Morning came.

  And sure enough, Mu played his role to perfection.

  At dawn, outside the Spiritwood Altar, he calmly told Lian and Hua that I had “mysteriously disappeared during the night.”

  Meanwhile, I was very much not missing — just hiding behind the bamboo pavilion of my newly assigned “retirement cottage,” sipping ginger soup and eavesdropping like a professional coward.

  From what I overheard, Lian didn’t even blink when he heard the news. But his eyes sharpened — the kind of look that meant someone was about to be hunted down and emotionally disassembled.

  “He doesn’t know the terrain,” Lian said flatly. “One wrong turn and he’ll fall into a ravine. We must find him before nightfall.”

  And Hua?

  That bastard just fanned himself, all smiles and poison.

  “Told you the ‘Blessed One’ would bring bad luck. Well, at least this time we don’t have to carry him down the mountain. Just find the corpse.”

  I almost choked on my soup. Hua’s tongue was sharper than his sword — if an ant died on the road, he’d stop just to insult it twice.

  Still, I couldn’t help but laugh quietly. Me, a discarded son of the Nangong household, being searched for by the Blood Lotus Sect’s fearsome leader and his right-hand fiend? What an honor.

  But honestly — the world is wide, the road long.

  A clean goodbye suits me fine.

  Never meeting again? Even better.

  My new home was tucked in the southwest corner of the Spiritwood stronghold, half-built into the mountainside. The front yard opened to a winding stone path that led out of the settlement; the back wall leaned against the cliff, fenced by a tiny grove of bamboo.

  By day, sparrows danced among the branches; by night, the crickets sang in chorus. No smoke, no footsteps.

  Stillness itself had moved in and paid rent.

  I dragged a rattan chair under the eaves. By day, I sunbathed. By night, I moon-gazed.

  Life was good — in the quiet, delusional way of an old hermit in a painting.

  Day One: I tore down part of the garden wall to make a footstool and accidentally weeded half the yard.

  Day Two: I “borrowed” a few cockscomb flowers from the back mountain and arranged them in a bamboo vase.

  Day Three: With no one around to yell at me, I decided to practice dance moves I’d seen during the last village festival. Halfway through a majestic spin, my foot slipped, and I nearly kicked the ancient well into oblivion.

  BANG!

  The noise could’ve woken the ancestors.

  Chickens exploded into the sky.

  A dog screamed and dove into the firewood shed.

  I leapt up, brushed the dirt off my knees, and announced weakly toward the door:

  “...Nothing happened! Just a minor... interpretive performance. Bit loud.”

  By nightfall, the rumor mill had exploded.

  “Heard there’s a ghost in the southwest house!”

  “No, no — a flying immortal! Dances and plays flute at midnight!”

  “Even the hens stopped laying eggs!”

  And on Day Four, Mu showed up.

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  He stood at my gate for a long while, staring at me with a face caught somewhere between exasperation and disbelief.

  I was mid-kick with a bamboo pole, performing the sacred art of “Swallow Chasing the Moon.” My foot had just sent a flowerpot flying when I caught sight of him out of the corner of my eye.

  Immediate cardiac arrest.

  I froze mid-pose, slowly set my foot down, and tried to look like a respectable statue.

  Mu sighed. Deeply.

  Then reached into his sleeve and pulled out a small oil-paper bundle. He held it out.

  “If I may ask, Blessed One… please stop dancing.”

  I blinked at him, then at the bundle.

  He added, “It’s those sugar pastries you said you liked — just came out of the oven.”

  I took it in silence. The aroma hit like divine revelation — warm, crisp, sweet. I bit in, chewed thoughtfully, then said, completely serious:

  “...Then maybe I’ll stop tomorrow?”

  Mu: “...”

  Me: “Or the day after. Or maybe — compromise — I’ll only dance once a day. You bring the pastries; I’ll bring the art. Deal?”

  Mu pressed a hand to his forehead and turned away.

  “...The stone statues at the divine tree altar are starting to crack from your dancing.”

  I: “...”

  Man had no mercy — but damn, those pastries were heaven.

  Not that I just made trouble all day. Sometimes I fed the lame gray cat at the gate with leftover rice, or dragged wet firewood out to dry. Once, I even pruned the fruit tree behind the yard — which eventually turned into me chopping it nearly bald because, well, it looked asymmetrical.

  By Day Five, a gaggle of mountain brats started sneaking up behind my fence to spy on me.

  “There he is! The Blessed One’s alive!”

  “They say when he smiles, wildfires die out — is it true?”

  “Can you really fly? Like, fly-fly?”

  I stood there in the courtyard, surrounded by kids, a paper flower crown on my head, chickens flapping, a puppy chewing my boot, and a pheasant attacking my sleeve.

  One girl with pigtails blinked up at me.

  “Big Brother Blessed One, you said you can ride a mountain boar and chase sparrows — show us!”

  Me: “...”

  That was… an exaggeration.

  But they looked at me with such innocent faith, like they were about to start worshipping me as a local deity.

  “Show us! Show us—!” they chanted, loud enough to summon storms.

  I sighed, grabbed my old bug-repellent bottle (polished to a shine from overuse), and declared solemnly:

  “Since you ask with such sincerity… I, the merciful one, shall demonstrate — The Boar Chases the Sparrow!”

  Then I leapt, snorted, ran three heroic steps, and tackled a paper sparrow I’d made out of a kite last week.

  Collapsed on the ground, I sighed dramatically.

  “Alas… the boar only ever wanted one sparrow. But the sparrow flew too far. So the boar… died of love.”

  The kids howled with laughter.

  “Blessed One’s gone crazy!”

  “Blessed One’s a drama king!”

  I flopped onto a stone bench, waving them off.

  “Show’s over. Anyone disturbs me again, I’ll un-bless you all personally!”

  A voice from the back piped up: “Even un-blessed, you’re still cute!”

  I gave up.

  So, no — I hadn’t left the cottage once.

  But somehow, this tiny corner of the mountain was now the liveliest spot in the entire stronghold.

  Days passed. The mountain air cooled; even the birds grew quiet.

  I found myself… comfortable. Kids, chickens, pastries — who needs destiny?

  Lian and Hua hadn’t returned since that night. Probably long gone.

  One off leading his terrifying murder cult. The other wandering the world, charming every tavern waitress and widow in sight.

  And me? Still the cursed “abandoned male lead,” trapped in a backwater NPC side-quest that refused to end.

  Watching the leaves fall outside my window, I made up my mind.

  It was time to go.

  Before leaving, I searched the entire stronghold to say goodbye to Mu— but he was nowhere to be found.

  So I asked the old servant sweeping my courtyard.

  Without even looking up, he muttered, “Left three, maybe four days ago. Took men and horses down the mountain. Something urgent in town. Didn’t even finish breakfast.”

  My heart leapt.

  Heaven had opened its gates.

  I thumped my chest. “Ah, no problem, no problem. Please tell your master I’ve gone ahead on… business! Will thank him properly another day!”

  Before the poor old man could blink, I was gone — sprinting back to my room, grabbing my pre-packed bag, and bolting out the door like freedom itself owed me rent.

  I even hummed as I ran:

  “Walk or sit, I think of thee —

  Alone in the wind, yet finally free!”

  Following the “safe route” I’d painstakingly gathered, I looped past the divine tree altar, crossed the forest path, climbed the southern ridge, and descended along the hunter’s trail to the east.

  Half a day’s march. Feet blistered. Sun sinking low.

  And at last—

  I made it.

  I was out of the mountain.