I Am Not a Mastermind, But They Think I Planned Everything

Chapter 4: A Thief, Not a Fighter

Jian crouched in the shadows, gripping a dagger he had no idea how to use.

He had never committed a real crime before. Sure, he had swiped a few drinks at his bartending job, dodged rent payments with smooth talking, and gotten into keyboard wars online. But an actual robbery? With real weapons, real danger, and real life-or-death stakes?

That was new.

And he wasn't ready.

The merchant convoy rumbled into view. Jian felt his heartbeat hammer against his ribs.

Lian made the first move.

She stepped into the middle of the road—calm, confident, completely blocking the path. The driver pulled on the reins, shouting in irritation.

"Out of the way, girl!"

Lian's voice was ice. "This road is closed."

Jian nearly winced. It was such a cliché action movie line. But before he could cringe too hard—

Wei dropped from above.

One of the guards didn't even get a chance to react before Wei's elbow slammed into his skull. The man collapsed instantly.

And just like that, the ambush began.

Jian barely had time to process before the gang moved in.

They didn't fight like desperate street rats. They fought like trained professionals. Too coordinated, too smooth. Lian didn't even flinch as she disarmed a guard in seconds, twisting his wrist until he dropped his sword. Another kid—skinny, maybe 14—rolled under a cart and slashed at the wheel spokes.

Jian gulped.

This wasn't just a group of thugs stealing to survive. This was something bigger.

But he didn't have time to think about that, because—

His target turned to face him.

The two rear guards were watching him warily. One was a veteran, built like a warhorse, his scarred jaw set in a grim line. The other was younger, maybe mid-20s, but his grip on the sword was steady.

Jian's hands were sweating.

He had to fake it.

So he did the only thing he was good at. Talking.

"You don't want to do this," Jian said, keeping his voice calm. "Your guys are already losing."

The younger guard hesitated. The older one didn't.

"Brat," the veteran sneered, raising his blade. "I've killed kids bigger than you."

Jian kept his face blank, but inside, he was screaming.

Fine. If intimidation wouldn't work… time to act like an actual criminal.

"You see this dagger?" Jian twirled it between his fingers, the blade spinning smoothly before settling back in his grip.

A bartender trick. He had done it hundreds of times with bottle openers and cocktail knives.

But the guards didn't know that.

The younger one shifted uneasily. The older one narrowed his eyes.

Jian pressed the attack—verbally. "You ever hear of a knife flick?" he asked. "Pressure points? I only need to hit you three times before your arms go limp."

Total nonsense. But Jian said it with confidence.

The younger guard took a step back. But the older one wasn't buying it.

"Nice trick, kid," the veteran growled. Then he charged.

Jian had exactly one second to react.

He moved on instinct.

His foot hit a loose wooden plank behind him. It tilted upward—just as the guard lunged.

The board smacked the man straight in the face.

The veteran stumbled, blood spurting from his nose. Jian, shocked at his own accidental success, immediately turned to the second guard.

"You're next," he snapped.

The younger man's grip trembled. He glanced at the battlefield—all the other guards were down.

He dropped his sword and ran.

Jian nearly collapsed from sheer relief.

"Not bad," a voice said.

Jian flinched. Wei was standing beside him, smirking.

"Still got it, huh?" Wei said, like this was totally normal.

Jian forced a grin. "Of course."

Lian barely spared him a glance. "Efficient."

…That was it?

No shock, no praise, no disbelief?

That's when it hit him.

They already thought he was skilled.

They weren't impressed because they expected this from him. In their minds, he was already a fighter. A favorite of the boss.

And Jian had just accidentally reinforced that belief.

This was bad.

Lian gave a sharp signal, and the gang melted into the shadows. The convoy was left behind, the unconscious guards slumped in the dirt.

Jian followed, dagger still in hand.

His mind raced.

Who really was Shen before he died?

And more importantly—who exactly was he working for?