Villain: Manipulating the Heroines into hating the Protagonist

He left, making sure the elder had a positive impression of the polite, curious young man.

That night, Wang Jian returned.

Old Fang lived in a small apartment above his shop. Wang Jian bypassed the shop entrance, scaling the buildingʼs wall with silent ease, slipping through the unlocked window of the apartmentʼs storage room.

He moved through the dark apartment like a ghost. He found Old Fang asleep in his small bedroom, snoring softly. In the main room, near the stairs leading down to the shop, was the locked wooden chest.

The lock was simple, old. Wang Jian examined it. He didnʼt have lock picks, but he didnʼt need them. Using his knife and a thin piece of metal heʼd acquired, leveraging his understanding of basic mechanics, he manipulated the tumblers. A soft click echoed in the silence. The chest opened.

Inside were several hand-bound books and scrolls. He carefully lifted them out, examining them in the faint moonlight filtering through the window.

ʼCompendium of Common Yue Herbsʼ. ʼNotes on Serpentʼs Spine Floraʼ. ʼBeginnerʼs Guide to Harmonizing Ingredientsʼ. ʼBasic Poultice and Salve Recipesʼ.

Bingo. Exactly what he needed. Not high-level cultivation texts, but practical, foundational knowledge for this world. One scroll even had crude drawings and descriptions of plants Ma Liu had mentioned, including one matching the Sunscar Fungus he now possessed. Another book contained basic alchemical principles – heating times, catalyst reactions, ingredient preparation – albeit focused on mortal remedies, the core concepts were transferable.

He couldnʼt steal the books outright; Old Fang would notice immediately and raise an alarm. Copying them by hand would take far too long.

ʼNeed to borrow them. Long enough to memorize.ʼ

He scanned the room. He found Old Fangʼs writing supplies – ink stone, brushes, cheap paper. An idea formed, cruel but efficient.

He went back to the storage room, found a small, empty clay jar. He went downstairs into the darkened shop. Using his newfound knowledge from browsing earlier, he quickly located several specific herbs known to induce temporary, non-lethal paralysis and confusion when ground and inhaled. He ground them together using Old Fangʼs own mortar and pestle, creating a fine powder.

He returned upstairs. Standing over the sleeping Old Fang, he carefully wafted the powder near the old manʼs face. Old Fang stirred slightly, coughed, then settled back into a deeper, unnaturally still slumber, his breathing shallow but steady.

ʼThat should keep him incapacitated and confused for at least a day, maybe two. Long enough.ʼ

He carried the chestʼs contents back to his inn room. The Lucky Scholar Inn wasnʼt ideal for long-term study, but it would have to do for now. He spent the entire next day and night sequestered in his room, meticulously reading, analyzing, and committing the contents of Old Fangʼs precious books and scrolls to memory.

His soul, honed by eons of cultivation and study, absorbed the information at an incredible rate. Plant identification, properties, basic alchemical processes, geographic notes on the Serpentʼs Spine foothills – it flowed into his mind, forming a new foundation of knowledge specific to this realm.

By the morning of the second day, he had internalized everything of value. He carefully returned the books to the chest, relocked it, and returned to Old Fangʼs apartment via the window.

The old man was still unconscious, though stirring slightly. Wang Jian placed the chest back where he found it, wiped away any trace of his presence, and left as silently as he came.

Old Fang would eventually wake up, confused, groggy, perhaps thinking heʼd just slept very deeply or had a strange illness. Heʼd never know his lifeʼs work had been mentally plundered.

Knowledge secured. Objective partially achieved.

Next, information on the mountains and potential sect locations. Maps were crucial.

He visited several shops claiming to sell maps, but most were crude, inaccurate depictions of the prefecture, useless for navigating treacherous mountain terrain. He needed something more detailed, perhaps military-grade or used by experienced hunters or surveyors.

His inquiries led him to the ʼAdventurerʼs Restʼ, a rowdy tavern frequented by mercenaries, caravan guards, hunters, and other rough types who often traveled the prefectureʼs wilder regions. The air was thick with cheap wine fumes, boastful laughter, and the clang of tankards.