Chapter 4: The Elaborate Escape Plan (That Accidentally Involved Saving a Village)

“I’m not saying I want something bad to happen,” Feng said, reclining under a plum tree with a dumpling in one hand and a sweet bun in the other, “but if it did… it would be awfully convenient if it happened to someone else first.”

Mei, passing by with an armful of scrolls and a disapproving squint, didn’t even break stride. “You’ve been ‘resting’ for three days.”

“Resting is a strategic choice,” Feng replied with dignity. “I’m preserving my heroic energy.”

“And the four coin pouches tucked under your pillow?”

“Emergency morale funds.”

Mei rolled her eyes and walked off, muttering something about needing a new definition for “legendary.”

Feng stretched and patted his growing stash of coins. His time “observing” the Whispering Woods had proven to be absurdly profitable. Villagers, convinced their prophesied protector was watching over them—even if he mostly napped and complained about mosquitoes—had continued their generous offerings.

His “advisor’s stipend” from the Veridian Sword Sect was also surprisingly regular, thanks in part to Mei’s diplomatic work and the narrative he carefully fed back to the sect via glowing letters full of vague yet inspirational phrases like “The wind listens when one speaks with honor.”

Feng had a plan.

A real one this time. Not a vague hope or an improvised excuse involving allergies. A full, annotated escape plan complete with a coin-saving spreadsheet, potential hideout options ranked by mosquito density, and a color-coded timeline titled: “How to Quietly Vanish Before the Next Crisis.”

Step one? Continue accepting praise for past “heroic deeds” while doing absolutely nothing heroic.

Step two? Find more villages with modest bandit problems and swoop in just after the real threat had been handled—offering emotional support and tea in exchange for coin.

Step three? Disappear to a quiet town near the coast, open a modest dumpling shop, and perfect the ancient art of Doing Absolutely Nothing.

It was foolproof. Or, it would have been, if people would stop asking him to do things.

Unfortunately, word of his “heroic rescue” at the temple had spread faster than he could bribe a cart driver. Feng was now the region's most requested “strategic savior,” and every village within walking distance of the Veridia Sword Clan (yes, Veridia, not “Viridian”—a mistake he’d only made three times in front of the Sect Leader before being gently corrected with a twenty-minute lecture on regional history) was eager to offer him tea, praise, and requests for help.

Currently, he was seated at a communal feast in the village of Red Petal Hollow, nodding politely while trying to discreetly pocket any unattended sweet buns.

“The Lumina Blade himself, in our humble village,” the local elder beamed. “Surely, your presence alone has driven the mountain raiders away!”

“Yes,” Feng said solemnly, chewing thoughtfully on a mildly stale dumpling. “Fear is a powerful deterrent. Especially when paired with my… aura.”

In truth, the raiders hadn’t come down from the mountains in weeks. Likely because they were currently regrouping in a far-off region, or maybe because one of them had caught a cold. Either way, Feng had declared victory upon arrival.

He’d expected to spend the week sleeping in their nicest guest house and slowly siphoning donations from grateful villagers. But fate, being a vindictive little gremlin, had other plans.

Late that night, while Feng was testing the softness of his third pillow, a messenger stumbled into the village, breathless and wild-eyed.

“The caravans from Golden Hollow haven’t returned!” the boy cried. “Smoke on the horizon! We fear the worst!”

Feng peeked one eye open. “Have we considered… maybe they stopped for snacks?”

The elder turned to him. “Lumina Blade, we need your wisdom! Should we send our best fighters or wait until dawn?”

Feng sat up slowly, calculating. On the one hand, this smelled like genuine danger. On the other hand… if Golden Hollow had been attacked and he “arrived late” but “coordinated relief,” he could score another round of grateful coin showers.

“I shall go at once,” he declared nobly. “But… strategically. With caution. Very… strategic caution.”

He departed under moonlight with a borrowed donkey, a basket of travel snacks, and a backup excuse already brewing: “I scouted the situation from afar and determined it best to wait.” It was flexible, easily modified depending on what he actually found, and it sounded heroic and thoughtful.

To his deep disappointment, Golden Hollow had indeed been attacked. Several carts were still burning, and smoke curled through the market square. But something was off—there were no bodies, no signs of a prolonged fight. Just signs of looting… and a trail.

Someone had driven the villagers into the woods.

“Perfect,” Feng muttered, crouching dramatically behind a bush. “Hostages. Always hostages. Do villains not take naps anymore?”

He considered turning back and reporting the situation to someone more qualified. But then he remembered that Red Petal Hollow had promised a “hero’s bonus” if he brought back any stolen goods—or villagers.

“Fine,” he muttered. “Half a hero. I’ll do a sneak-and-release. Like a polite raccoon.”

Following the trail, Feng found the captives in a forest clearing, guarded by half-asleep bandits around a dying campfire. It would’ve been a decent setup—if not for the fact that the bandits were loudly arguing over whose turn it was to stand watch and who had eaten the last dried plum.

Feng took a deep breath. Then, slowly and carefully, he threw a rock into a thicket on the opposite side of the camp.

“Did you hear that?” one bandit jumped up.

“Probably a squirrel again,” another mumbled.

“A very suspicious squirrel,” Feng whispered, tossing another rock. This one hit a cooking pot and sent it clattering.

Panic erupted. Swords were drawn, curses were shouted, and in the confusion, Feng snuck around the back, using his trusty borrowed donkey as a mobile blindspot.

He cut the ropes of the nearest villager and hissed, “Shhh! Quiet rescue. Tell no one I was here until after I leave with the rewards.”

The villagers, too stunned to question the strange, mumbling man with hay in his hair and a suspiciously fancy teacup on his belt, followed his lead.

Minutes later, the camp was empty. The bandits still yelling at each other. The donkey still chewing grass.

And Feng? Feng was being carried into Golden Hollow on a makeshift litter woven from cloaks and gratitude.

“You saved us without even lifting a blade!” one villager cried.

“Your strategy must have confused them beyond measure!” said another.

“Yes,” Feng agreed, deeply tired but already eyeing the wine jug on the celebration table. “Confusion is a powerful weapon in the hands of a… master tactician.”

That night, he was offered a parcel of land, a silk robe he’d absolutely resell, and a ceremonial spoon he didn’t understand but accepted with solemn reverence.

Back in his guest room, curled up under three blankets, he muttered, “This retirement is going to take a lot longer than planned.”

He reached into his pouch and began counting his new coins.

“…But at least I’m getting hazard pay.”