Volume One: The Wild Child Chapter Sixty-Eight: The Boy in the Mire

“I’ve heard that all of you have been quite well-behaved lately!” Lin Changtian strolled in, lifting the curtain, and walked from the end of the hall to the commander’s seat, settling comfortably at the head as he surveyed the crowd.

The seats below were arranged in neat rows, one to the left and one to the right, apparently identical in every way. Yet, the seats on the left were covered with velvet, while those on the right were nothing but bare stools.

On the left sat the generals of Sishan.

These rugged men were well accustomed to dealing with Lin Changtian and knew his temperament intimately, so they started jesting and roughhousing, none of them bothering to maintain a proper demeanor. In contrast, the new group of “surrendered bandits” were far more restrained.

Yang Feng stepped out from his row, came to the front, and cupped his hands in salute. “Marshal Lin, as long as you’re here, any Sishan brat who steps out of line will get a beating from me, Yang Feng! But I reckon some of those who’ve been trying to cut corners lately are about to lose their patience. In my opinion, a man should live freely. Once a bandit, always a bandit. If they can’t make it here, they should just head down the mountain.”

His words were clearly aimed at the “surrendered bandits” who sat hunched on the right.

Before Yang Feng had even finished speaking, the Sishan generals burst into raucous laughter, their mirth filling every corner of the tent.

Those on the left laughed; those on the right seethed.

The master of both sides, however, remained perfectly calm, his face betraying no emotion—neither joy, sorrow, nor anger.

“Yang Feng, return to your seat. I have something to say,” Lin Changtian ordered. Yang Feng bowed respectfully, clasped his hands behind his back, and with the air of a carefree dandy, shot a sideways glance at the “surrendered bandits” before returning to his place.

Lin Changtian shook his head. These newcomers truly were too meek, and it was fortunate the Sishan generals couldn’t be bothered to bully lambs, contenting themselves with words. Had it been the ruffians from another stronghold, these lambs would have been forced into utter silence.

“This time, I’ve gathered you all to discuss the founding of a new stronghold.” There was a hint of resignation in Lin Changtian’s voice. Qi Yong glanced at him in surprise, but soon lowered his head, muttering as if he understood the reason behind Lin Changtian’s sudden change of heart.

At the mention of establishing a new stronghold, both sides smiled—on one side with derision and arrogance, on the other with relief and nervousness.

Watching the group on his right, still tense over what he might say, Lin Changtian pressed his lips together, but ultimately held his tongue.

“So, who gets to stay and who has to leave?” An abrupt, slightly immature voice broke the silence, stirring the thoughts of everyone present into a whirlwind.

Amusement flickered across the faces of the Sishan generals, while the “surrendered bandits” saw their hopeful expressions collapse, their faces clouding with blame as every eye in the tent turned toward the speaker at the end of the hall.

Lin Changtian straightened. The speaker’s face was now visible—he was just a youth, not much older than Wei Mou.

Yang Feng twisted his neck, pulling a menacing face in an attempt to intimidate the boy. “Kid, you look sharp enough, but your head must be empty! Isn’t it obvious? It’s you lot—the cowards living under someone else’s roof—that are getting a new den. Who else do you think would leave?”

But the boy’s eyes remained bright; ignoring Yang Feng, he cupped his hands to Lin Changtian in imitation of the others. “Marshal Lin! We joined Sishan because you said ‘the Northern Domain is one family.’ So why does General Yang call us cowards under someone else’s roof? Are your famous words just empty wind? And another thing—stop looking at me as if I’m already finished! We’ve been here for days, always having to step aside for others, even on wide mountain paths. Maybe you’re used to being dogs, but I’m no coward. If leaving is the answer, then let every man in Sishan come and have a go with me!”

“Lin Zhao! You little fool, did you knock your head in your sleep last night? Is this how you speak to Marshal Lin and the generals? Apologize, quickly!” A wiry man leapt from the central seats on the right, rushed forward, and clapped a hand over the youth’s mouth, hastily offering apologies to everyone present.

Yang Feng pressed his hand to his sword, walking calmly toward the youth. With a shove, he moved the wiry man aside and said sternly, “Your name is Lin Zhao, is it not?” The boy, undaunted and ignoring the pleas of the wiry man, jutted his chin. “That’s right! What do you want with my name?”

Yang Feng gestured to the Sishan generals gathering behind him and spoke slowly, “Here in the Northern Domain, might makes right. Unless your fists reach the heavens, you must obey the rules. At most, someone might trade words with you, but you’d never be beaten for talking back. We forbid infighting and demand courage in battle—those are Sishan’s rules. But there is one more—”

Before Yang Feng could finish, the sound of blades being drawn rang out in unison, all pointed at the youth. The generals growled as one, their voices low and thunderous: “He who insults our commander—be he god or demon, from the ends of the earth—shall die!”

The color drained from the boy’s face, but he clenched his teeth and stood his ground, dragging up the wiry man who was kneeling and pleading for him. Gazing coldly and hopelessly at the drawn blades, he refused to yield.

The group on the right remained motionless, only daring to crane their necks to watch from a distance, not one of them daring to cross the line.

“Enough!” Lin Changtian rose, halting the Sishan generals. “Sheathe your swords. If there’s so much dissatisfaction, then settle it with a contest.”

The leader of the right-hand group turned pale and quickly gestured for his men to withdraw, cupping his hands to Lin Changtian. “Marshal Lin, we are all perfectly obedient. If there’s any discontent, it’s only Lin Zhao and his uncle and nephew.”

Lin Changtian ignored him, waving for them to take the “surrendered bandits” and leave. The man, as if granted amnesty, wiped sweat from his brow and hastily led his followers out, vanishing in the blink of an eye.

“Yang Feng, what do you think?” Lin Changtian asked.

Yang Feng resheathed his sword with the Sishan generals and returned to his seat, bowing. “I await Marshal Lin’s command and have no objections.” With that, he crooked a finger at Lin Zhao.

Lin Zhao was about to reply when Lin He dragged him behind, hunching his back and addressing Lin Changtian. “Marshal, do you really mean to see my family line end here? How can a child so young face a battle-hardened killer?”

Lin Zhao’s face turned beet red, but before he could object, Lin Changtian waved him off with a smile. “I said a contest, not who would fight whom. Since you all listen to orders, I’ll take you both on myself—two against one.”

At these words, everyone except Qi Yong wore peculiar expressions, exclaiming in surprise.

Yang Feng started to protest but, recalling his commander’s temperament, swallowed his words and glared fiercely at Lin Zhao. Lin Zhao, undaunted, seemed not to care—what did a young calf fresh to the world know of wolves or tigers?

Lin Changtian signaled to Qi Yong, who sighed and addressed the generals listlessly. “Hurry up and get outside—set the field. Let’s see our Marshal display his might.”

...

Snow began to fall heavily over Sishan, shrouding the world in a somber haze.

Yang Feng looked around at the dense crowd of comrades and managed a wry smile at Lin Zhao. “How did it come to this? Don’t go proving yourself all talk and no action, turning into nothing but a silver spear with a wax tip.”

Lin Zhao was unusually quiet, head bowed, saying nothing.

“What’s wrong, scared now that you started all this?” Yang Feng glanced at the trembling youth, shook his head helplessly, and hefted his wooden staff. “Alright, you’re still young—I’ll let you off this time. Just stay behind me, and if things go south, drop to the ground and yield—they won’t laugh at you for it.”

Lin Zhao looked up in surprise, then pursed his lips, his tone softening. “I’m not afraid—I’m excited.”

“Excited? Kid, just as your uncle said, you must’ve hit your head last night.”

“First, you’ve got it wrong—I may be young, but I’m actually his uncle, not the other way around. Second, don’t you think facing a mighty foe like Marshal Lin is a true battle?”

Yang Feng stared at the serious-faced Lin Zhao in a daze, then, almost of its own accord, ruffled the boy’s hair. Though Lin Zhao shook him off with a look of disdain, Yang Feng’s smile only grew wider. “If my own boy hadn’t died, he’d be about your age—full of spirit. Fine, let’s take on Marshal Lin together today.”

The snow stopped, and the sun emerged sharp and clear atop the mountain peaks.

Lin Changtian picked up another wooden sword, watching the two before him ready their spear and staff. He drew a circle in the snow, and the moment the line closed, his hand paused midair.

His stance, poised and graceful, seemed to shed all sorrow, leaving only purity—like a single cup of wine.

Though he stood alone, it was as if he moved through a hall of feasting, a blade whirling among swordsmen, light as a startled swan.

Less brute force, more gentle elegance.

In a flash, victory seemed as distant as the heavens.

Yang Feng’s staff hung limply, ready to take the blow, but as he waited, the sound of a sword falling never came. He opened his eyes to see Lin Zhao’s spear braced against the wooden sword, refusing to yield an inch.

“What are you waiting for!” Lin Zhao shouted. Yang Feng snapped out of it and swung his staff, but the blade slipped past, tapping new-fallen snow, retreating in a flash.

Lin Zhao caught his breath, adjusting his stance. With Yang Feng at his back, the two faced Lin Changtian’s wooden sword, eyes blazing with fighting spirit.

The “wooden sword” smiled. In those two pairs of eyes, there was no one else—only the purest will to do battle.

And so the sword’s tip rose again. In the blink of an eye, the contest truly began.