The Villain I Loved Has Broken Free and Transmigrated Out of the Story - Chapter 29

This wasn’t the first time Yin Ya realized that, between submission and resistance, she found it difficult to choose the latter.

She had to admit that Cang Lanyan was truly unique.

Even though she knew Cang Lanyan was bullying her, she couldn’t muster any resistance. Even worse, she found herself sinking deeper into this twisted sense of satisfaction.

The warmth of another person’s touch was gentle and considerate. Her pulse throbbed in her neck with each soft movement, like breathing. Every cell in her body seemed to awaken.

Time itself seemed to stop.

“You clearly enjoy this,” Cang Lanyan murmured in her ear.

The words sent a shiver through Yin Ya, jolting her back to her senses. She immediately struggled free of Cang Lanyan’s arms, feeling her blood rush to her head and her mind spin into a chaotic mess.

Wasn’t Cang Lanyan supposed to be the lofty, pure Guardian God? The heartless, ruthless Big Villain? Why… why would she do something like this to me?!

Gathering her remaining wits, Yin Ya retreated, pulling out her phone. Just as she unlocked the screen and was about to open a document to write new rules, a tendril of spiritual power flicked the phone out of her hand. It floated gracefully into Cang Lanyan’s palm.

“It’s useless,” Cang Lanyan said, narrowing her eyes. “Sooner or later, you’ll long for that feeling again. The more rules you write down, the more it will hurt you.”

Yin Ya glared at her and lunged to grab her phone, but Cang Lanyan pressed her back against her chest with a muffled grunt, pinning her in her embrace.

“This desire sprang from your heart; I merely guided it,” the demonic voice hissed in her ear. “You clearly want it—so why deny it?”

Yin Ya trembled with fury, struggling to reach her phone. But a tendril of spiritual power, still bound to her arm through her clothes, tightened its grip.

“Tell me why, and I’ll return your phone,” Cang Lanyan said, looking down at her.

“Because I don’t like you!” Yin Ya shouted.

“Lie,” Cang Lanyan replied. The spiritual power constricting her arm slid down to her wrist, forcing Yin Ya’s hand to lift her own chin.

This interaction wasn’t covered in the Prohibition. Yin Ya was forced to look up.

Those amber eyes, now mere inches away, seemed to pierce through her soul, yet their gaze remained utterly calm, devoid of any trace of desire, fervor, or the satisfaction of victory. Their pure clarity made Yin Ya feel as if she were the one harboring impure thoughts.

“I don’t like…” Yin Ya’s voice trembled as she forced out the next two words. “Same-sex.”

“Another lie,” the merman said calmly, her voice like a verdict. “Save your energy for something else.”

“What do you want?!” Yin Ya finally broke down, nearly hysterical. “What have I ever done to you? Why are you forcing me like this?! Making me say things I don’t want to say?!”

Cang Lanyan was taken aback, surprise flickering in her eyes.

“I’ll do my best to give you anything you want! If I don’t know how, I’ll learn! Stop testing me over and over!” Yin Ya grew more agitated, tears streaming down her face. “Everyone has secrets they don’t want to share. Are you trying to dig until you’ve ripped my heart out?!”

After her outburst, her head rang with a dull ache.

Growing up, she could barely remember ever losing her temper. Yet in just two days with Cang Lanyan, she had completely lost control several times.

“I thought saying it would make you feel better,” Cang Lanyan said when Yin Ya had calmed down a little.

Her voice remained calm and detached, unaffected by Yin Ya’s emotional outburst.

“Don’t get too full of yourself!” Yin Ya snapped, grinding her teeth. “I don’t want to talk to anyone about this, and you… stop doing those things to me!”

“Holding it all inside must be exhausting,” Cang Lanyan said.

“Let go of me!” Yin Ya deliberately avoided the question.

In the next moment, the hand pressed against her back gently cradled the back of her head.

“Even though my people fear me, they still confide in me,” Cang Lanyan murmured, her thin lips almost brushing Yin Ya’s ear. “They tell me everything without reservation. Can you guess why?”

Yin Ya bit her lip, remaining silent.

“I’ve known for a long time that I’m fundamentally different from them,” Cang Lanyan continued. “They’re bound by blood ties, forming a clan. But I’m merely a spirit formed from a pearl, free from any attachments. To them, I’m no different from the Sacred Tree enshrined on the altar, except that I can speak and move.”

“As a human from another world, you should be just as unreserved with me,” she said, threading her fingers through Yin Ya’s dark hair. “Yet you’ve always been afraid to confide in me. It seems there must be some connection between us.”

Yin Ya opened her mouth, but found she couldn’t muster any rebuttal. Lies were useless against Cang Lanyan now.

Feeling helpless, Yin Ya suddenly sensed the spiritual power binding her slowly release.

“That’s enough,” Cang Lanyan said, lowering her hand. Her long eyelashes fluttered, hiding her cunning gaze. “Whenever you’re ready to let go of your fears, I’ll be here to listen.”

The moment the words left her lips, Yin Ya violently shook off Cang Lanyan’s grip, snatched her phone, clutched the back of her neck, and hurried into the bathroom.

A cold, slick substance clung to her palm.

For a moment, she felt like a defeated warrior fleeing in disgrace.

After closing the door, Yin Ya wet a facial towel, lathered it with soap, and scrubbed the spot Cang Lanyan had touched several times. Then she switched to a fresh towel and rinsed away the soap smell with clear water, sobbing as she washed, though her tears weren’t born of humiliation or indignation over the bullying.

Cang Lanyan’s purity left her powerless. She knew the Big Villain had guided her in that way only after seeing through her completely.

She knew her body and mind both craved that kind of touch, and she knew Cang Lanyan was right—she had been lying all along.

It was a lie she could never tell the truth about to anyone around her.

After washing up, Yin Ya dried her hands, picked up her phone, and opened the settings document with a grim expression. Slowly, she typed out a new prohibition.

*****

For the next half-day, Yin Ya didn’t speak to Cang Lanyan.

For lunch, she ordered takeout, ate it quickly at the coffee table, tossed the packaging just as fast, and retreated to her bedroom with her laptop, locking the door behind her to focus on writing the next chapter.

Ever since Cang Lanyan’s arrival, Yin Ya hadn’t checked her comment section. First, she feared Cang Lanyan, who loved to monitor her every move, would see comments mentioning her by name and start asking questions. Second, she worried the harsh criticism would affect her mindset and prevent her from even finishing the story properly.

After all, the story’s direction had slipped from her control the first time the main text deviated from the outline.

Now, she could only cling desperately to the remaining plot, afraid to let go for even a moment, lest the entire narrative collapse into an irredeemable disaster.

Fortunately, she wasn’t completely without material to write. Cang Lanyan wasn’t the protagonist, and her disappearance could even serve as a plot device. However, the current handling of this plot device was clumsy and perfunctory. She needed to devise a plausible follow-up to properly resolve this thread.

Yin Ya put on her headphones, playing a playlist of guqin instrumental music to force herself to calm down. She opened the outline and began writing, simultaneously organizing her thoughts for the next steps.

Hours slipped by unnoticed. By the time Yin Ya finished posting the new chapter, the sky had darkened.

Yin Ya, worn out from writing, stretched her limbs, removed her headphones, closed her laptop, and placed it on the bedside table. She climbed down from the upper bunk, intending to use some of the vegetables she’d bought that morning.

As she opened the bedroom door, the lights outside were already on. Cang Lanyan sat at her desk, a new book hovering before her, its pages flipping rapidly.

Yin Ya glanced at the book cover and recognized it immediately: Fortress Besieged.

She didn’t greet Cang Lanyan and headed straight for the kitchen. But Cang Lanyan called out, “Yin Ya.”

Yin Ya stopped, turning to face her with a cold expression.

“My phone’s dead,” Cang Lanyan said calmly, stopping the book and meeting Yin Ya’s gaze.

Yin Ya frowned and walked over. She saw the backup phone connected to an unfamiliar data cable. Without a word, she yanked out the cable and tossed it aside. She opened a drawer, grabbed a spare data cable, and connected the phone to the charger.

A few seconds later, the backup phone buzzed, and the startup screen lit up.

“Don’t use that cable again. You can’t replicate its internal structure.”

After speaking, Yin Ya walked back to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator.

The morning’s groceries were still haphazardly piled inside.

After turning on the rice cooker, she sorted the ingredients. She took out the braised pork liver and purple cabbage and placed them on the kitchen counter. She also retrieved the bag of fresh mint, washed it, and put a handful in a glass bowl. The rest she stored in a plastic container and returned to the fridge.

Both purple cabbage and mint were suitable for a cold salad. While the cabbage was marinating, Yin Ya briefly blanched the mint, sliced half a piece of the braised pork liver, and arranged them on a plate. Then she prepared the dressing for the salad.

She deliberately added extra chili peppers and garlic paste—partly to suit her own taste, and partly to punish Cang Lanyan for her curiosity when she tried the dish.

By the time the salad was ready, the rice still needed a while to cook. Yin Ya decided to make a soup with the remaining purple cabbage and some eggs.

While the rice cooker beeped, signaling that the rice needed to steam for a few more minutes, Yin Ya arranged all the dishes on the coffee table. By the time she returned from the kitchen with two sets of utensils and two bowls of rice, Cang Lanyan had already “helpfully” settled onto the sofa, her gaze fixed on the bowl of mint salad.

“You must have heard this morning,” Yin Ya said, placing a bowl of rice and utensils in front of her. “Mint salad is a refreshing dish.”

Cang Lanyan glanced at her briefly before turning her attention back to the neatly sliced braised pork liver.

Ignoring her, Yin Ya took off her glasses and set them aside. She sipped her soup and began eating her own meal.

The meal was awkwardly silent. Yin Ya’s subtle attempt at persuasion had failed completely—Cang Lanyan didn’t touch the two bowls of salad, focusing solely on the pork liver, occasionally picking out the egg strips from the purple cabbage soup.

It was unclear whether she simply disliked vegetables or had detected the “special” quality of the salad.

After the meal, Yin Ya washed the dishes and turned on the TV in the living room, planning to watch a drama to relax.

Cang Lanyan had initially returned to her desk to continue reading, but the sound and images from the TV soon drew her over. She stood by the coffee table, arms crossed, her brow furrowed.

The camera in the show panned to a crowded scene. After watching for a few seconds, Yin Ya summoned a tendril of spiritual power and flicked it toward the TV.

Yin Ya, who had been fully engrossed in the show, jumped up in fright when she suddenly saw the spiritual tendril whip past.

Only when she saw the tendril bounce back from an invisible force did she remember she had written a rule forbidding Cang Lanyan from damaging electronics.

Under Cang Lanyan’s gaze, she calmly sat back down and said, “I must have mentioned this in the basics: the TV doesn’t trap people. It’s just a carrier of sound and images—phones can do the same thing.”

“I was just curious if the sound and images could be severed,” Cang Lanyan said coolly.

“…Can’t your destructive urge be a little less intense?” Yin Ya said, exasperated. “What happened to being a Guardian God?”

The corners of Cang Lanyan’s lips curved into a faint smile. She sat down beside Yin Ya and started watching the show with her.

Yin Ya was usually quiet while watching shows, but with a Big Villain sitting beside her, she became as silent as a wooden log. Instead, Cang Lanyan occasionally muttered disdainful comments.

“Marriage? Does this weakling even deserve it?”

“Slick talker, but look at his pathetic appearance.”

“Has this woman been bewitched?” Yin Ya thought, shocked. “Her eyes don’t seem blind, yet her heart has been completely captivated by that vile trash!”

Yin Ya was stunned. She never imagined that a TV drama could make the Big Villain launch into a scathing roast!

However, Cang Lanyan’s critiques were all quite valid. Yin Ya decided to enjoy the entertainment while secretly noting them down. This way, she could avoid falling into those logical traps that destroy character consistency when writing similar characters in the future.

The 45-minute episode finished quickly. As Yin Ya habitually pressed “Next Episode,” the opening credits began playing when she suddenly felt a knife-like gaze piercing her.

“What is it?” she asked, turning to face the glaring Cang Lanyan.

“Why are you still watching this insincere drivel?” Cang Lanyan asked coldly.

“To kill time,” Yin Ya replied, tilting her head. “You don’t like insincerity? But you were clearly enjoying it earlier.”

“I felt nothing,” Cang Lanyan retorted, raising an eyebrow. “The emotions of others mean nothing to me.”

You only bark when you care, Yin Ya muttered inwardly, but she still paused the show.

“It’s still early,” Yin Ya said. “If you don’t want to watch the show, can you suggest something to pass the time?”

She knew plenty of ways to kill time; she was just asking to see what the Big Villain was up to.

“You really want me to decide?” Cang Lanyan countered.

Meeting her sly gaze, Yin Ya’s expression darkened. “Don’t you dare test my limits!”

“What if I told you I’m willing to take responsibility for you?” Cang Lanyan suddenly recited a line from the show.

Yin Ya froze, then blurted out, “What the hell is wrong with you?!”

“For humans, physical satisfaction can relax the mind,” Cang Lanyan explained earnestly. “You’ve been on edge since lunch…”

“I told you, I don’t like you,” Yin Ya interrupted bluntly. “And I don’t want you touching me.”

“Is it dislike, or just fear?” Cang Lanyan retorted.

Her few words reignited the anger Yin Ya had barely managed to suppress.

“Interpret it however you want.” Yin Ya switched off the TV and headed toward the bedroom. “Either way, I won’t accept it.”

Hearing no response from Cang Lanyan, Yin Ya continued into the bedroom without stopping. She found clean clothes, combed her messy hair into a bun, picked up her clothes, and headed to the bathroom.

Cang Lanyan remained silent even after the bathroom door closed. She returned to her desk and resumed reading, just as she had that afternoon, her posture unchanged, as if nothing had happened between them.

After placing her clothes in a waterproof bag, Yin Ya turned on the tap and flushed the bathtub to wash away any lingering traces of Cang Lanyan’s strange concoctions. She plugged the drain, adjusted the water temperature, and began filling the tub.

With her fluffy pajamas draped over a tall stainless steel rod, Yin Ya retrieved her favorite essential oils from the cabinet. She added a few drops to the water, stirred it, and slowly stepped into the bath.

The water was perfect. As she sank deeper, surrounded by the rose’s fragrant aroma, she let out a contented sigh. The day’s mental and physical exhaustion seemed to evaporate in that moment.

But then she remembered that Cang Lanyan had also soaked in the bath today, and her relaxed brow furrowed again.

She was finding it increasingly difficult to understand what the Big Villain was thinking.

At first, Cang Lanyan had been focused on figuring out Yin Ya’s identity, testing her in various ways.

Today, while Cang Lanyan was still testing her, Yin Ya could sense that something was off about their interactions. Cang Lanyan’s behavior toward her was gradually becoming more inappropriate.

But upon reflection, Yin Ya realized that the Big Villain had been pushing her boundaries from the very beginning—pressing her chin, punishing her in peculiar ways. What was happening now was merely an escalation, not a sudden change.

Yin Ya recalled how demons in stories, even when mimicking human customs, could never truly suppress their innate recklessness.

And Cang Lanyan wasn’t just any demon; she was a merman, a creature practically synonymous with romantic obsession. Could it be that Cen Xiang was right? That a merman’s love-obsessed nature was etched into their very bones?

If that was the case, reasoning and correction would be futile.

Yin Ya knew all too well that deeply ingrained beliefs, accumulated over years, weren’t easily changed by a few words or a handful of prohibitions.

Therefore, if she didn’t want to take that step, she could only repeatedly reject Cang Lanyan, making her back off.

Thinking of this, she couldn’t help but cover the back of her neck.

The skin she had washed repeatedly during the day now stung painfully under the slightly hot water, the slight prickling pain reminding her that the secret she had worked so hard to bury, a secret she had never planned to reveal, had been completely unearthed by Cang Lanyan.

She knew the answer to Cang Lanyan’s question all too well. It was precisely because she knew too well that she chose to refuse.

Physical dependence was terrifying. What if… what if Cang Lanyan really left one day? What would she do?

Cang Lanyan, unbound by any ties to this world, could naturally follow her heart and do as she pleased. But she couldn’t.

Yin Ya closed her eyes helplessly, her fingertips stroking the back of her neck, the hand that had been resting on her stomach sliding downward, trying to recapture a sensation that had long faded.

This time, she stayed in the bathtub for a long time, until the water had completely cooled and started to feel chilly, before slowly standing up and rinsing off the residual essential oil and slickness under the showerhead.

Despite her attempts to dispel her emotions, her mood hadn’t eased at all. Instead, it was as if she had poured oil onto a dying fire.

After changing her clothes, Yin Ya silently watched the water in the bathtub gradually drain, almost afraid to leave.

Some thoughts, if left unexplored, remain harmless. But once experienced, they become an irreversible torment.

After draining the bathtub, she left the bathroom, avoiding Cang Lanyan’s gaze. Just as she was about to flee back to her bedroom like a refugee, a call from behind made her flinch, and she guiltily stopped in her tracks.

“Unwell?” Cang Lanyan approached, examining her complexion.

“No, I’m just tired,” Yin Ya replied, half-heartedly lying to avoid her. But just as she placed her hand on the doorknob, Cang Lanyan gripped her wrist through her clothes.

“Going to sleep like this will surely bring nightmares,” Cang Lanyan said meaningfully.

“…” Yin Ya, unwilling to play the “instant comprehension” trope, pretended not to understand. She shook off Cang Lanyan’s hand, pushed open the door, and said, “I’m going to rest. Make yourself at home.”

It wasn’t even bedtime yet, but Yin Ya had been worn down by Cang Lanyan’s relentless teasing all day. Exhausted both physically and mentally, the bath had only intensified her desire to sleep until dawn.

In the darkness, she climbed to the upper bunk, curled up tightly under the covers, and tried to will herself to sleep.

Despite her exhaustion, Yin Ya tossed and turned for hours, unable to fall asleep. Instead, her mind grew increasingly alert, acutely aware of the emptiness stirred within her by Cang Lanyan’s touch.

She even began to wonder if there wasn’t some subtle, spiritual connection between an author and their characters. Otherwise, how could a fleeting, gentle touch from Cang Lanyan have left such a lasting imprint?

Yin Ya didn’t know how long she’d been tormented by these strange feelings until the phone in the bedside table automatically dimmed at midnight. Even when Cang Lanyan pushed the door open, Yin Ya was still awake.

The faint tremors from below and the minty scent that shouldn’t have reached her nose nearly stripped away her last shred of rationality.

She knew Cang Lanyan didn’t rest and didn’t need to. The reason she’d entered the bedroom was likely to check on Yin Ya’s condition—or, more precisely, to witness her disheveled state after refusing her advances.

For a moment, Yin Ya regretted ever creating such a maddeningly alluring character.

Still, she stubbornly fought back. She folded the quilt into a shape she could clench, a futile attempt to combat the insomnia fueled by her agitation.

She didn’t know how much time passed, but finally, lulled by the lingering minty scent, a faint drowsiness began to wash over her.

As her consciousness drifted into a hazy dream, she faintly felt warmth rising at the back of her neck.

The lingering pleasure, like a feather brushing against her heart, gently drew her deeper into slumber. Unconsciously, she arched her back slightly, surrendering to the embrace of sleep.

Hours later, sunlight streamed through the curtains, illuminating Yin Ya’s relaxed face and a strand of snow-white hair that had fallen across her pillow.

The phone in the bedside basket lit up, but before it could ring, a slender finger silenced the alarm.

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