I Transmigrated Into the Script and Married the Villain - Chapter 6

Zhang Xingxing watched the male and female leads fight on the arena stage with rapt attention. Ah, no, wait—how could a contest between the male and female leads be called a fight? It’s flirting!

When Sheng Lan entered the arena, he carried no weapons whatsoever. Zhang Xingxing knew this was a classic trope: the male lead’s signature move to show off his coolness.

But Tang Qianfeng didn’t know that. Seeing his apparent arrogance, she assumed he was underestimating her and her face flushed with anger. Her spear spun in her palm, arcing through the air with a strange, unorthodox trajectory. The spear tip aimed diagonally upward, threatening to pierce Sheng Lan’s throat from below.

Sheng Lan leaned back, his waist twisting in perfect coordination. He raised one leg, his toes lightly touching the spear shaft as it thrust toward his head.

The entire silver spear trembled violently! It flew from Tang Qianfeng’s grasp, shocking the crowd. To disarm her with a single touch, this young man’s inner strength was far more formidable than anyone had imagined.

Tang Qianfeng was momentarily startled, but she quickly adjusted her strategy. Instead of immediately retrieving the dislodged spear, she let it glide through the air for a few meters, carried by its momentum. Crossing her arms across her chest, she then flung them wide, channeling her inner energy into the spear like a surging tide.

Zhang Xingxing suddenly grew excited. “Flying Spear!”

The female lead’s signature technique from the original novel, a flying spear that swept across the land, repeatedly rescuing the protagonist group from perilous situations.

Tang Qianfeng pointed into the void, and her spear transformed into countless shimmering illusions. For a moment, it was impossible to distinguish the real from the false as they all hurtled toward Sheng Lan. Each illusory spear pierced the silent air with a whistling force, as if it were solid.

What will he do? The disciples in the audience held their breath for Sheng Lan.

Yet Sheng Lan didn’t dodge. He stood calmly in place, allowing the ever-shifting spear shadows to pierce through him.

This was an incredibly risky move. Though only one of the spears was real, the rest mere illusions, if Sheng Lan’s luck failed and he was struck by the true spear, there would be no escape.

The first few spear shadows passed straight through him. Sheng Lan seemed utterly confident that he wouldn’t be harmed in this battle, advancing steadily toward Tang Qianfeng through the rain of illusory spears, his composure unshaken.

Zhang Xingxing: “He’s so brave! Doesn’t he fear getting skewered?”

Chen Che: “What do you know? You only play villains. This is called the protagonist’s aura.”

“One day I’ll play the male lead! Just you wait!” Zhang Xingxing retorted angrily.

Gasps rippled through the crowd as Tang Qianfeng suddenly spread her fingers wide. The already dense barrage of illusions multiplied exponentially, engulfing the small arena in a dazzling, intricate web of spear light.

At that moment, Sheng Lan, standing at the center of the spear formation, raised his hand. He extended a single finger and slowly pointed it into the air.

Instantly, the surrounding wind stilled.

All the phantom images froze mid-air. With a flick of his sleeve, the three thousand clamoring spears and swords shattered into dust, scattering like powder. Only Tang Qianfeng remained on the arena, standing opposite him with her spear, her expression dazed.

Sheng Lan bowed politely. “Miss Tang, you have shown me great courtesy.”

Zhang Xingxing gripped Chen Che’s arm tightly. Sensing something was wrong, Chen Che asked urgently, “What is it?”

“Sheng Lan’s technique just now… it was exactly the same as the one Shen Zhijing used to kill those people that night…”

Chen Che glanced around warily, then whispered, “Let’s talk somewhere else.”

They squeezed through the crowd and found an empty corner.

Chen Che asked, “You mean Sheng Lan and Shen Zhijing know the same martial art? That’s not surprising. The martial world has hundreds of sects, and they spar often. It’s normal for them to borrow techniques from each other.”

“No, you didn’t see it clearly.” Zhang Xingxing’s expression grew grave. “When Sheng Lan broke Tang Qianfeng’s phantom formation, it wasn’t just the same one-finger technique Shen Zhijing used to shatter the eighteen disciples of Pan Lake Sword Manor that day. Even the angle of their wrist movements and the way they broke the formations were nearly identical.”

“But what connection could there possibly be between a Demonic Cult leader who hasn’t left his mountain stronghold in years and a righteous hero from a renowned Orthodox Sect?” Zhang Xingxing pondered, utterly baffled.

Chen Che looked at him and suddenly chuckled. “I see you’ve become quite interested in your surroundings lately.”

Zhang Xingxing looked confused. “What do you mean?”

“This is just a world within a script. We’ll be leaving it someday. Why waste so much effort trying to understand it?”

Zhang Xingxing forced a dry laugh. “Well, I’m bored. I’m going back to my room to sleep.”

He lazily sprawled onto the bed, roughly reviewing the events of the past few days since his arrival. Chen Che was right, when had he started treating himself as a character in this play?

Zhang Xingxing drifted off to sleep, only to be jolted awake by the cold later that night.

He had slept until evening. The room was pitch-black, with no candles lit and the windows and door tightly shut, creating a suffocating darkness. Zhang Xingxing groped his way off the bed, navigating around the table by memory until he reached the door. He pushed it open, only to find the same oppressive darkness outside.

It must be late at night; not a single light could be seen in any direction.

Unable to find a candle in the room, Zhang Xingxing felt swallowed by the darkness. He raised his voice and called out, “Chunxiao!”

No one answered.

The servants’ quarters should have been nearby. Why was no one responding? Were they all sleeping too soundly?

Zhang Xingxing felt a growing unease. Tonight, there were no stars or moon, and not a single glimmer of light pierced the pitch-black sky.

Cao Manor seemed as lifeless as a tomb, a stark contrast to the lively martial arts tournament held there just that afternoon.

“Chunxiao!” Zhang Xingxing would never admit to being afraid, but the current situation was undeniably eerie, as if he had been buried alive in a silent, terrifying grave.

Creak.

A soft sound came from the door beside him. Zhang Xingxing dared not dwell on it. He turned and hurried back into his room, slamming the door shut and retreating to his bed.

Everything will be better by morning, he tried to reassure himself.

The windows of Pan Lake Sword Manor were exquisitely carved and latticed, offering virtually no protection from the elements. During Zhang Xingxing’s recent illness, Chunxiao had worried about him catching a chill and had pasted paper over the window to block the draft.

Zhang Xingxing lay frozen on his bed for what felt like an eternity before he finally heard a faint sound.

It came from the window. At first, it was barely audible, like a mouse scratching at the door—a faint, rhythmic scratch-scratch-scratch. But the sound grew steadily louder, more insistent, until it became impossible to ignore.

A cold sweat broke out on Zhang Xingxing’s back as he frantically scooted backward, pressing himself against the innermost edge of the bed.

Could it just be the wind? If 11000 (eleven thousand) not, we can’t risk alerting them.

Zhang Xingxing’s hand accidentally brushed against a half-cylindrical object near the head of the bed. He instinctively gripped it, not immediately recognizing what it was. Suddenly, a puchi sound came from the window. The sound of paper and carved wood being pierced simultaneously. Now Zhang Xingxing could no longer pretend it was just the wind.

His mind raced with terror. Clenching the cylindrical object in his palm, his hyper-alert brain suddenly realized what it was: a fire starter.

It was the kind often depicted in movies and dramas, a small cylindrical tool that could be lit with a single breath and used by protagonists in dark environments.

Since the window had already been breached, Zhang Xingxing gritted his teeth, steeled his resolve, blew a breath into the fire starter, and leaped off the bed, rushing toward the window.

But he froze in his tracks before reaching it.

A gaunt, skeletal Ghost Claw trembled as it reached through the window, its bony knuckles gleaming deathly pale in the firelight.

Sensing Zhang Xingxing’s approach, the claw lunged forward just as the fire starter came within an inch of it!

Zhang Xingxing screamed in terror, his heart pounding in his chest. The Ghost Claw recoiled instantly, vanishing without a trace.

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