Ren exhaled slowly beneath the pine, flames flickering faintly across his inner domain. Step by step, his cultivation continued to rise. Too fast. Too smooth. And now: Late Step Six.
He could feel it now. The shift in atmosphere. The subtle tension in gazes not spoken, in footsteps not announced.
Other prodigies—those with main-character syndrome—were being drawn to him. Not for guidance. Not for respect.
For confrontation.
They didn't understand him.
They didn't believe in luck.
And they certainly didn't like how the world kept bending for someone so plain.
Ren looked across the courtyard—past the flowering pavilions and calligraphy banners—and locked eyes with Liáng Xu and Fei Yan. Their cultivation had surged to Peak Step Five, driven by humiliation and envy.
They didn't speak.
But Ren saw it.
Deep behind the eyes, swirling like stormclouds behind glass:
"We are handsome!"
"We should have them!"
"This is unfair!"
Three silent screams, coated in pride and perfume.
It wasn't just about cultivation anymore. It was about attention.
Ren had gained the favour of Lady Yueh and Fairy Jin, two radiant pillars of sect prestige. And worse?
He hadn't chased it.
He hadn't flaunted it.
He just was there—quiet, plain, infuriatingly inevitable.
Ren considered halting his cultivation. Not from fear. But from strategy.
Every breakthrough drew more unwanted heat. Every step forward brought more insects.
And he could see it—behind polished robes, behind polite bows—the unmistakable glint of jealousy ripened into hatred.
Lady Yueh intervened first. Her voice was like frost cutting silk.
"You two will not appear before me until your cultivation and your personalities evolve. You're not just weak—you're spoiled."
Then, Fairy Jin, eyes narrowed and voice icily calm:
"You've become a disappointment. Not because of your failures. But because of your character. It disgusts me."
The two disciples bowed—ashamed, stung, quietly ruined.
And Ren?
He watched. Unmoved.
He hadn't stolen their thunder.
He hadn't pursued their master's.
He existed. And the Dao, for reasons it refused to disclose, was amused.
Back in the flaming void of his domain, Emperor Shadow sat reclined upon his obsidian throne—flames licking the air around his dragon-etched armour, mask unmoving, but smiling.
This little game of theirs?
It wasn't noble.
It wasn't fair.
But Ren was having far too much fun to care.
Liáng Xu and Fei Yan continued.
They could not.
Their cultivation had stalled. Their favour evaporated. And Shen Wuyin—barefoot beneath the pine, squirrel half-asleep on his shoulder—stood where they once belonged.
They dropped to their knees before Lady Yueh, tears staining silk, pride unravelling.
Fei Yan spoke first, voice trembling, half-choked between sobs:
"Master… please. Show us mercy. We beg you."
"We can't stand it—look at him. What has he done to deserve your attention?"
"What has he given you… that we haven't, for all these years?"
Liáng Xu remained quiet, but his eyes overflowed with tears, his chest rising with unspeakable grief.
Fei pressed on, the wound festering:
"We sacrificed everything. Since we were children, we devoted ourselves to you. You were happy with us. Were you not?"
"You treated us with kindness… and now you treat us like trash."
His voice rose, cracked—
"All because you've found a better pet."
Silence followed.
Not just from Lady Yueh.
But from Fairy Jin.
From the squirrel.
From the heavens themselves.
Ren watched, impassive. He felt the depth of their pain. The heartbreak. The loss.
But he did not interrupt.
Because in their words, he saw the truth:
They loved not her heart, but her attention.
They valued not the bond, but the position it held.
And love wrapped in entitlement is only ever a transaction.
Lady Yueh's expression did not soften.
Fairy Jin looked away.
And somewhere in Ren's domain, upon a throne of flame and void, Emperor Shaow chuckled, without pity.
The mask never smiled.
But the fire did.
Lady Yueh's voice thundered through the courtyard—not with rage, but with finality.
"How dare you raise your voice to your master," she said, each word measured like judgment carved in stone.
"I never treated you like pets. I treated you like sons—the sons I never had. And now I see I raised you wrong. I gave you warmth when you needed temperance. I gave you praise when you needed silence."
Her eyes locked onto theirs, unwavering.
"It was Shen Wuyin who revealed the truth. Not through lectures. Not through sermons. Just by being himself. Through the way you responded to him. Through how you lashed out at those who surpassed you."
She inhaled slowly.
"I do love you both. That will never change. But it will never be more than a master's love because I cultivate the Dao, not attention, not sentiment, not vanity. I am not interested in Shen Wuyin romantically. Neither is Fairy Jin. We respect him because he helped us push beyond our limits. We honour that."
She turned from them, her robes flickering with qi.
"We show our generosity in letting you stand among us still."
Her final words fell like chilled rain:
"Leave. Sleep. Reflect. Say no more today. Or what you regret tomorrow… will be your legacy."
They listened. Or tried to.
Knees pressed to the floor, heads bowed in shame, Liáng Xu and Fei Yan heard every word their master spoke.
Her disappointment.
Her lessons.
Her love.
But none of it reached the core.
Because in the echo chamber of their minds, all they heard was one name,
repeated like thunder,
like salt rubbed into memory:
Shen Wuyin.
Shen Wuyin helped her break through.
Shen Wuyin showed humility.
Shen Wuyin revealed their flaws.
Shen Wuyin earned respect.
It was always him.
The background character.
The anomaly.
The insult to narrative privilege.
Their master's voice had grown gentle near the end, even merciful—but it didn't matter. That mercy felt like dismissal. That insight felt like betrayal.
To them, her praise was just abandonment dressed in eloquence.
Liáng Xu's tears burned with quiet rage.
Fei Yan's thoughts twisted in self-contradiction.
And as they were dismissed—told to sleep, reflect, improve—they left not with clarity…
But with a deeper ache.
Because the most brutal truth of all?
They had loved her.
And they believed, in their heart of hearts, that she had once loved them too.
But now that love felt small.
Dwarfed.
Unable to compete with the respect given to someone who hadn't even asked for it.
Before they left, Liáng Xu and Fei Yan cast one final glance behind them.
Lady Yueh stood beneath the twilight sky—elegant, composed, a living portrait of cultivation perfected. Her beauty was legendary; her presence was magnetic.
And Fairy Jin, radiant beside her, no less revered. Powerful. Poised. Every gesture laced with refined qi, every breath harmonised with the Dao.
To their eyes, it was maddening.
Two women capable of bending sect law with a thought—one, the current Sect Master. The other, her senior sister, who had willingly stepped aside and given the title to Lady Yueh years before.
Both of them...
Speaking to Shen Wuyin.
Not flirtatiously. Not ceremonially.
But with respect so profound it grated against their hearts.
It was ridiculous.
It was unbearable.
Ren didn't have the looks.
He didn't have the charm.
And yet—he had their attention.
Not because he demanded it.
Because he had earned it, quietly.
Liáng Xu clenched his fists.
Fei Yan swallowed the ache.
And with one final glance at the women who had once made them feel invincible, they turned away—haunted not by loss, but by how much of that loss had been self-inflicted.
Liáng Xu and Fei Yan
sat cross-legged within their cultivation chamber, the air thick with spiralling qi and unshed rage. The walls trembled with effort, not from enlightenment, but from ambition sharpened into obsession.
They weren't cultivating peace.
They were cultivating revenge.
Step Six was no longer a goal.
It was a necessity.
A weapon.
In their minds, Shen Wuyin wasn't just an anomaly.
He was the reason.
The reason for their loss.
The reason for their humiliation.
The reason Lady Yueh had stopped smiling was when they entered a room.
And that damn squirrel—grinning like a divine joke with paws curled in mockery—was no better. Spirit beast or cosmic parasite, it didn't matter. It had to go.
Their thoughts grew dark.
Sharp.
Plotting.
They would kill him.
Quietly.
Elegantly.
Not out of wrath. Out of strategy.
They'd make it look like a rival sect attack—clean, tragic, narratively convenient. Perhaps a poisoned technique. Maybe an ambush from rogue disciples. Anything to earn sympathy.
And once Shen Wuyin was gone?
Once the squirrel's legend was scattered?
They'd step forward.
Show grief.
Show strength.
Win their master's attention back.
Not as sons.
As something more.
They looked to Lady Yueh.
To Fairy Jin, who had once smiled at them with patience and pride.
Who had once considered them promising.
Who now saw them as faded echoes behind Ren's rising shadow.
But still, they hoped.
Still, they believed.
If Shen Wuyin vanished…
Maybe they'd be worthy again.
Ren sensed it before the wind changed.
Liáng Xu and Fei Yan had begun plotting. They were cultivating spite now, refining envy into blade techniques. But Ren didn't flinch. Didn't warn his master. Didn't break the rhythm of his naps.
He played along.
Let them try.
Let them scheme.
It was going to be useful.
Opportunities ripen under pressure. And Ren—ever the background anomaly—could already see the value:
He'd gain insight into their techniques. He'd set a trap only fools would fall for. He'd kill them quickly. No mercy. No theatrics. Just clean mythic deletion.
And then? A moment of peace.
Brief. Fleeting.
Enough to enjoy a few snacks and teach the squirrel the basics of flame manipulation (a terrifying concept, really).
But Ren knew what came next.
A new protagonist would arrive.
Carrying fate.
Brimming with tragic backstory.
Drenched in misunderstood nobility.
They'd challenge him.
Not because he wronged them.
Just because the Dao was bored.
Ren sighed.
"This novel needs a filler arc," he muttered.
Even Emperor Shadow, watching from his flaming throne of void, snorted flame through his dragon helm.
Ren yawned from the branch of the old pine, its bark warm against his back, the wind polite in its passing.
Below, the squirrel stirred—blinking once, then twice, before trotting over and nibbling delicately from Ren's open hand. When it was done, it rubbed its face against his cheek, leaving a tiny puff of fur and the kind of affection most cultivators dream of but never earn.
They adored him.
Not because he was glorious.
Because he was present.
He smiled, then stretched, and strolled toward the stairway that spiralled up to the peak. No aura flared. No declarations followed. Just a quiet ascent.
At the summit, he sat cross-legged and opened his palm.
Qi welcomed him like an old friend.
He absorbed it slowly.
Deliberately.
Without hunger.
I just wanted to let you know that there was no need to rush.
Others cultivated to escape death.
To lengthen their lives.
To defy heaven.
To rewrite fate.
But Ren?
He had already passed that threshold.
Infinite lifespan.
Limitless power.
Even sect records struggled to define his state.
He didn't defy heaven or fate.
He was heaven and fate.
Not because he claimed it.
Because the Dao had nowhere else to go.
So he sat.
Quiet.
Unbothered.
Ren opened his eyes, slowly, like someone interrupting a dream not out of urgency but mild curiosity. The qi still pulsed around him, soft and obedient. The squirrel on his chest yawned in sync, clearly unimpressed by mortal danger.
Lady Yueh's voice echoed across the mountain, charged with urgency and cultivated command:
"Attention, all disciples! Another sect approaches—hostile intent confirmed! Defend your positions. This is not a drill!"
Ren didn't panic.
He chuckled.
Because, of course.
Of course, Liáng Xu and Fei Yan couldn't stand failure in silence.
They had made a deal, probably with the Blood Orchid Sect or some similarly melodramatic faction obsessed with vengeance and robes that sparkle under moonlight.
A shortcut to revenge.
A borrowed storm.
The kind of plan that thinks chaos equals restoration.
Ren stood, brushed off a pine needle, and looked toward the horizon.
"So they brought help."
He cracked his knuckles—not for intimidation, but because one was still stiff from feeding the squirrel a lopsided walnut.
"They should've brought something stronger," Ren muttered, unsheathing his sword with casual disappointment, like someone reviewing a poorly written dinner menu.
He launched skyward.
Not like a soaring cultivator.
Like a mistake trying to correct itself midair.
Deliberately clumsy.
His flight zig-zagged like a talisman drawn by a squirrel with artistic ambitions.
He tilted left. Overcorrected right. Spiraled. Drifted.
And landed face-first, perfectly beside Fairy Jin's feet.
She didn't flinch.
She just exhaled elegantly.
"Why does he act like an idiot every time?" she thought, resigned.
"He's absurdly talented. Even Yueh agrees."
From above, Lady Yueh, Sect Master of Glass Lotus, watched with her signature stillness—an unreadable mask that only cracked when Ren did something particularly unnecessary.
"He must have his reason," they both thought.
"Even if it's some squirrel-induced philosophy of ironic disruption."
Then—
A voice split the air like a challenge rehearsed in front of a mirror:
"Glass Lotus Sect! Today I claim your sect, your resources, your disciples."
"I've tolerated this peace treaty long enough."
He strode from the mist—late thirties, cloak burdened with oversized power symbols, confidence sculpted from self-delusion. The kind of man whose manual likely opened with "Written by a prodigy, for future prodigies."
Fairy Jin narrowed her eyes.
Lady Yueh raised her hand.
Ren rolled onto his back, stared at the clouds, and muttered:
"This script's getting predictable."
Lady Yueh's voice rang out
, sharp as breaking jade:
"Sect Master of Blood Orchid Sect—you are the one who shattered the treaty. Don't expect mercy from me or mine."
Her words echoed across the courtyard. Petals lifted. Qi stirred.
The man—regal cloak, contempt carved into his expression—gave her a long, bitter smile.
"Be quiet, Yueh."
He said it with dismissive authority. Not bravado—memory.
He spoke not to a rival.
But to someone he used to know.
"Last I recall," he said, stepping forward, "it was your master who killed my father. A thousand years ago. You remember that, don't you?"
He tilted his head.
"Or is your memory as brittle as your bones, old hag?"
Fairy Jin flinched.
The disciples tensed.
Even Ren raised an eyebrow, half-impressed by the sheer recklessness.
Yuēn Sīzhào's voice rang out
, brittle with contempt and grief, dressed in performance:
"We had a great friendship once, Yueh. As children, even more, if I recall."
"But your obsession with the Dao made you forget. Forget us. Forget everything."
He stepped forward, eyes gleaming with ancestral malice.
"So let's forget it together. Today, I kill you. Justice for my father's death."
"You cold, heartless bitch."
The courtyard went quiet.
Petals froze midair.
Even the wind folded out of the scene, tactfully.
Ren blinked.
The squirrel flinched, one paw half-raised.
He lay sprawled near Fairy Jin, watching tensions brew like overheated tea.
"Well, that escalated dramatically," Ren thought.
"Good delivery. Terrible pacing."
Then his eyes moved—not to Sīzhào, but to Liáng Xu and Fei Yan, standing beside Lady Yueh.
They weren't pleased.
Not shaken.
And certainly not protective.
No, Ren caught it immediately.
They didn't look angry at Sīzhào.
They looked irritated.
Like lovers watching someone flirt with the person they'd already claimed in their heads.
Still devoted. Still obsessed.
But not to justice.
To Yueh.
And now Sīzhào—bold, venomous, theatrical—had wandered into their story without permission.
Ren nearly chuckled.
Nearly.
He smoothed the grin into a smirk, whispered to the squirrel:
"They thought they'd summoned a sword. Instead, they got a spotlight thief."
And Ren knew.
This wasn't about defending Lady Yueh.
It was about using Sīzhào's chaos—his sect, his ego—as a staged distraction.
So they could strike Ren.
He
was the threat to their affections.
To their position.
To their place in the master's shadow.
They didn't bring the Blood Orchid Sect to wage war.
They brought it to make room for murder.
Ren exhaled slowly, brushing stone dust from his sleeve.
He didn't speak.
He didn't stand.
But every fibre of his cultivation braced.
"They're not waiting for Yueh to fall," he thought.
"They're waiting for me to look the wrong direction."
The squirrel tapped once.
Ren whispered:
Ren thought, dry amusement blooming behind his eyes:
"Someone's about to do something stupidly predictable."
He didn't say it aloud.
Didn't even move.
He just watched as one disciple twitched, hand drifting a fraction too close to their blade.
The others tilted their weight, as if righteous intent had to be declared through posture.
Ren had seen it before.
Cultivators mistake chaos for opportunity.
Grudges masquerading as justice.
Plots that considered themselves original right up until they unfolded exactly as expected.
Ren smirked.
"Just once," he mused, "I'd love to be surprised."
But he wasn't holding his breath.
Not in a scene this carefully rehearsed.
Ren sighed audibly.
"Of course he did the monologue," he whispered.
"Nothing says 'lethal conviction' like stalling for dramatic effect."
Yuēn Sīzhào's spirit projection loomed behind him, massive and gilded, shaped like an idealised version of himself—taller, more symmetrical, probably edited by ego. Its qi shimmered with ancestral signatures, the kind that bled resentment through ornamental flourishes.
He'd promised death.
Instead, he summoned a parade float.
The shield around Glass Lotus Sect began to hum, petals locking into formation as defence talismans activated, responding not to the spirit itself, but to the intent behind it.
Elders stepped forward on both sides of Sīzhào.
Disciples arranged themselves like pages in an overly embellished formation scroll.
Fairy Jin's fingers twitched.
Lady Yueh didn't speak—but the stillness around her had changed. The mountain itself seemed to listen.
Ren stood properly now, dust brushing off his robes like stage curtains.
"He summoned backup for a moment, he said would be swift," Ren muttered.
"Always a bad sign."
The squirrel perched on his shoulder, tail wrapped like a scarf of judgment.
Liáng Xu and Fei Yan shifted their stances.
Not toward Sīzhào.
Toward Ren.
And Ren caught it instantly.
"They still think he's useful," Ren thought.
"But only long enough to get me out of the picture."
"Predictable."