Villains Aren't Stepping Stones!

The gentle night breeze shook the branches of the ancient sweet-scented osmanthus tree, sending a fresh shower of tiny yellow flowers drifting down onto the round stone table.

The sweet fragrance hung thick in the air, mingling with the clean steam rising from the porcelain cups.

Yan Renhua poured more hot water into the teapot, her eyes bright with a soft, rare peace as she watched the two young people sitting before her.

Ye Hongyan set her cup down on the stone with a light click. Her expression grew attentive, her posture straightening as she turned toward her mother.

Ye Hongyan reached into her wide crimson sleeve, pulling out a long, slender box carved from clear, deep-sea cold jade.

The surface of the box gave off a thin, cool mist that smelled of fresh morning dew and wild mint, keeping whatever lay inside safe from the rot of time.

”Mother,” Ye Hongyan said softly, placing the box in the middle of the table and pushing it gently across the stone toward Yan Renhua’s hands. ”This is for your eleventh cycle. It is a Ten Thousand Year Old Life Extending Celestial Ginseng. If you brew a single thin slice with your morning tea every ten days, it will wash the cold dampness from your old joints, soothe your lungs, and extend your lifespan, although you probably won’t be needing it for the time being.”

Yan Renhua’s hands trembled slightly as she rested her fingers on the cold stone casing.

She shook her head with a gentle scolding look, though her eyes were shining with tears. ”You silly girl, why waste such a rare treasure on an old woman who does nothing but water orchids? You should have kept it for yourself.”

”Your health is never a waste, Mother,” Ye Hongyan replied firmly, her lips curving into a warm, stubborn smile. ”I have plenty of treasures. This one belongs to you.”

Beside her, Haoran smiled faintly. He lifted his hand, his sleeve falling back to reveal his smooth wrist.

With a simple thought, a small flash of pale silver light flickered from his finger, and a flat wooden chest appeared upon the table.

The chest was simple, built from aged spirit-pine that held a natural, clean wood grain without any flashy gold paint or bright gems.

But the moment it rested on the stone, the air in the small yard grew calm, as if an invisible hand had smoothed away every sharp draft.

Haoran pushed the box forward with a respectful nod.

”Aunt Yan,” Haoran said in a calm, clear voice. ”This is a small gift from me. Inside is a bottle of Hundred-Herb Jade Dew and a strand of Heart-Calming Silk from my clan’s eastern mountain groves. If you place the silk beneath your sleeping mat, bad dreams and outside noise will never disturb your rest. The dew can be taken with warm spring water whenever your inner channels feel dry. May your days remain peaceful and long.”

Yan Renhua looked at the fine wooden chest, sensing the deep, quiet purity resting within the wood.

She recognized these, and the effects of these treasures is far more than what Haoran had describe!

She did not know the full, terrifying depth of the Shen Clan’s treasuries, but she could see the clean, unhurried respect in the young man’s eyes.

He did not give gifts to show off his wealth; he offered them simply because he cared for her daughter.

”Thank you, Haoran,” Yan Renhua said softly, placing her hand gently over the wooden lid. ”You are far too generous to an old mother. I will treasure it.”

Just then...

...The sound of light, hurried footsteps came from the pebble walkway beyond the wisteria gate.

A young maid dressed in the neat blue tunic of the inner residence stopped at the edge of the moss.

Her head was bowed low, her hands folded tightly in front of her apron, her breath coming in quick, nervous gasps as she kept her eyes fixed on the floor, not daring to look directly at group.

”Excuse this servant for disturbing,” the girl stammered, bowing low. ”Madam... the patriarch has sent word from the front hall. The guests have all arrived, and the banquet will start soon, and Madam Yan Renhua should prepare to take her seat beside the main table.”

Yan Renhua’s smile faded slightly, replaced by a quiet, resigned stillness.

The warm light in her eyes dulled, covered by the heavy, familiar mask of duty she had worn for hundreds of winters.

”Tell the patriarch I will change into the ceremonial robes and arrive shortly,” Yan Renhua said in a calm, flat tone.

The young maid bowed three times in relief and hurried away down the path, her footsteps quickly fading around the bamboo bend.

The yard fell into a cold silence.

The warmth of the tea seemed to evaporate in the chill mountain wind.

Ye Hongyan’s hands curled into fists on the stone table, her knuckles white.

The gentle daughter who had smiled moments ago vanished, replaced by the proud Sage of the Imperial Academy.

”Mother,” Ye Hongyan said, her voice turning cold, flat, and hard as iron. ”We will be leaving then. We won’t be attending the banquet.”

She did not want to sit in that noisy hall.

She did not want to watch her father laugh with his mouth full of wine, trading flattering words with greedy elders who only wanted to use Haoran’s name to scare their neighbors.

To sit there and play the role of an obedient, smiling daughter for a man she despised was something her pride would never permit.

Yan Renhua looked up at her daughter’s rigid back and a deep, sorrowful sigh slipped from her lips.

Yan Renhua wanted her to stay.

Her heart ached. A mother who saw her child once every few years naturally wanted to keep her close, to sit beside her during the feast, to share food from the same bowl, and to hold her hand while the music played.

But she also knew her daughter’s relationship with her father, so she didn’t insist.

She had watched the bitter cracks form between them a thousand years ago.

She had seen the cold calculation in her husband’s eyes when he tried to sell Hongyan off to the Shi Clan like a piece of jade, and she had seen the fire in Hongyan’s chest when she left the house.

A wound carved that deep could not be stitched together by a bowl of banquet broth.

Pushing her daughter into that hall would only bring shouting, broken tables, and bitter blood.

Yan Renhua stood up slowly from the stone stool, smoothing down the folds of her lavender gown.

She stepped forward, reaching out her hands to gently cup Ye Hongyan’s cheeks one last time.

”Be careful on the road, my child,” Yan Renhua whispered, her voice trembling with soft motherly love. ”Do not let the anger in your chest burn your own heart. Eat well, stay warm, and live your own life in the academy.”

She turned toward Haoran, bowing her head slightly with genuine warmth. ”Take care of her, Haoran. Her temper is fierce, but her heart is soft. Farewell to both of you.”

”Aunt Yan, take care. And congratulations,” Haoran replied, bowing his head in return.

With a final, lingering look at her daughter, Yan Renhua turned around and walked slowly down the stone path toward her private dressing quarters, her thin shadow trailing behind her in the falling yellow flowers.

They watched her leave.

The round stone gate stood empty, the wisteria vines swaying gently in the quiet wind.

And soon, Ye Hongyan sighed.

The heavy breath escaped her lips, sounding weary, old, and full of dust.

She closed her eyes, resting both hands flat against the cold stone of the table, her head hanging low.

The proud, untouchable aura of a Heavenly Saint seemed to pull inward, leaving her looking smaller, tired, and weighed down by memories she could not shake off.

”Haoran,” she murmured, her voice barely carrying over the trickle of the stone fountain. ”Am I being childish?”

She looked up at him, her eyes searching his face, full of a quiet, uncharacteristic doubt.

”A mortal lives barely seventy or eighty years. To them, a slight from decades past might fade into nothing because their time is short, their bones turn to dust so quickly, and their anger runs out of breath. But we cultivate the Dao. A thousand years have passed since my father tried to marry off to the Shi Clan.”

She looked down at her pale, clenched fingers.

”A thousand years is enough time for mountains to crumble into hills. It is enough time for wide rivers to dry up into wagon ruts. Yet every time I see his face, every time I hear him laugh that loud, false laugh, the coldness in my chest is just as sharp as the day he threw the iron key onto the stone floor. The elders tell me that holding onto a grudge for ten centuries is petty. They say that at the Heavenly Saint realm, one should look down upon mortal squabbles like passing clouds, forgive blood relations, and let the dust settle.”

She bit her lip, her voice dropping into a fragile whisper. ”Am I just being small-minded? Am I being a foolish, stubborn girl who refuses to let go of an old wound?”

Haoran stood quietly beside her beneath the falling petals.

His p robes hung straight, untouched by the breeze. His golden eyes remained calm, deep, and steady as an unlit well.

He did not rush to offer empty comfort, nor did he dismiss her pain with sweet, shallow words.

He took a slow step forward, resting his hand gently over hers on the cold stone.

His palm was warm, firm, and grounding, cutting through the chill that had crept into her fingers.

”You are not wrong, Hongyan,” Haoran said, his voice low, steady, and certain.

He looked out over the quiet garden, where the yellow flowers were slowly being buried beneath the falling leaves.

Ye Hongyan stared at him.

”People who speak of letting things go are usually the ones who held the whip, not the ones who took the lashes on their backs,” Haoran continued, his tone carrying the cold, clear truth of someone who had looked upon the ways of the world without illusions. ”The weak preach forgiveness because they fear revenge. The guilty preach forgiveness because they want to sleep at night without checking the locks on their doors. They point to the passage of time and call it medicine, but time is just empty air moving across rocks. Time does not heal wounds; it only lets weeds grow over the blood.”

Ye Hongyan looked up, her pupils reflecting his calm, unwavering face.

”A grudge is not a toy that you drop when you grow old,” Haoran said softly. ”It is a line drawn in the dirt that tells the world who you are. Your father did not merely arrange a marriage. He took the girl who trusted his roof, weighed her like a sack of grain, and tried to trade her freedom to fatten his own wallet. The fact that a thousand years have passed changes nothing about what he did. It only means that for a thousand years, he has lived in comfort while you carried the scar in your life.”

He squeezed her fingers lightly, his eyes meeting hers with absolute clarity.

”Cultivating the Dao is not about turning yourself into a piece of smooth, feelingless wood. The so-called sages who claim that breaking through realms means erasing your likes and hates are fools who have forgotten why they picked up a blade in the first place. You do not climb to the peak of the heavens just to smile at the people who pushed you into the mud when your legs were small. You climb so that no one can ever push you again.”

He looked toward the direction of the front hall, where the distant, muffled sound of drums and gongs signaled the start of the great feast.

”If you forgave him today, it would not be wisdom. It would be a lie to yourself,” Haoran stated, his voice flat, honest, and unshakeable. ”You would be pretending that your pain had no weight, that your tears were cheap, and that his greed was excused simply because his hair has turned grey. Why should you lie to make his old age comfortable? You owe him nothing. You survived his house, you built your own name, and you stand as a master in your own right. If your chest is cold toward him, then let it be cold. That coldness is the armor that kept you whole.”

Ye Hongyan listened to every single word.

The tight knot that had twisted inside her ribs for decades slowly began to loosen.

The lingering guilt—the quiet, nagging voice that whispered that she was being a cruel, unfilial daughter for refusing to play along with the clan’s hollow cheer—evaporated like morning mist under a clear sun.

He didn’t ask her to be broad-minded. He didn’t ask her to show the fake magnanimity of an immortal, instead, he stood beside her and told her that her hatred was justified, that her boundaries were real, and that her coldness was her own right.

A long, soft breath left her chest, and the tension completely drained from her shoulders.

A genuine, gentle smile returned to her lips, her eyes softening as she looked at the young man holding her hand.

”You always have a way of making the harshest truths sound like sweet water,” she murmured, her thumb lightly rubbing the back of his knuckles.

”It’s simply the truth,” Haoran replied, the corner of his mouth curving into that familiar, easy smirk. ”Come. The carriage is waiting outside, and the air in this city smells of cheap wine and old schemes. Let us leave before the noise reaches this yard.”

”Yes,” Ye Hongyan nodded firmly, her head held high once more. ”Let us go home.”

With their fingers linked together, the two of them turned away from the stone table and walked side by side down the pebble path, stepping out of the courtyard and leaving the Ye Family compound behind without a single look back.