Falling Star Ridge—the moment the name dropped, the wind changed.

  My legs were still sore from the cliff crash back in the last secret realm, and before I could even breathe, the system had already pulled up a glowing map.

  “Target: Northland’s Falling Star Ridge, three hundred miles ahead.

  Main quest initiated.”

  After a few brief arguments (and one failed attempt to log out), our trio of protagonists set off on yet another “life-or-death, probably death” kind of journey—to find a rare medicine.

  Before we left, I packed light.

  The plan was simple: three days of dry rations, a few silver ingots, and the rest in banknotes—because a man with money never truly dies, right?

  Except—

  “Bring this too,” Lian said.

  I turned around.

  He was holding up a handmade rag doll—stitched from one of my old robes, round-headed, stubby-limbed, and leaking thread like a cursed scarecrow.

  “Wait—that thing? The one I drunkenly told you was the ‘Guardian Deity of Nangong’?”

  He nodded solemnly. “You said it protects you. Naturally, it should stay by your side.”

  “…” Yeah, if by “protect” you mean “terrify anything with eyes.”

  So I sighed and shoved the ugly little doll into my pack.

  I had hoped to limp my way north, play up the “crippled hero” act, and maybe vanish halfway through the journey. But Hua found some mystery ointment from who-knows-where and forced it on me.

  “Don’t move. This is an old granny’s secret bone-healing salve—works on corpses too.”

  I gritted my teeth. “Are you trying to heal me or kill me, you maniac?”

  Ever since realizing I was the male lead of a discontinued novel, I’ve become… relaxed.

  After all, heroes don’t die. They respawn.

  Hua just grinned. “Think of it as… giving you a second life.”

  So much for my great escape plan. Before I knew it, my injuries were gone, my bag was stuffed, and my travel companions had picked the route for me—a foggy mountain trail, narrow as a lie and twice as suspicious.

  “The locals use this road often,” Hua said, fanning himself.

  If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

  “I remember there’s a village ahead,” Lian murmured.

  And that’s how the three of us idiots walked straight into Qushan Village.

  At first glance, it looked harmless enough.

  Stone lanes, white walls, green fields, smoke curling from chimneys—a picturesque countryside scene. Even the children chasing chickens and gooses looked honest and cheerful.

  Until… I noticed their gait.

  Something was wrong.

  Very wrong.

  Every single villager’s legs—were mismatched.

  Not limping—uneven. One leg longer than the other, like they’d all been measured by a drunk carpenter.

  The sound of their steps filled the street—

  thap, thap, thap—

  like an entire village playing slow drumbeats with their knees.

  An old woman chopping pork bones suddenly froze and stared straight at me. Her eyes fixed on my legs, her voice a rasp:

  “Your legs.”

  “…Excuse me?”

  The tofu seller next door stopped his grinding stone and sighed.

  “Ah… a straight-legged stranger. Haven’t seen one in years.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m not from around here,” I muttered.

  By now, a crowd had gathered.

  “Look at that one with the folding fan—legs too even. Definitely up to no good.”

  “That pale beauty over there? Legs too white, too straight. Suspicious.”

  “Outsiders… straight-legged demons. Bring bad luck.”

  I was about to combust on the spot.

  “System,” I hissed, “what genre are we in now?!”

  The screen flickered:

  Note: The original author drafted a scrapped ‘Uneven Legs Horror Arc’ but failed to delete it before quitting. System has automatically integrated and adapted it into main storyline. Please adjust accordingly.

  “What?!”

  Before I could throw a fit, Hua coughed and grabbed my shoulder. “Smile.”

  “What—”

  “Smile, or they’ll throw us out before nightfall.”

  Sure enough, the innkeeper squinted at us. “Straight-legged folk, eh? Don’t take upstairs guests. Too much noise. There’s a room downstairs though—fits three, if you squeeze.”

  And that’s how the great Blood Lotus Sect Master, his right-hand man, and me, the discarded male lead, ended up sharing one miserable room in a backwater village.

  The so-called “triple suite” was really three straw mats stitched together. Mine, naturally, was under a broken window that let in all the night wind and slapped the curtain against my face like a wet ghost banner.

  I tried to claim the corner, but Hua casually flopped down first. “The Sect Master doesn’t like the middle,” he said, fanning himself.

  “I—well—I don’t either—”

  Too late. He was already snoring.

  Fine. Whatever. Sleep is sleep.

  Except… I couldn’t.

  I used to fall asleep only with Lian in my arms. His hands were always cold, his breath soft against my chest. He called me his “fire stove.” I called him my “portable heartbreak.”

  Now I barely dared to look at him.

  That calm face, that silence—behind it were too many whips and memories from the dungeon.

  So I turned away and tucked myself as far from him as I could.

  But halfway through the night, I stirred—and froze.

  Lian was lying right beside me, head resting lightly on my shoulder. His breath was shallow, body curled up like he was… cold.

  “What are you doing?” I whispered.

  “…Wind’s too strong.” His voice was a mere murmur.

  You’re the Blood Lotus Sect Master, I thought. You can kill with a stare—but you’re scared of a breeze?

  I turned my head—and nearly cursed.

  Hua had rolled himself into the farthest corner, mumbling in his sleep, “Don’t touch me, you’re toxic…”

  You’re the only toxic one, I thought, and I’m cursed for life.

  Just as I finally began to drift off—

  BANG!

  The door slammed open.

  Wood creaked, hinges rattled. Something outside howled with the wind—long and low, as if it were whispering our names.