Villains Aren't Stepping Stones!

Cold.

The first thing that leaves me is not my breath, nor the fiery pulse of my own qi, but the simple, mortal warmth of my own blood.

I can feel it pooling beneath my back, a sticky, suffocating lake of crimson that seeps into the porous obsidian floor of this endless, uncaring arena.

Every jagged edge of the five shadow swords impaled through my flesh radiates a freezing, corrosive malice that eats away at my meridians, dissolving my spirit like acid dripped onto raw silk.

The blade driven through my right palm has shattered every delicate bone, pinning my hand flat against the stone in an agonizing, grotesque splay.

My left arm, already snapped at the elbow, throbs with an unbearable burning agony where the second sword holds the mangled limb to the earth.

The blades through my thighs have torn through muscle and sinew, severing the circulation to my legs until they feel like heavy, useless blocks of rotting wood.

And the fifth, the massive, jagged monstrosity plunged straight through the center of my stomach, drags a ragged, bloody gurgle from my throat every single time my chest desperately tries to expand for air.

I can’t breathe.

I can’t move.

Above me, blotting out the cold, turning constellations of the vaulted ceiling, is my own face.

She looks down at me with those horrific, blood red eyes set in abyssal black sclera, her lips stretched into that wide, predatory, mocking grin that makes my stomach violently churn.

Her pale, clawed fingers hover barely an inch from my forehead, trailing wisps of oily, devouring darkness that brush against my skin like freezing needles.

"Shh... don’t fight it, Little Failure," she whispers, her voice echoing inside the marrow of my skull, vibrating with a sickening, venomous intimacy. "Just let go. You’ve been so tired, haven’t you? So terrified. So desperately afraid of making a mistake. Let me carry the weight. Let me take your name, your face, and your body. You don’t have to be afraid of disappointing him anymore... because you won’t exist."

"No..." I try to scream, but all that escapes my split, swollen lips is a wet, pathetic wheeze, a spray of pink foam and blood that spatters against the stone. "No... please... that’s my... that’s my life..."

"Your life?" The dark copy cackles, a sharp, grating sound that tears at my sanity. "You threw it away the moment you learned to cower! You’re already dead, Xun’er. And I am, your resurrection."

Her dark, clawed fingers plunge straight into the center of my brow.

CRACK—!

There is no physical tearing of skin, but a catastrophic, soul rending agony detonates inside my sea of consciousness.

It feels as though two iron hooks have sunk into my very soul, violently ripping my awareness away from my flesh.

My vision flashes with blinding, searing white light, and in the next heartbeat, the agonizing physical sensation of the swords pinning my limbs suddenly goes completely numb.

I am not in my body anymore.

I am floating, paralyzed, weightless, and invisible, trapped within a suffocating, transparent void of pure darkness, suspended like a ghost above the arena floor.

Below me, I watch in petrified, silent horror as my battered, bloody physical body begins to move on its own.

The five shadow swords impaled through my limbs and stomach dissolve into black mist, the jagged wounds across my flesh instantly stitching together.

My body pushes itself up from the pool of blood with terrifying, liquid grace, slicking back its short, golden hair.

The broken nose mends with an audible crunch, the blood clears from the porcelain skin, and when my body opens its eyes, they glow with that horrific, cruel crimson fire.

She has replaced me.

She has stolen my body.

And then, the boundless stone training ground around us begins to dissolve, warping and twisting into a cruel, living nightmare that forces my disembodied soul to watch.

HUMMMMMMMMM—!

The scenery shifts like ripples across water, solidifying into the familiar, grand architecture of the Imperial Academy’s Central Spire back in the upper domain.

The high celestial balcony overlooks the sprawling golden palaces of Boundless Sky City.

The sky is a brilliant, majestic azure, bathed in the eternal light of nine radiant suns.

And there, standing at the edge of the balustrade with his hands clasped behind his back, draped in his magnificent midnight robes, is Young Master Haoran.

He looks just as untouchable, just as domineering, and just as peerlessly breathtaking as he has always been.

"Young Master!"

My voice screams out in instinctual, desperate longing, but no sound escapes my phantom throat.

I reach out with invisible, transparent hands, trying desperately to run to him, to throw myself at his feet, to beg him to look at me—but I am completely, utterly paralyzed, anchored to the empty air like a caged spectator forced to watch my own execution.

From the grand double doors of the pavilion, a figure steps out into the sunlight.

It is her.

She is wearing my crimson robes, walking with my stride, wearing my face—yet her aura is completely different.

There is not a single trace of the hesitation that used to weigh my steps down.

She walks with the arrogant stride of an apex predator, her chin held high, her purple eyes blazing with unshakeable confidence.

Young Master Haoran turns his head as she approaches.

My heart, or whatever phantom remnant of it remains in this void, violently clenches, waiting for the cold, piercing frown that has haunted my nightmares for the past year.

I brace myself, desperately hoping, praying with every shred of my pathetic being that he will see through the impostor, that his golden eyes will pierce the illusion and realize that the creature standing before him is an fake, a thief who stole the body of his loyal subordinate.

’Look at her, Young Master!’ I scream into the silence of the void, tears of phantom blood burning my eyes. ’That isn’t me! That’s a monster! I am here! I am right here! Please, look at me!’

Haoran’s golden eyes sweep over my stolen body.

And then... a look surfaces on his handsome, sculpted face that I have not seen in years.

He does not frown, instead, his lips slowly curve upward into a warm, genuine, and deeply appreciative smile.

"You have returned, Xun’er," Haoran’s deep, magnetic voice echoes across the balcony, carrying a gentle, profound warmth that feels like a physical dagger plunging straight into my soul. "And you have finally cast aside the useless filth that held you back. Look at you now... It seems you have really gained a lot in that trials."

"I would never disappoint you, Young Master," the imposter replies, kneeling before him with smooth, effortless grace, looking up at him with my face, offering him a smile that is bright, untainted, and utterly fearless. "My fists, my body, my life, and my soul, belong solely to paving the path of your conquest."

"Good," Haoran says softly.

He steps forward and extends his pale, slender hand, gently resting his palm against the top of her head—a gesture of his great trust and affection that he had never once bestowed upon me since our childhood in the clan’s ancestral halls.

"From this day forth, you are the first spear of the Ten Crowns," Haoran declares, his voice carrying the absolute weight of a sovereign decree. "Shen Tao, Shen Fei, and the others shall follow your lead in all the wars to come, for you are the only one I can truly rely on to hold the frontline without faltering."

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

A feral, broken, and agonizing shriek rips from the very depths of my disembodied soul.

NO!

THAT’S NOT ME!

THAT ISN’T REAL!

I scream until my vocal cords feel like shredded ribbons, hurling my transparent form against the invisible barrier separating us!

YOUNG MASTER, DON’T TOUCH HER!

DON’T SMILE AT HER!

THAT’S SUPPOSED TO BE ME!

I WAS THE ONE WHO PROMISED TO BE YOUR SPEAR!

I WAS THE ONE WHO FOLLOWED YOU FROM THE DIRT!

LOOK AT ME! PLEASE, JUST LOOK AT ME!

My struggles and screams didn’t even caused a ripple.

Not a single wisp of my desperate, hysterical screaming reaches the sunlit balcony.

Haoran doesn’t turn his head, he doesn’t spare a single glance toward the empty space where my soul is weeping, clawing, and bleeding in absolute futility.

The scene shifts again, fast-forwarding through a relentless montage of my own complete, total erasure.

I am forced to watch the grand campaigns across the cosmos.

I see the imposter standing shoulder to shoulder with Haoran upon the bow of a colossal celestial war ark, commanding the armies of the Shen Clan as they shatter entire star domains.

I see her laughing wildly amidst seas of divine dragons and devouring void rifts, effortlessly tearing through enemy sect masters and emperor class warlords, earning the awe and reverent bows of the other Crowns, all of them looking at her with genuine, unmasked respect.

I see Haoran leaning over a strategic battle map in his private war room late at night, calling her to his side, asking for her counsel, trusting her with his most dangerous plans, relying on her presence as his absolute, indispensable right hand.

And every single time he praises her, every single time his golden eyes look at her with that quiet, unshakable pride... a piece of my soul is brutally carved away, ground into dust, and scattered into the freezing dark.

"AAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!"

I could do nothing but scream hysterically.

She is everything he ever wanted.

She is fierce.

She is bold.

She never doubts herself.

She never cowers.

She never whines.

She never drags him down.

She is the perfect Shen Xun’er.

And I... I was just the flawed, defective mold that had to be broken and discarded so she could exist.

"Stop it... please, make it stop..."

My screams gradually lose their strength, dissolving into pathetic, shuddering sobs of pure, unadulterated despair.

I collapse onto my knees in the cold, empty void, curling into a tight ball, clutching my head with phantom hands as the images of their glorious, triumphant future continue to flash before my eyes.

I am completely forgotten.

In this bright, magnificent future where the Shen Clan reigns supreme over the nine heavens, there is no place for a weak, cowardly girl who couldn’t even conquer her own mind.

Nobody misses me.

Nobody asks where the old Xun’er went.

Nobody remembers the girl who spent her nights crying over her stagnating cultivation, or the girl who stared at an entry token with trembling hands in the dark hold of an ark.

To them, Shen Xun’er never left.

She simply became better.

I am nothing.

I am completely, utterly alone.

He will never look for me.

He will never know that I died here, nailed to the floor of a forgotten god’s tomb, screaming his name into an empty sky.

The realization is a freezing, bottomless ocean of despair that swallows me whole, dragging my soul down into the absolute dark where no light, no warmth, and no hope can ever reach me again.

*

*

*

At this moment....

The boundless cosmic platform fell into dead silence, suspended beneath the slow rotation of sapphire nebulae and ancient constellations.

Astraeus stared down through the shimmering astral projection, his starry eyes narrowing as he took in the frozen tableau within the second trial chamber.

Down in the arena, the dark reflection was halted mid-motion like a fly trapped in amber.

Her pale, clawed fingers hovered a mere millimeter away from Shen Xun’er’s pale forehead, unable to bridge that microscopic fraction of space.

Beneath her, Xun’er lay pinned by the five shadow blades, her torn crimson robes soaked in blood, her purple eyes entirely blank, glassy, and lost in a deep, catatonic daze as her soul continued to writhe inside the nightmare woven for her psyche.

The God of Space slowly shook his head, shifting his starry gaze away from the mirror to look at the man standing beside him.

Shen Haoran was no longer merely watching.

A dense, incandescent golden aura surged from Haoran’s tall frame, weaving through the fabric of the surrounding void with the authority he temporarily granted so they can alter the trials.

Haoran’s right hand was subtly extended forward, two fingers locked in a spatial mudra that froze the reflection before she can actually take over, and anchoring the trial’s time-flow and directly manipulating the mental illusions being fed into the girl’s sea of consciousness.

He was actively, brazenly interfering with the trials, in front of the one who created it!

Astraeus let out a soft, dry chuckle, the constellations across his robes shimmering with amused irony as he shook his head.

"For someone who speaks so callously of discarding broken blades," Astraeus remarked, his deep voice carrying a sharp, knowing cadence through the cosmic vacuum, "and for someone who claims that he couldn’t care less if she died here in the dirt... you sure like to cheat."

Haoran did not flinch, nor did he drop the golden spatial thread binding the girl’s soul.

His gaze remained locked on the dazed, weeping figure in the mirror, his golden pupils cold, calculating, and fathomless.

"A trial is meant to temper the body and soul, Astraeus," Haoran replied smoothly, his tone utterly devoid of shame or hesitation. "Not allow a cheap phantom to shatter the blade before it has tasted the fire."

He let out a small smile, "Now... we shall see if this dragon will finally remember how to roar."

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