Clan Building System: I'm not the Protagonist?!-Chapter 39: Lin Feng.

Fang Yuan stared at the girl for a long moment more, then let out a low, irritable sigh.

"Alright, alright. If this turns out to be some grand scam, I’m punching someone," he muttered.

With a flick of his wrist, a slender porcelain bottle appeared in his hand, a mid-grade healing elixir from his interspatial ring.

This elixir was not cheap nor was it common but it was renowned to be effective.

He knelt down carefully, still watching her face for any signs of deception.

"Open your mouth," he said.

She didn’t respond.

Her lips were cracked. Her breathing shallow. One eye was swollen shut, and the other fluttered faintly as if she barely registered he was even there.

"...Tch."

Fang Yuan clicked his tongue and gently tilted her head back.

With practiced care, he pulled the stopper from the bottle and poured a small stream of the elixir into her mouth.

It dribbled out the side.

She wasn’t even conscious enough to swallow.

Fang Yuan’s jaw tensed.

He muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like a curse, then used two fingers to gently pinch her jaw open, and with his other hand, coaxed another slow pour of the elixir between her lips.

"Swallow, dammit. Don’t waste spirit stones..."

This time, reflex took over, her throat twitched, and the medicine went down.

Not all of it, but enough.

Fang Yuan watched her breathing for a few seconds. It steadied a little. Her brow, tight with pain, eased just a fraction.

"Stubborn girl," he muttered, corking the bottle and slipping it away. "You’d better not die. That bottle cost more than this entire mountain path."

He stood back up, dusting his hands on his robe, glancing at the sword still resting across her.

"...Right. Now let’s deal with you."

He eyed the sword warily, still half-convinced it might fly up and talk at any moment.

Fang Yuan slowly reached out toward the sword balanced atop her head.

"Alright," he muttered, eyes narrowed. "If you’re cursed, enchanted, or secretly a talking blade from the ancient era... now’s the time to speak."

Nothing happened.

He hovered his hand over it for a few seconds longer then grabbed the hilt in one swift motion.

Silence.

There was no thunderclap. Nor a surge of demonic aura. And definitely not sudden spike in spiritual resistance.

Just... metal.

He gave the sword an experimental tug, lifting it free from the girl’s tangled hair and setting it down beside him. His brows furrowed.

The thing was—well, pathetic.

The blade was chipped in three places, the edge so dull it might’ve been used to spread butter, and the scabbard had more cracks than lacquer.

The entire weapon looked like it had been dragged behind a carriage for ten miles and then forgotten in a rice field for a decade.

"...Are you kidding me?" Fang Yuan said flatly, giving it a light shake. "This is just an old piece of scrap."

He held it at eye level, tilting it under the moonlight. The surface barely reflected anything.

There was no inscription, no hidden mechanism, not even a faint qi resonance.

It was just an old, beat-up sword.

"Tch. And here I thought maybe it was sealed or disguised. But no... it’s just trash."

Still, something about the fact that she had held onto it—even as wounded as she was—gave him pause.

He glanced down at the girl again.

Her hand, even now, twitched faintly toward where the sword had been.

"...Huh."

Fang Yuan sighed. "Of course. Sentimental attachment. Classic."

He slung the sword carefully over his back with a bit of cloth to avoid touching the filthy grip directly.

Then, kneeling again beside the unconscious girl, he took a moment to reinforce the medicine’s effect with a bit of gentle qi.

Her injuries weren’t life-threatening anymore, but they would take time.

He muttered under his breath, "Im curious what makes a nascent soul realm reduced to this state, you’re coming with me..."

And with that, Fang Yuan scooped her up—sword and all—and began heading back toward the Phoenix Soul Pavilion, robes fluttering behind him as the stars blinked quietly above.

Fang Yuan strode through the pavilion grounds, the bloodied girl cradled in his arms like an awkward bundle of trouble.

Her weight wasn’t the issue—it was the looks.

Dozens of servants and disciples along the path froze mid-step, jaws dropping as they witnessed the normally aloof, terrifying patriarch carrying a girl.

A girl.

Not a scroll. Not a sword. A girl.

One servant tripped over a broom.

Another quietly dropped a spirit herb tray.

Fang Yuan didn’t break stride.

His expression was neutral, dignified even, as the mutterings began to rise like cicadas in heat.

He arrived at the main residence and stepped through the side corridor, where the ever-efficient housemaid Felicia was arranging medicinal incense by the doorway.

"Felicia," he said evenly.

She turned, eyes widening slightly when she saw the mess of robes, blood, and limbs in his arms. "Master Fang Yuan... is she...?"

"She’s alive," he said. "Barely. Get her cleaned, treated, and put in a quiet room. Something with wards."

Felicia nodded briskly. "Understood, Master."

Fang Yuan carefully lowered the girl onto a side bench and dusted off his sleeves like he’d just delivered a log of firewood. "I’m going to fetch a doctor from the outer court. Keep an eye on her."

"Yes, sir."

He turned to leave, but paused as he passed the corner of the hallway.

There were voices, low at first but they grew clearer with every step he took toward the side garden.

"Did you see that?! He was carrying a girl!"

"No way, our patriarch?! I thought he was married to his sword!"

"I told you he wasn’t a monk—"

"No no, listen, I always thought he was... y’know... into men. You saw how close he is with Lin Feng."

"I thought he liked him too."

"What if she’s his secret wife?! Maybe she was injured protecting him from assassins!"

"That’s so romantic—wait, you don’t think he was the one who hurt her, do you?"

"Idiot! He’s not like that!"

Fang Yuan stopped mid-step, his left eye twitching as he slowly turned toward the voices.

When the servants made eye contact with him, their faces froze mid-whisper—like children caught stealing peaches from the kitchen.

Panic rippled through their expressions.

Their backs straightened in a snap, and they bowed so quickly it looked more like they were dodging a blow than giving a greeting.

"G-Greetings, Patriarch!"

Then, like startled rabbits, they turned on their heels and sprinted in the opposite direction.

One even tripped over a broom, scrambled back to their feet, and kept running without looking back.

Fang Yuan blinked once. Then twice.

"..."

He turned back to the hall, walking slowly, mind churning.

The whole house thought I was gay?!

He looked up at the ceiling as if searching for divine confirmation.

"...I’ve been living here since I was an infant."

A pause.

"I’ve literally raised my younger brother here."

Another pause.

"Just because I haven’t married yet—"

He stopped himself, taking a long, slow inhale through his nose.

"...I shouldn’t care."

Then again... everyone?

He stared off into the distance, expression blank.

"...Is that why Uncle Chen stopped looking for a suitor for me?... Is that it?"

He turned away. "Tch. I don’t owe anyone an explanation."

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