Villains Aren't Stepping Stones!-Chapter 121: Meeting The Willow Tree

Stone Village.

High in the blue sky, far above the reach of a common man’s sight, two figures stood upon a shimmering pane of distorted air.

Shen Haoran, his midnight black robes snapping in the high-altitude winds, looked down with an expression of clinical, almost predatory interest. 𝓯𝓻𝒆𝙚𝒘𝓮𝙗𝓷𝒐𝓿𝙚𝒍.𝙘𝓸𝙢

Beside him, Qing’er maintained a constant, rhythmic flow of her qi to maintain the spatial platform they are standing on, her crimson eyes scanning the perimeter with the cold efficiency of a hunting hawk.

"This is it? The place where that tree decided to hide?" Haoran asked, his voice a low, melodic drawl that carried even through the whistling gale.

Qing’er took a half-step and stood a bit behind him, her hands tucked into her sleeves, though her fingers remained poised to tear the fabric of space at a moment’s notice.

After all, who knows if that Heavenly Saint level Willow Tree would go mad sensing them above and directly attack?

"I can indeed sense a massive, ancient reservoir of energy radiating from that willow tree at the center of the village, young master. It is like a dormant star buried in the mud. Its roots likely permeate the very foundation of this mountain range."

Haoran leaned forward, his golden eyes narrowing as he focused on the figures moving below. "Forget the tree for a moment. These villagers... they are a curiosity. I can see the ripples of their Qi; they are all at the Body Refining realm, the very first step of the path. And yet, look at the density of their marrow. Their physical bodies seem to be even stronger than Core Formation Realm Cultivators I’ve seen in the Central Regions. Their skin has a metallic sheen to it, and their blood flows with the thickness of molten mercury."

Qing’er nodded, her gaze tracking a village elder lifting a boulder that should have required a team of oxen. "It is probably due to the Life Qi that is unconsciously leaking out of the willow tree’s canopy. It saturates the water, the soil, and the air they breathe. Living in a place like that, even pigs could fly given enough time. After all, they are being tempered by the presence of a Saint every second of their lives."

"Heh. This ’trash’ realm continues to surprise me," Haoran remarked, a thin, dangerous smirk touching his lips. "Let’s go down. I want to see if the legend lives up to the pouting of my dear aunt."

Qing’er gave a curt nod, then with a fluid motion of her wrist, she collapsed the spatial platform, and the two of them descended.

They didn’t fall; they glided through the air with a weightless, terrifying grace, landing directly in the dusty center of the village, mere yards from the colossal, silver-barked willow tree.

The impact of their landing was silent, but their presence was like a drop of ink in a bowl of clear water.

The villagers who were nearby—men and women with skin tanned like leather and muscles like knotted cord—were startled into a momentary stupor.

However, their instincts, honed by decades of living in the presence of a primal power, kicked in instantly.

They dropped their tools and assumed fighting stances that were unnervingly precise.

"Who are you!?" a burly man roared, his voice carrying the resonance of a struck gong. "Outsiders are not welcome in the Stone Village! State your business, or leave!"

"Get away from the Willow Goddess!" a younger woman screamed, her eyes flashing with a fierce, protective light as she reached for a spear made of fierce beast bone.

Haoran ignored the shouting, the threats, and the primitive weapons. In fact, he didn’t even turn his head, and his eyes were fixed solely on the massive tree, whose silver leaves were now chiming with a frantic, rhythmic warning.

He smiled—a cold, beautiful expression that made the nearby villagers shiver.

"Willow Tree," Haoran called out, his voice smooth and carrying a tone of absolute command. "Are you going to come out and greet your guests, or are you going to continue pretending to be a mute piece of timber?"

"You! How dare you speak with such disrespect to our Willow Goddess!?" The burly man lunged forward, his fist whistling through the air with the force of a falling mountain.

"Bastard! You’ll pay for your arrogance!" others joined in, their high-density physical bodies allowing them to move with a speed that defied their low cultivation rank.

Qing’er didn’t wait for them to reach her master as she instantly released a fraction of her aura.

The effect was instantaneous and devastating.

A wave of absolute, crushing spiritual pressure erupted from her, a weight that felt as though the sky itself had suddenly collapsed onto the village.

The charging villagers were stopped mid-stride, their eyes bulged, and a collective groan of agony escaped their lips as they were forced to their knees, and even the ground beneath them cracked.

They fought against the pressure, their superior physical bodies refusing to yield, their teeth baring in a snarl of defiance.

But in the end, the disparity between a mortal body and the will of a Profound Saint was too great.

One by one, they lost their strength and dropped flat on the ground, their faces pressed into the dirt.

Just then, a long, weary sigh echoed throughout the village—a sound that seemed to come from the very wind and the leaves themselves.

"Fellow Daoist, please... give me face and let them go. They are but children who do not know the depth of the ocean."

Just then, in front of the silver trunk of the Willow Tree, the air began to shimmer with motes of emerald-green light.

Like a painting being filled in by a master’s brush, a beautiful woman began to materialize.

She was a creature of ethereal grace, appearing to be in her mid-twenties.

Her hair was a cascading river of midnight-black that reached her waist, and her eyes were the color of a forest after rain—deep, vibrant green.

She wore a humble, conservative green robe that lacked any embroidery, yet it flowed around her like water, and her skin was as pale as porcelain, yet it glowed with an inner, verdant vitality.

Qing’er immediately retracted her aura, the pressure vanishing as quickly as it had appeared as the villagers immediately gasped, drawing in lungfuls of air as they stared at Qing’er in a mix of anger and profound fear.

"You must be the Spirit of the Willow Tree," Haoran said, his golden eyes scanning her form with the same intensity a jeweler might use on a rare, stolen gem.

"I am, indeed. I have stood here for many cycles, watching the world pass by." The Willow Spirit gave a slow, dignified nod before she then turned toward the fallen villagers, her gaze softening. "Go on, my children. Return to your homes and tend to your families. I will entertain these guests. Do not worry; the winds will remain calm."

The villagers looked unwilling, their eyes darting between the Willow Spirit and the two terrifying intruders, but under her calm, steady gaze, they eventually lowered their heads.

They reluctantly gathered their tools and walked away, leaving the three of them alone in the shadow of the tree they had worshipped.

"Fellow Daoist," the Willow Spirit said, her voice like the rustle of silk. "I believe we have no personal grudges between us, no? I am just a humble Willow Tree that happened to get lucky and reached my current level through tens of thousands of years of meditation. I am nothing special in the grand hierarchy of the heavens. Why seek me out in this desolate corner?"

"Feng Yuyan," Haoran said, the name hanging in the air like a poisoned dart. "Do you know her?"

He watched her closely, his smile widening as he saw the Willow Spirit’s pupils contract for a mere fraction of a second—a tell-tale sign of a deep, buried trauma.

She managed to regain her composure almost instantly, but the damage was done.

"...The Empress of Forbidden Creation," the Willow Spirit whispered, her voice losing a bit of its steadiness. "Who in the Prime Origin Realm does not know her majesty? Her name is a law unto itself."

"She is my aunt," Haoran added.

This time, the shift in the atmosphere was palpable as the Willow Spirit immediately felt a cold, sharp chill of impending doom.

It wasn’t just physical danger; it was the realization of whose bloodline stood before her.

She knew that someone from Shen Clan descended, but she didn’t realise that he is actually that closely related to that woman who gave her a PTSD.

...still, the nephew of Feng Yuyan? Then he must be the young master of the Shen Clan, the one who stole her disciple’s Divine Physique!

What a beast!

But she said nothing, her hands tucked into her sleeves, trying to maintain her mask of calm despite the fact that her spirit was screaming to flee.

Haoran walked toward her, closing the distance until he stood directly in front of her.

He was a head taller than she was, and the shadow he cast seemed to swallow her whole.

Then, without a word, he reached out and grabbed her chin, his fingers cold and firm, forcing her to look directly into his golden eyes.

"She always liked to tell me stories," Haoran said, his voice dropping to a low, intimate whisper. "Especially about a certain, very interesting Willow Tree that managed to escape her capture during her adventures. She pouted for a week, saying it was the only time she ever lost face. It made me quite curious about the nature of such a resilient plant."

"What a coincidence," the Willow Spirit managed to say, her voice trembling slightly.

"Indeed." Haoran chuckled, using his grip on her chin to tilt her head from right to left, as if he were inspecting a piece of livestock at a market. "By the way, I was thinking... an entity as ancient and powerful as you, hiding in such a secluded place. You wouldn’t happen to have a disciple, would you?"

In Haoran’s mind, base on the memories of that cousin of his, then he can deduct that this Willow Spirit was the perfect archetype for an important character.

She had a grudge with the Shen Clan, she had fallen into the mortal world, living in a secluded village, hiding and healing her hidden injuries.

And most importantly, she was stunningly beautiful.

If he had to guess, she is either a teacher to the protagonist who will protect him until he ascended, or a love interest that he will spend the entire story trying to pursue.

Or maybe even both.

"...Fellow Daoist, I believe that is none of your business, no?" the Willow Spirit said, her voice regaining a trace of its steel. "Whether I have a disciple or not has nothing to do with you."

Her voice trembled, and she was certain that she was about to die.

She knew the reputation of the Shen Clan—they were as ruthless as they were powerful.

She considered herself a coward who had spent eons running from death, hiding in the cracks of dimensions just to breathe another day.

But as she looked at the young man’s cruel, beautiful face, she realized there was one thing she feared more than death: selling out the child she had spent twenty years healing.

She would rather be burned to ash than reveal the existence of Shen Hao to the very man who had stolen his future.

’I am a tree,’ she thought, her resolve hardening. ’And a tree does not betray its own fruit.’