Volume One: The Wild Boy Chapter Fifty-Three: The Jade Unicorn and the Common Steed

The arrow was already nocked and could not be withheld. Gan’s lackluster warhorse no longer cared for the clamor behind; gritting his teeth, he abandoned all thought of defense, resolved to wager his very life against Lin Changtian, even if it meant courting grievous injury.

Lin Changtian’s blade pressed on, its momentum undiminished, descending with the might of the heavens, while the youth’s resolve wavered on the brink of collapse—his spirit utterly blunted. Blood and spirit armor were stripped away, the green robe fell, now stained with the blossoms that had once adorned it. The courage that once let the warhorse turn was dashed to the ground, never to be retrieved.

“It’s not every time you can bet your life and win. What’s more, you didn’t even carry that courage through.” Lin Changtian slid the youth’s long blade back into its sheath, hastily staunched the bleeding, and closed the boy’s eyes. Yet the bitterness in that warhorse’s heart could not be soothed.

A duel to the death, lives forfeit, victory only for the one who pressed forward. There was little chance, even, for Lin Changtian to withhold his strike—the youth had chosen to retreat, and at the moment of close combat, the outcome was already decided.

Seeing this villain cut down two men in the blink of an eye, the remaining world-crossers of Ruzhou could bear it no longer. They exchanged glances, landed together, and encircled Lin Changtian, their faces twisted with malice, intent on overwhelming him in a single surge.

But before the pack of wolves could bare their fangs, the lion had already shaken out its mane. Lin Changtian’s blade moved with astonishing speed—cleaving through nightmares to clarity, from the finesse of the duel to the art of war, from a mere glimmer to a cascade of countless afterimages—he carved a vacuum into the world itself!

Surely, this man must be mad. As he weighed his own strength, he sought to pin down all of Ruzhou in a single breath!

The slaughter went on. Every foe in the Eastern District was marked for death, his disdain and provocation driving the soldiers to choke down their fury—after all, not one of the world-crossers who encircled him proved a worthy adversary.

In the blink of an eye, a battle once evenly matched was over. The wolves howled and scattered, fleeing back to their rotten, stinking dens.

The chaos of battle still roared, but the slaughter had become a pursuit.

The rats of the Eastern District crept out again under cover of night, eyes greedy for the spoils of war. Unnoticed, Lin Changtian’s arrival had kept them from mischief for over ten days.

A wild revel erupted—gangs, large and small, brazenly paraded their filth, as crazed thugs stormed into the homes of Eastern District folk, forcing all manner of drugs down the throats of the lambs.

Of course, nobody cared for the homes of the impoverished, and who would dare disturb the abodes of the mighty? The “lambs,” then, were the proper citizens caught between the two.

Pitiful, these folk, just done watching the spectacle, only to suffer calamity from nowhere. Then again, perhaps their pity runs shallow.

But Lin Changtian, after all, fancied himself the guardian of the Eastern District—so this, he must take in hand.

Thus, a fresh batch of souls joined the dead beneath his blade.

From north to south, then back to the center of the Eastern District, Lin Changtian’s hand never wavered—the blade ever poised, never faltering, until his very being was steeped in underworld’s blood, leaving Hu Shizhen stupefied at the sight.

A ridiculous notion flickered in Hu Shizhen’s mind—perhaps even the Seven Clans and Ten Elders of Ruzhou could not withstand this man’s might. But he quickly dismissed this absurd thought—how could that be?

Yet, in a fleeting, abrupt moment, it was as if someone whispered: why not?

Soon, the vermin and scoundrels of the Eastern District were thoroughly purged, and silence seemed poised to reclaim the night.

The customary world-crossers of the Seven Clans were dealt with, the elite soldiers and fierce generals sent to suppress the turmoil became nothing but wraiths beneath Lin Changtian’s blade. As for the rats and lambs of the Eastern District—the surviving vermin were driven back to their sewers, and the fortunate among the lambs could limp on, awaiting the next harvest.

The words in Lin Changtian’s chest remained unspoken. In telling them to Hu Shizhen, he ended up being lectured instead; as for the rest, they were mere underlings, unworthy of complaint.

Tonight, all of Eastern District indulged in debauchery.

The onlookers, hunched by the weight of life, witnessed a fine spectacle—how thrilling! The rats in the streets, oppressed by justice, scattered—how satisfying!

Thus, it seemed, only Lin Changtian was left unsated.

Yet soon, the stir in this small Eastern District would draw several of Ruzhou’s most powerful figures to the scene.

Gan Yulin gazed at his clan’s warhorse, now lying on the ground, breathing his last. His expression was inscrutable, but a few strands of his black hair had turned white in an instant.

That very night, as head of the Gan clan, he had just abolished the old rule of the “warhorse” title.

Incidentally, the half-dead youth on the ground was his only brother by blood.

Standing in the center of the Eastern District, Gan Yulin rendered all of Ruzhou silent. “I have just abolished the Gan clan’s most notorious custom. Pity that, as a warhorse, he did not live to see it. His fate is his own, not your fault. As a world-crosser, he challenged you, outmatched and of his own will—his end is his own doing. None of this is on you.”

Lin Changtian accepted this calmly, fixing his gaze on Gan Yulin. This would be, perhaps, the strongest peer he’d faced since becoming a world-crosser.

Gan Yulin sighed and spoke evenly, “No matter how you look at it, you are not at fault. There are dozens of reasons to exonerate you. But he was my brother, and for that, no excuse can dissolve this enmity decreed by fate.” He said no more, for he’d already drawn his long whip.

The ghostly whip, unseen by men, reveals itself only to harvest souls.

Gan Yulin’s whip lashed out, splitting the air with a crack—cold as the grave, savage as his face. Carrying the chill of the underworld, it seemed intent on striking Lin Changtian’s soul from his body.

But in the north, the blade has always been known for its ferocity.

The fierce knife and ghostly whip tangled together—cold suppleness submerged brute force, the solar clashed with the lunar, seeming bent on mutual destruction, yet as two aspects of yin and yang, inseparable.

This spectacle persisted long into the night, like a tiger descending the mountain meeting a python barring its path, tongues flicking, fangs bared.

From midnight until dawn, the duel raged on.

In the words of a boy from the Eastern District, grown up, “Damn, those two fought all night and still didn’t decide a winner. I always thought there can’t be two tigers on one mountain, and sooner or later we’d hear one had killed the other. But who could have guessed—my grandpa outlived them, my dad too, and each told me to pass along the message when we burned paper for them. Never got to see the end myself. Son, that’s the regret of your old man’s youth. But listen—our family, generation after generation, will keep waiting. Surely, someday, we’ll see the outcome!”

Fortunately, by the time his grandson came, Lin Changtian and Gan Yulin finally decided the victor.

Thus arose the later idiom in Wen Yuan Shenzhou, “The Yu Gong Message”—meaning to persist stubbornly in a task, never resting until the goal is achieved. It also came to mock those who persist fiercely at meaningless things.

It’s worth noting that when the boy’s grandson burned the message for him, he cried out loudly, “Grandpa, your youthful regret is finally over! Grandpa, your youthful regret is finally over! Grandpa, your youthful regret is finally over…” Repeating it so many times his tongue got tangled, until all he could say was, “Grandpa’s youth is over, Grandpa’s youth is over.”

From then on, in Wen Yuan Shenzhou, when something beloved or followed comes to an end, people would say, “Grandpa’s youth is over.”

Lin Changtian and Gan Yulin both panted for breath, while the crowd watching their battle had swelled from all of Eastern District to the whole of Ruzhou, even drawing world-crossers from neighboring cities.

For the convenience of all, the Ten Elders made a sweeping gesture and set up an illusion of light across the city—making the duel a live broadcast.

Thus, the atmosphere of the duel took on a strange new twist. Lin Changtian gave Gan Yulin a peculiar look, gasping, “Are we really going to keep fighting? At this rate, we’ll become Ruzhou’s top outdoor streamers, boosting the local GDP.”

After a night of fighting and slaughter, Lin Changtian’s heart held only a single breath of resentment, and not even aimed at Gan Yulin.

Gan Yulin’s eyes were bloodshot, teeth clenched, glaring at Lin Changtian. “You villain! You’ve left my brother’s fate in the balance—how am I to explain this to our mother? Even if I must forfeit my seat among the Ten Elders, I’ll see you in hell with him!”

“Brother, what are you saying? Look at me—elegant as a jade tree, courteous, a gentleman, a not-so-famous Four-Virtue Youth of the Gan clan, a model citizen of Ruzhou—how can I go to hell?” The youth in the green robe, at some point carried aside, was now munching on chips as he watched the duel, recovering on a stretcher.

Lin Changtian could sense Gan Yulin’s killing intent intensifying. Gan Yulin strode toward his brother, face ashen with cold fury. Yet his brother, ever the fool, smiled and offered him a chip. “Brother, are you losing? It’s okay, nothing to be ashamed of—have a chip to steady your nerves.”

Luckily, the Gan clan’s people arrived just in time, else tomorrow’s news would be that Gan Yulin, one of the Ten Elders, had beaten his own brother to death.

Gan Yulin tore himself from their grip, face livid with rage. “Gan Chengyu, you scoundrel! Because of you, I fought that brute all night, nearly lost my life! I should never have abolished the warhorse title and let you run wild every day!”

Gan Chengyu, nearly beaten half-dead again, jumped up at these words, heedless of his bandaged wounds, leaping about like a monkey escaped from his wife.

After a moment of uproar, Gan Chengyu’s eyes welled with tears. Facing the crowd, he declared with deep emotion, “My soul yearns for freedom, my life rushes toward the underworld. But in this undying struggle, every shackle scatters to dust!” Finishing, he bowed three times to heaven and earth, surveying all of Ruzhou, finding even Lin Changtian more agreeable.

Lin Changtian, bewildered, called out, “Wait, weren’t you playing dead on the ground after I cut you down? Isn’t your freedom thanks to your brother?” Seeing Gan Chengyu clamp his mouth shut, as if he hadn’t heard, he shouted several more times, drawing odd looks from the crowd, all staring at Gan Chengyu.

“This guy’s definitely come to finish me off since I survived. Vicious, what a schemer,” Gan Chengyu muttered to himself, then cast a pleading look at his brother. But Gan Yulin, busy considering how to dye his hair black again, only shot him a cold glare. Still, as brothers, Gan Chengyu read the meaning perfectly. First, fix the mess you made yourself; second, if all else fails, end it yourself—but don’t disgrace the Gan family.

Seeing Gan Yulin had given up on him, Gan Chengyu put on a face of utter “anguish,” mixing sorrow, pity, and grievance as he cast one last look at his brother.

Gan Yulin could hardly tolerate such theatrics, but since this was his brother whom he’d raised from childhood, he could only sigh, clasp his hands to the crowd, and say, “Everyone, to tell the truth, my brother Gan Chengyu has made significant contributions here as well. Since he’s all right, our Gan family will withdraw from this affair. We’ll take our leave—you all handle things as you see fit.”

Gan Yulin’s words were tactful—on the surface preserving Gan Chengyu’s reputation, but beneath, making it clear: the Gan clan washes its hands of the Eastern District’s troubles. Whoever’s in charge, let them step forward.

At the eye of this storm stood Hu Shizhen and Lin Changtian.

And behind them, the true contest—known to the Seven Clans and Ten Elders—between Wei Shaoqing and Yang Wuliu.

Yet Yang Wuliu was thoroughly bewildered. This minor post had only been meant to keep Lin Changtian occupied; he was hardly considered Yang’s own man. But to say so to Wei Shaoqing would only earn a cold sneer.

For now, the one truly calling the shots in Ruzhou wore a most unsightly mask indeed.