to purchase a basic Qi Condensation manual if I find the right black market or intermediary.’

’Step four: Continue body tempering relentlessly. Need to be at peak mortal condition before attempting any risky ventures into cultivator territory.’

He felt a familiar thrill coursing through him. The hunt for knowledge, the strategic planning, the path towards power opening up, step by painstaking step. It was intoxicating.

’This Primal Universe… its challenges are significant,’ he mused, a predatory glint in his eyes reflecting the dim lamplight. ’But Wang Jian does not shy away from challenges.’

He closed his eyes, not to sleep, but to meditate, focusing his will, solidifying his plans, preparing for the next stage of his ascent from the primal dust. Yueyang City was just the beginning.