The Male Lead Always Thinks My Script is Wrong - Chapter 1

By the side of a major road in the southern lands sat a small tea house.

It wasn’t much to look at, just large enough to fit two tables and eight long benches. It provided just enough space for weary travelers to down a bowl of hot tea before continuing toward their destination.

Business was quiet today. The proprietor leaned against the counter near the entrance, enjoying the rare moment of peace, when she spotted a figure approaching from the distance. With robes fluttering in the breeze, the traveler looked as if they were about to pass right under the shop’s sign.

To be precise, this was the third time this person had walked past the front door.

The traveler looked up at the sign and paused, seemingly realizing their mistake. They stood frozen at the entrance, as if unsure which way to move their feet.

Watching the stranger hesitate, the owner couldn’t help but chuckle. She called out kindly, “Dear guest, where might you be heading?”

The traveler wore a bamboo hat with white silk veiling that draped down to their elbows, obscuring their face. Their frame was slender and elegant, with a vibrant red silk sash wound around their waist, making it impossible for the owner to tell if they were male or female.

Upon hearing her voice, the guest named a specific village and asked, “Does the proprietor know the way?”

The voice was clear and melodic, sounding like a young man of seventeen or eighteen, the kind of voice that naturally brightened one’s mood. The owner smiled and pointed in a certain direction. “Of course I do! But it’s quite a trek from here, young master. What brings you to such a place?”

“To…” The guest hesitated for a moment, then stepped into the shop and shook their head. “I don’t really know. To hide from someone?”

“You’re so young, master, who could you possibly be hiding from?” the owner asked, curious.

The young guest simply shook their head, unwilling to say more.

The owner had kept this shop for twelve years and prided herself on being an old soul who had seen a thousand faces and weathered many storms. Seeing his reluctance to speak, she assumed he was just a spirited youth running away from home to dodge his family.

Her tone softened with motherly warmth. “Very well then. Where have you traveled from? Would you like some tea? It’s on the house.”

The guest pulled out a seat at one of the tables. “Thank you. Anything is fine. I’ve come from the Northern Borders.”

Just as he sat down, he seemed to remember something. He adjusted his hat and asked, “How have things been lately?”

The owner picked out a packet of her finest tea leaves and began fanning the stove. She laughed at the question. “Same as always. Demons and monsters cropping up everywhere, but the cultivators are up there dealing with it. We mortals just do our best to stay busy, living is enough.”

The kettle began to hiss with steam. As she set out the tea set, she added, “I haven’t asked you yet, young master. If you came from the Northern Borders, this road actually leads toward Peach Blossom Manor.”

“Is it really Peach Blossom Manor?” The guest sounded enlightened. “No wonder the path felt familiar.”

The owner was now certain this was a sheltered, wealthy young lord who didn’t know the ways of the world. She deftly poured the tea and returned to her counter. “Indeed it is. You still haven’t told me, how did you end up on this road?”

“I don’t know,” the guest replied. “To be honest, I set out from the Northern Borders intending to head south, but somehow I ended up here.”

The owner remarked, “It sounds like you took quite a few detours along the way.”

The guest replied, “I was just wandering, it didn’t feel like much of a detour.”

The owner laughed again. “Well, since you’re wandering, I’m happy to let you sit a while. I’ve never hosted a young master quite like you, I wonder if the tea suits your palate?”

The guest paused, then lifted a corner of the veil to take a careful sip. A moment later, he let out a soft laugh. “Sweet but not cloying. This tea is wonderful.”

The owner fanned herself, watching him finish the tea before letting out a sigh of relief. “You’re a sincere one, young master! I was worried you’d say I was patronizing you with ‘children’s tea’!”

There were several small villages scattered within a few miles of the tea house. During the off-season, children often came by to hear her tell stories, and she would let them stay for meals. Over time, the villagers began bringing her fresh fruits and vegetables in return, which she used to brew sweet fruit teas for her special guests.

“Why would I think that? Once, a long time ago… I raised a child. He used to make fruit tea too, he was the most obedient boy.”

He spoke with an air of seniority despite his youth, but she figured he was just at that age where boys liked to act like elders. Assuming he was talking about a younger sibling, she chuckled. “While this tea is sweet, it’s good for clearing the mind and soothing the spirit. It’s better to brew more of it.”

“Oh?” The guest sounded hesitant. “Really? I thought the sweetness was just to mask the taste of poison.”

The owner was stunned into silence.

She felt a bit choked up, wondering if “obedient” was actually some kind of insult in the Northern Borders. But the guest spoke again, his voice as faint as a sigh. “However, I never got to see him grow up.”

He didn’t sound sarcastic, but rather full of deep, lingering emotion, perhaps even a trace of worry.

In all her years running the shop, the owner had heard stories of brothers turning on each other and family betrayals, but she had never met someone who spoke so wistfully of a person who had tried to poison them. She was speechless, but looking at the lonely figure sitting by the window, she couldn’t help but feel a pang of pity.

“Young master,” she whispered, her voice softening as if afraid to break a spell, “if your heart is heavy, why not listen to a story? I don’t have much to offer, but I have plenty of tales.”

The guest tilted his head slightly, the white veil swaying. “What kind of story?”

“A story… that I once heard,” the owner cleared her throat and began to speak slowly.

Legend has it that in the far east, there is a place called the Snow River. Snow falls there all year round, and the people believe their Young Lord possesses abilities far beyond ordinary men, capable of breaking through any obstacle and sweeping away all hardships.

The Snow River Lord of that generation believed so as well.

Born with immense power, this Young Lord believed he was destined for more than just protecting his home. He believed he could achieve something never before seen—breaking the limits of this world to ascend to godhood.

At that time, the cultivators of the Central Heavens were divided into six stages: Initiation, Illumination, Golden Core, Path-Bearing, Awakening, and Absolute Freedom. No one had ever heard of a mortal becoming a god.

Having lived a charmed life where everything went his way, the Young Lord didn’t think much of the challenge. He believed in his ascension as surely as he believed in his protection of the Snow River: as long as he was strong enough, it was only a matter of time.

He traveled the four corners of the world to find his path, befriending four people along the way: a scholar with the world in his heart, a brilliant swordsman, a decisive general, and one… who seemed to be the most ordinary, lazy mortal.

The five of them had vastly different personalities but shared a rare bond. They traveled together, crossing the Central Heavens from east to west, saving countless lives. They made a pact to find the path to ascension together and break the shackles of this world.

But how could the path to godhood be easy?

After traveling together for so long, they realized that even among friends, the desires of the heart do not fade with time. The so-called ‘ascension’ turned out to be a deceptive trap of unattainable longing.

…

The owner stopped her story there. The tea house fell into a heavy silence, broken only by the crackling of the stove.

The guest seemed lost in thought. He slowly raised a hand as if to touch the veil in front of him, but quickly let it drop. “And… how does the story end?” he murmured.

The owner sighed and shook her head. “I don’t know. The person who told me stopped there. If the promise of ascension was a lie, I suppose they could only go their separate ways.”

“Go their separate ways…” the guest repeated softly. “You’re right. Since they were never truly the same to begin with, how could there be an ending?”

Realizing her story had been a bit of a downer, the owner slapped her palm against the counter. “You shouldn’t look at it that way! The story is full of heroes, yet there is that one ordinary person. Perhaps they are all just waiting for that mortal to give them an ending?”

Another long silence followed.

Outside the window, the fields were lush and the forests were turning gold. The late summer sun made the guest’s shadow look thin and fragile. Suddenly, he let out a light laugh. “You’re right.”

“Right?” The owner smiled, relieved to hear him laugh. “It’s because there isn’t a set ending that people can still hope. Perhaps that ‘obedient’ boy of yours is somewhere in the Central Heavens right now, waiting to reunite with you!”

The guest seemed taken aback for a moment, then replied, “I think I’ll pass on that.”

He stood up, placed a string of coins on the counter, far more than the price of the tea and stepped out the door.

Startled, the owner moved to call him back, but the figure in blue and red was already gone. Only the traveler’s voice drifted back from the distance.

“I’m getting married,” the guest said. “Consider that money a wedding gift for you, ma’am.”

As the southern breeze brushed through the wild grass, the owner stood under her shop sign, the “Ten Years’ Inn” feeling that something was very, very strange.

What did he mean, getting married?

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