Villains Aren't Stepping Stones!

The thick, acrid pall of smoke hanging over the jagged skyline of Ye Heavenly City had begun to thin, shredded by the bitter mid-morning mountain gusts.

Below the high cloud line, the broad stone avenues and towering residential compounds bore the raw, ugly scars of a city clawing its way back from the brink of total annihilation.

Broken wagon wheels, scorched pavestones, and the dark, rust-colored streaks of dried blood marked every major intersection, bearing silent witness to the savage rebellion that had torn through the clan’s heart only hours prior.

High above the northern gates, a sudden ripple fractured the overcast firmament and Haoran appeared.

His silhouette cut through the drifting soot like a falling feather, his imperial black and gold robes, stitched with coiling five-clawed dragons along the hem, were entirely unsoiled by the brutal clash that had played out leagues away.

The pale golden locks framing his face caught the dim sunlight, while his radiant golden eyes—calm, deep, and unreadable—swept across the sprawling rooftops of the estate.

When his boots made contact with the cracked white marble of the grand courtyard, not a whisper of dust was disturbed.

Scores of heavily armored sentries, clad in dented iron breastplates and gripping blood-notched halberds, stood vigilant along the balustrades and entrance arches.

Their bandages were freshly tied, their faces smeared with grime, ash, and the cold sweat of survival.

Yet the moment their bloodshot eyes landed upon the young master of the Shen Clan, every weapon remained lowered.

Men who had spent the night butchering traitors involuntarily shrank back against the carved stone pillars, pressing their backs flat against the masonry.

They bowed their heads toward the ground in profound, shivering deference.

They had seen this youth arrive alongside their eldest young mistress, and rumors had it that he’s the young master of an Immortal Clan.

More importantly, the suffocating, innate dignity radiating from his posture made the very idea of drawing steel feel like an act of immediate suicide.

Haoran stepped past the heavy bronze doors that hung half-off their twisted hinges, entering the cavernous hall.

The hall was vast, its high cedar rafters still black with the aftermath of extinguished fire talismans.

Messengers in light leather tunics and battered squad captains hurried back and forth across the bloodstained floor, their leather boots splashing through puddles of wash water as servants frantically scrubbed the floor.

Ye Hongyan stood at the center of the raised dais, like a pillar of authority amidst the wreckage.

Her dress, torn slightly along the left sleeve and hemmed with the ash of the fallen elders, billowed lightly around her ankles.

In her hand, she held a stack of jade slips and scorched bamboo registers, issuing decrees with a voice that was cold, razor-sharp, and utterly devoid of hesitation.

”Station two hundred archers on the southern grain stores,” she commanded, handing a glowing jade slip to a kneeling squad leader. ”If any elder from the merchant associations attempts to inflate the price of dried provisions by even a single copper, drag him to the central square and take his hands. Seal the northern gate until dusk. Clear the rubble from the medical ward first; the wounded retainers take precedence over rebuilding the decorative gardens.”

The three captains before her bowed low, their iron gauntlets striking their armor with a crisp, unified clang. ”Understood, Eldest Young Mistress!”

They nodded and left to execute the order, turning on their heels and sprinting down the central aisle, their hurried strides echoing through the drafty hall.

As they passed by Haoran, they paused, bowed and cupped their hands at him, before continuing on.

Haoran waited until everyone left before he stepped over a shattered piece of jade pottery, his boots clicking softly against the marble in a steady, unhurried cadence.

Stopping two paces before the edge of the stone steps, he tilted his head slightly, his golden eyes observing the dark, faint circles beneath her lashes and the tension lingering in her shoulders.

”You seem exhausted.”

Ye Hongyan sighed, letting her shoulders drop by a fraction of an inch as the heavy facade of the terrifying Heavenly Saint slipped away.

She rubbed the bridge of her nose with thumb and forefinger, letting out a breath that sounded like dry leaves rustling in an autumn gale.

”Be confident and take off the ’seem’. I am exhausted.”

A faint, wry smirk pulled at the corner of Haoran’s lips. ”Is that so? The peerless Sage of the Imperial Academy, known as the Peach Blossom Saint and the one who is the closest to replacing the Sky Cloud Venerable, who once cut down heavenly tribulations, actually feel exhausted?”

Ye Hongyan rolled her eyes, tossing the scorched wooden registry onto a nearby table with a loud, clattering thud.

”Heavenly lightning is easy and predictable. It comes from the sky, it makes a loud noise, and you either cut it in half or it burns your soul. These clan elders, however, are like dog shit that sticks to your boots. Half of them are weeping about their burned wine cellars, the other half are trying to claim the seized spirit mines of their dead cousins, and every five minutes someone asks me whether we should execute a traitor or make him pay a fine.”

”A heavy burden for someone who swore she was only visiting for a single cup of tea,” Haoran remarked, his tone light and dry. ”Perhaps you should have let them burn the cellars. It would save you the trouble of counting the broken jars.”

”Don’t give me ideas,” she muttered, crossing her arms over her chest, though the tightness around her eyes softened under his steady presence. ”If I burned the cellars, my father would get up from his bed just to cough blood on my boots and complain about the vintage. Speaking of which, you took your time. I thought you had flown halfway back to the central continent to avoid the smell of smoke.”

”I was merely attending to a stray pest that needed proper disposal,” Haoran answered smoothly, omitting the ruin of the Star Chasing Immortal King and the complete erasure of the Sword Emperor. ”A walk in the fresh air does wonders for the mood.”

Ye Hongyan scoffed softly, shaking her head. ”A pest that required you to vanish across three mountain ranges. Truly, Young Master Shen’s definition of a leisurely stroll is terrifying.”

”Don’t be sarcastic. I’m telling the truth.” Haoran chuckled, and Ye Hongyan also seemed to ease up at their playful banter.

Just then, Haoran noticed that something seems to have changed with her, so he furrowed his brows and looked closely at her posture.

The bitter, suffocating resentment that had curled inside her like a frozen snake whenever the Ye Clan was mentioned, the cold, sharp barrier she had worn like armor ever since they departed the Imperial Academy, was gone.

In its place was a quiet, contemplative stillness.

Her shoulders were weary, but the deep, agonizing tension that had gripped her jaw for a thousand years had melted away into something soft and reflective.

”You seem more relieved now. Did something happen?”

Ye Hongyan paused.

Her fingers lightly brushed against the cuff of her sleeve, where the communication talisman still rested against her skin.

She looked out through the tall, shattered windows of the hall, gazing toward the quiet inner courtyards where the ancient plum trees stood dusted with ash.

The memory of her father’s bloody, battered frame, thrown over her mother’s paralyzed body, taking bone-crushing blows from five Earthly Saints without retreating an inch, flashed through her mind, accompanied by the raw, weeping confession of an old man who had to choose between her daughter’s happiness, and the clan’s future.

”Well,” she began softly, her voice dropping into a tender, somber register, ”you could say I understand my father a little bit better now.”

She has yet to forgive him. After all, thousand years of hate wouldn’t just magically vanish overnight, but now, it’s different.

She hated him, at the same time, she understands him.

Haoran observed the shift in her demeanor, his golden eyes seeing the profound knot that had finally unraveled inside her heart.

He did not pry into the specific details of the words spoken between father and daughter; some debts of blood and family were meant to remain between those who shared the lineage.

”I see,” Haoran murmured, nodding gently. ”How are your parents?”

With this commotion, and the fact that it was Hongyan giving the orders, made him come to a conclusion that her parents must’ve been injured.

Under normal circumstances, the Patriarch of a prominent clan would never allow a daughter who had severed ties with the family to stand on the central dais and command the standing army, even if they had somehow made up.

From what Haoran saw, Ye Liuman was a proud, boastful man who guarded his face and authority jealously.

For Hongyan to be signing death warrants, executing branch elders, and redistributing spirit mines in the open meant that the master of the house was physically incapable of sitting on his throne, and Yan Renhua was undoubtedly by his side.

”They’re fine,” Ye Hongyan answered, her tone carrying a quiet, genuine warmth that was rare for her. ”The poison was deep, and he took three needles to the spine along with a fractured core, but the healing pills I brought stabilized his foundation. Mother is taking care of him right now.”

A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched her lips, colored by a touch of wry amusement.

”She has him pinned to the bed with three layers of medicinal plaster. Every time he tries to sit up to ask about the treasury, she threatens to pour cold bitter tea down his throat. He won’t be barking orders at the clan for at least three months. It’s the quietest the inner residence has been in four hundred winters.”

”That’s good,” Haoran said. ”At least now, they are not in danger.”

The heavy scent of dried blood and wet ash in the hall was suffocating, clinging to the tapestries and lingering in the cold drafts.

He could see the strain humming beneath her skin, the weariness of a Heavenly Saint who had fought through a rebellion, purged a city, and confronted a thousand years of buried trauma all before the sun had reached its noon peak.

Haoran slowly took her hands.

His palms were warm, firm, and steady, closing over her pale, calloused fingers.

The contact was gentle, an unhurried, grounding presence that cut through the lingering adrenaline and exhaustion humming through her veins.

Ye Hongyan blinked, slightly taken aback by the sudden contact in the middle of the grand hall where some guards and elders could come any second, but she did not pull away.

Instead, her fingers instinctively curled into his grip, finding comfort in the solid, unyielding heat of his touch.

”Let’s go,” Haoran murmured, his golden eyes meeting hers with calm, effortless assurance. ”Let’s take a walk and relax yourself a bit.”

Ye Hongyan looked at their joined hands, then looked up into his handsome, relaxed face.

The lingering weight on her chest seemed to lift entirely, replaced by a soft, quiet peace.

”Alright,” she whispered, letting out a long breath. ”Let’s take a walk.”

Without looking back at the piles of scrolls, the bloodstained steps, or the bowing guards, the two of them turned away from the grand hall, their hands firmly intertwined as they walked side by side out into the cool, open air.