Volume One: The Wild Child Chapter Sixty-Four: The Tide Has Turned

Snow fell in silence, and the mountain felt deserted.

“Heaven wishes to destroy me, does it?” Zhang Yi sat cross-legged in his chamber, nursing a bottle of wine in solitude. In no time, the cup was emptied. He frowned and, out of habit, turned to look behind him—his mouth already cursing before his head had even turned, “What are you standing there for, boy? Pour the old man a drink and keep me company for a few—” Zhang Yi’s words stopped abruptly, twisting into a bitter smile. All those few loyal men he had left had died in that ambush on Mount Si.

He sighed heavily, exhaling a cloud of turbid air, bracing himself against the desk to stand with difficulty. Hunched over, he paced the hall, muttering to himself and then shaking his head in self-denial.

The attacks from Mount Si grew fiercer with each passing day, and their raids reached ever deeper and wider. What a farce—Yishan Alliance, with ten times the enemy’s numbers, was bullied right at its own doorstep. Even before the bandits could lay siege, the entire alliance cowered, no one daring to make a move.

Zhang Yi knew all too well that his alliance’s strength was a mere shadow of what it appeared to be. If united, not only would these raids from Mount Si have been easily crushed, but the entire southern reaches of the Northern Domain could be swept clean in a single campaign. Yet, after suffering grievous losses in the assault on Mount Si, none were willing to exert even an ounce more effort. It was ludicrous—a handful of rats lurking in the shadows forcing a mighty army to bow its head. Were these rats truly so formidable? That was the excuse everyone hid behind, their reasons always the same. Zhang Yi had long since grown tired of hearing them.

Had anyone truly applied themselves, not even a portion of their strength, the enemy would never have dared set foot on the mountain.

“Well, since none of you wish to stay, so be it! I’ll grant your wish!” Zhang Yi’s face twisted with ferocity as he forced his bent back straight. On the desk stood a mirror, reflecting an image startlingly like the long-gone Yu Wenlong...

In the great hall of Yishan, Zhang Yi had summoned all the mountain’s bandit chiefs. They gathered in a dense, noisy throng.

Clad in armor, sword at his side, Zhang Yi strode silently to the front, his gaze icy as he surveyed the assembly.

No one dared sit, not even Zhang Yi himself. Yet the more powerful chiefs exchanged glances and, under Zhang Yi’s gaze, brazenly seated themselves. One, a particularly corpulent figure, sank heavily into his chair, wedging himself in and wriggling like a grub, cursing, “Whose wretched chair is this? So stingy—couldn’t they make it bigger? Not even a layer of felt, truly a sign of no respect!”

The crowd burst into raucous laughter. A bearded giant feigned sternness, chiding, “You, Liu Er, always making a fuss. Can’t fit in the chair and blame the furniture? You keep asking whose chair, but who else but our Lord Zhang Yi would do such a thing?”

Liu Er waved his hand, eyes darting, and hastily bowed toward Zhang Yi, “Ah, Yong Chi’s right. Lord, I truly didn’t realize this was your doing. Please accept Liu Er’s apology—would a bow suffice, or should I kowtow twice for you?”

The hall erupted in laughter, the bandits utterly unafraid of Zhang Yi’s authority. Yet Zhang Yi took no offense, smiling as he replied, “A true man’s word is his bond. Since you promised, then let’s have two kowtows—give everyone a bit of amusement.”

Liu Er’s smile vanished; the hall fell silent. The lesser chiefs glanced nervously at each other, while the powerful few stared coldly at Zhang Yi.

Zhang Yi’s smile only grew as he stood, drawing his long blade with a swift motion. He strode to the steps before Liu Er, gazing down from above. “What’s this? No more laughter, no kowtows either? Liu Er, look at you, ruining everyone’s fun. Hurry up, everyone’s waiting!”

The powerful chiefs sprang to their feet, drawing their own blades. Yong Chi snorted, pointing at the lord’s seat, “Since it’s come to this, let’s make it clear—we will not serve under you, Zhang Yi. For old comrades’ sake, let’s part ways peacefully. Stay and be lord of Yishan if you wish, but we’ll serve no more!” With that, Yong Chi hoisted Liu Er, pushing through the crowd to leave. The others, weapons drawn, brandished their blades at Zhang Yi before following Yong Chi out.

“Anyone else want to leave before I change my mind?” Zhang Yi roared, slashing at the abandoned chairs with his blade, splintering them to dust with a single fierce blow.

The exodus gained momentum; in moments, the hall was nearly empty, only a handful of chiefs remaining.

Shuffling back to his seat, Zhang Yi pounded his chest with the last of his strength, declaring, “Those who leave today are enemies from now on. But those who remain are my true brothers!”

The hall, now nearly deserted, was shrouded in cold silence.

...

The long-absent crows returned to their branches, their crimson eyes hinting at ill omens. As dusk fell, Yishan was swallowed by a heavy stillness.

Behind the mountain, the snow had grown deeper.

As if to answer this dark and windy night, one spot in the “snow” suddenly stirred. “Longtian, how much longer must we wait? Delay breeds trouble. Why not…” Kuisheng rubbed his hands, playing with his sword, grumbling to Lin Longtian.

Lin Longtian checked the watch he’d drawn on his wrist, prodding the drowsy Qi Yong. “Are all our men assembled?”

Qi Yong buried his head in the snow to rouse himself, then twisted his neck, replying, “Commander Lin, everyone on our mountain is here. Chen Mo and General Ziliang’s troops should be waiting below by now. Our scouts say something’s happened at Yishan—the bandits are nearly all gone. Seems today is Zhang Yi’s fated end.”

“Then what are we waiting for? Tell everyone—let’s hit them hard!”

Before the words were fully spoken, the long-prepared wolves howled as they charged toward the lights, so swift and fierce that even their own commander was knocked to the ground and trampled, leaving a human-shaped imprint in the snow.

...

Qi Yong had been right—there were too few defenders left on Yishan to withstand the onslaught from Mount Si’s united forces. When the infamous God of Slaughter, Chen Ziliang, appeared, they surrendered without a fight. Soon, the three columns converged at Yishan’s final line of defense.

Only one man stood at the gate.

Zhang Yi, sword slung over his shoulder, sat before the door, drinking as calmly as ever.

Kuisheng, leading the vanguard, grinned malevolently and signaled his soldiers to surround Zhang Yi. Sheathing his sword, he drew a long blade from his back and carved a flower into the snow before Zhang Yi. “Look, after you die, you’ll be buried here. I’ve even brought you a flower. Zhang Yi, walk slowly on the road to the underworld—I’ll send your family to join you soon enough!” With that, Kuisheng stabbed, the blade’s tip flashing, aiming to pierce Zhang Yi’s heart.

Yet Zhang Yi continued drinking, his cup steady as ever—the blade could advance no further.

“Best call Chen Ziliang. Your skills are in leading men, not fighting,” Zhang Yi said without even glancing up. Kuisheng’s face flushed in anger, unwilling to yield, and he thrust with all his might.

Still, the sword trembled in the air, unable to move. Zhang Yi finished his wine.

With a casual movement, Zhang Yi drew his blade and slashed. The clash rang out, numbing Kuisheng’s hand and sending his sword clattering to the ground. Zhang Yi’s blade, undiminished, pressed on—Kuisheng was about to die when a spear intervened, breaking the strike.

Chen Ziliang pulled Kuisheng behind him, spear planted firmly, eyes locked on Zhang Yi. The air between them bristled with murderous intent.

“Ziliang, your wound hasn’t healed—” Kuisheng began, but Chen Ziliang cut him off, motioning him aside and lowering his stance.

Zhang Yi exhaled, gripping his blade tighter, his expression grave.

Blood flowed from the wound on Chen Ziliang’s back, pooling at his feet, the killing aura on his spear somewhat dimmed. Yet he said nothing, his eyes burning with unyielding battle spirit. “I have strength for one strike. If you withstand it, victory is yours.”

Zhang Yi frowned, but sheathed his blade, laughing bitterly. “To think I, Zhang Yi, should die shamed like this. Are you even seventy percent of your old self? I won’t fight back. Kill me if you must.”

Kuisheng sneered, cursing, “What pitiful act is this? Have we ever wronged you? Military secrets were entrusted to you. At Changqiao Mountain, if not to save you, would Xu Yong have paid with his life-force to unleash his power? Do you know, now he can’t even smile or cry freely?”

The more Kuisheng spoke, the more agitated he became, his pent-up grievances spilling over.

Zhang Yi’s face twisted in pain. He tried to remain unmoved, but the mention of Xu Yong pierced his defenses. He pressed his lips together, unable to reply.

Lin Longtian placed a large hand on Kuisheng’s shoulder, halting his near-mad tirade. He addressed Zhang Yi: “Since you wish for a final battle, why not step inside and finish it?”

Zhang Yi bared his teeth in a grim, satisfied smile, nodding. Feigning disdain, he said, “If you have the courage, follow me inside. Between life and death, I’ll let you witness the true steel of Yishan!”

...