Chapter 7

Chapter 7: The Villain
Tang Yi Xiao dropped the bundle with a heavy thump and wiped sweat off his brow with his sleeve. His arms trembled a little, but he tried to hide it.

“The wood I gathered today is dry,” he said, forcing a shrug. “It looks like a lot, but it’s not heavy.”

His eyes slid toward Qin Hui Yin with open dislike. “Sis, did she bully you again just now?”

“No,” Tang Lu Wu said quickly, waving both hands.

Tang Yi Xiao frowned. “Your eyes are red, and you still say no? From now on, stay with me. Don’t be alone with her.”

Tang Lu Wu hesitated, thinking of the way Qin Hui Yin had spoken about medicine. “Younger Brother… I think Yin Yin has changed.”

Tang Yi Xiao’s mouth tightened.

“She’s actually a year younger than me,” Tang Lu Wu went on, voice soft but firm. “I grew up without a mother, and she grew up without a father. People in the village say that mother and daughter were refugees—they must have suffered a lot on the road. It hasn’t been easy for her, either.”

[Maybe she suffered so much that she became sharp and sensitive. Maybe she learned to bite first because the world kept biting her.]

Tang Lu Wu’s mind flashed back to the night Li Tao Hua married her father—the first night Qin Hui Yin and Tang Lu Wu slept under the same roof. Tang Lu Wu had wanted to get along. She’d barely opened her mouth before Qin Hui Yin shoved her down and snarled, “My mom is my mom. She will never be your mom.”

Now, looking back, it made sense in a way that hurt. Qin Hui Yin depended on her mother for everything. Unlike Tang Lu Wu, she still had an older brother and a younger brother. To Qin Hui Yin, her mother was her whole world. If her mother ever loved another child more, Qin Hui Yin would feel like the sky was falling. That kind of fear turned people cruel.

Tang Lu Wu wanted to tell Tang Yi Xiao what she’d heard—that Qin Hui Yin was buying medicine for him, that she’d argued for it. But Tang Yi Xiao’s prejudice ran deep. Words wouldn’t move him. Proof might.

In the end, Tang Lu Wu swallowed it. Let him see the tonic medicine with his own eyes. Then maybe he’d believe that mother and daughter weren’t as vicious as he imagined.

—

Qin Hui Yin went up the mountain alone.

To her, the mountain was a treasure trove. People always said, live off the mountains and live off the water. Heaven left everyone a way to survive—the problem was that most people didn’t know where to look.

But once she reached the lower slopes and saw the ground scraped bare—roots dug up, anything edible stripped clean—she realized she’d overestimated herself and underestimated the village.

[Should I go deeper?]

“Awooo—”

A wolf’s howl sliced through the trees.

Qin Hui Yin froze.

“I don’t even have a weapon,” she muttered. “What if I run into something?”

[This body is only 11. Even if I run, I won’t be fast.]

Her feet hesitated.

Then a wild chicken burst out of the grass, a blur of brown feathers.

All hesitation vanished.

She wanted meat.

Qin Hui Yin chased it until her lungs burned and her legs shook. The chicken vanished, and when she finally stopped, bent over and gasping, she realized she didn’t recognize the way back.

The plants were thicker here. Between the grass she spotted wild scallions, wild ginger, wild garlic—strong, pungent things, thriving where people’s hands didn’t reach.

How could she not be happy?

Luckily, she’d brought a backpack basket. Otherwise, she’d have to leave everything behind.

“The little miss picking mushrooms, carrying a big bamboo basket…” she sang under her breath as she gathered wood ear mushrooms, her mood lifting with each handful.

She wandered farther without noticing.

Then she smelled blood.

Qin Hui Yin stopped. Her ears sharpened. Somewhere ahead, something struggled—heavy movement, ragged breath, the low furious squeal of an animal in pain.

She crept forward through the brush and saw it.

A young man—bare-chested, wrapped in animal skins—had a wild boar pinned under him. His arm was awkward, as if it didn’t quite belong in its socket, but he moved like someone used to pain. A dagger flashed again and again, driving down into the boar’s thick hide. The animal screamed, weaker with each stab, until it finally went still.

The young man sagged over it, spent. He rolled onto his back and stared up at the canopy, chest heaving.

Qin Hui Yin got a clear look at his face, and a rush of memory slammed into her.

Song Rui Ze.

Hunter Song’s only son. The first stepbrother the original Qin Hui Yin had lived with under one roof for a year.

Song Rui Ze…

[The villain from the original story.]

[This village really is something. The male lead is here, and the villain is here, too.]

Compared to Tang Yi Chen—who was still holding himself back, still a young blade not fully drawn—Song Rui Ze was much harder to deal with. In the original story, the girl had once touched something in his room. When he found out, he’d nearly ruined her arm. If Hunter Song hadn’t burst in to stop him, Qin Hui Yin would’ve woken up in this body as a one-armed swordsman.

[Too dangerous. Run.]

She started to slip away—

—and heard him groan.

Qin Hui Yin turned back in spite of herself.

A snake writhed near his leg. Song Rui Ze pinned it with his foot, chopped its head off with a savage flick of the dagger, and tossed the body aside without even looking. Then he went still again, staring blankly at the sky.

[Was he bitten?]

He was splattered in blood. He’d clearly spent everything killing the boar, and he’d been hurt too. If the snake was venomous, would he even have the strength left to find an antidote?

Song Rui Ze’s eyelids slid closed.

He’d never imagined today would be the day he died.

[So be it.]

Maybe dying like this would be a release. No more living alone. No more headaches that split his skull. No more clawing his way through each day just to stay alive.

“Are you… okay?” Qin Hui Yin called softly from the edge of the brush.

Song Rui Ze’s eyes opened.

The moment he saw her, a flicker of killing intent flashed across his gaze—cold, fast, unmistakable.

Qin Hui Yin caught it and backed up on instinct. “If you’re fine, I’ll go.”

Song Rui Ze let out a short, bitter laugh and closed his eyes again, as if she were nothing but a nuisance in the air.

Seconds passed.

He expected footsteps. Retreat. Silence.

None came.

He opened his eyes again and saw her walking toward him, expression sharp and steady.

“Your arm,” Qin Hui Yin said. “It doesn’t look right. Is it dislocated? I can set it for you.”

“Get lost,” Song Rui Ze said, voice flat as stone.

“I will,” Qin Hui Yin said. “But you need someone right now. Once I set your arm, I’m gone. I won’t get in your way.”

Song Rui Ze stared at her, suspicion tightening his face.

[Kindness from her?]

[She sees the boar. She wants the meat.]

His grip on the dagger stayed firm.

Qin Hui Yin moved slowly, careful not to provoke him. Under his murderous stare, she lifted his dislocated arm with both hands.

“Hold on,” she said.

Song Rui Ze’s eyes reddened, whether from pain or fury, she couldn’t tell.

[Even a tiger fallen to the plains won’t let a stupid, vicious woman toy with it.]

Qin Hui Yin didn’t waste time. She felt around the joint, found the angle, then twisted and snapped it back into place.

A sharp crack.

Song Rui Ze let out a muffled grunt, his jaw clenching so hard the muscles jumped. The pain flared, then eased, and his arm—limp a moment ago—moved again.

His other hand still held the dagger. If she’d done anything wrong, if she’d tried anything stupid, he would’ve driven it into her without hesitation.

He’d been a hair away from attacking.

He hadn’t expected her to… actually set the bone.

When he finally exhaled, the barest fraction of his guard dropping, Qin Hui Yin pressed on. “Were you bitten by a snake just now?”