Volume One: The Wild Child Chapter Sixty: The Ambush Begins with the Treacherous

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In the early morning, Mount Si was heavy with snow pressing down on green pines.
The boundary between night and day should have been clear, as if divided by yin and yang, but today the mountain wore an oddly uniform face.

“Does it hurt?” Chen Mo grinned wickedly, his hand gripping Qi Yong’s nether regions and twisting hard, nearly coaxing tears from the man’s eyes.

Even so, Qi Yong remained silent. Seeing him like this, Chen Mo released his grip, patted his shoulder, and said, “Since I took over the military affairs of Mount Si, who among the generals dares disobey? Only you, General Qi, still show your tiger’s might—quiet on the surface, but scheming behind my back, setting traps and playing dirty. If I’m not mistaken, yesterday someone left filth at my door while I napped. That scoundrel—must be you, General Qi.”

Qi Yong rubbed his aching spot, intending to swallow his anger and let it go. But the more he brooded on the morning’s events, the more furious he became, and he snapped back, “So what if it was me! You brought this on yourself, Chen Mo. What, people from the Central Land can’t handle a little trickery?”

“Yes, you’re not wrong. This is part of the training protocol. But now that I know who did it, it’s meaningless. Today’s punishment is thanks to your own stupidity!”

Qi Yong’s lips twitched, his expression shifting several times before he glared fiercely at another Mount Si commander. “It must be you, Lu Liang, selling out your friend for glory. Wait till I’m done here—I’ll deal with you yet!”

As soon as he spoke, Lu Liang exploded with rage, cursing at Qi Yong, “Qi, second in command, is your head empty? It’s obvious this bastard set you up! You walked right into the trap, and now you’re flinging mud at me?”

Qi Yong was stunned by the rebuke, his eyes fixed on Chen Mo.

“He’s right. You fell for it yourself. And now you’ve given up a teammate. By the rules, you two—fifty laps around Mount Si. Go!” Chen Mo and the Mount Si soldiers were already laughing, and Qi Yong dared not protest, dragging Lu Liang with him, only to be thrown off, locked in a furious stare.

Watching the pair leave, Chen Mo smiled and addressed the others, “Remember, when we descend the mountain for this raid, you’ll move separately. Your teammates are your only support—don’t let pride get the better of you!”

“Yes, sir!”

...

New paths had sprung up across Yishan’s fields.

There had only been a handful of roads before, but with so many people passing through, every trail became a road.

Zhang Yi’s days had grown uncomfortable lately. The alliance he’d built with his own hands was now nothing but constant squabbling.

Previously, insults flew between members, maybe a scuffle or two, but at the sight of him, even their greatest anger was swallowed. Yet, with a band of unknown marauders attacking the territories of every Yishan faction, things took a turn.

The alliance leaders seemed friendlier on the surface, but behind closed doors, each considered the others the secret masterminds behind the marauders, sending men disguised as the snow-clad bandits to raid each other's supplies, sabotage water sources, and pull every trick in the book.

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Zhang Yi knew well what kind of people these so-called “leaders” were. Since the marauder attacks began, every major faction suffered—except for Zhang Yi’s own territory, which remained untouched.

This hero of Yishan was troubled to the extreme.

He had issued repeated statements, even held private talks with each leader, but all he received were surprised, innocent faces, insisting they never suspected the alliance chief.

The only one to speak honestly was an idiot bold enough to point a finger at him during a military council.

“Today I called everyone here to settle things. If we keep tearing each other apart, aren’t you afraid other strongholds will swallow our entire alliance?” Zhang Yi surveyed the crowd, his gaze full of feigned “righteous indignation.”

The bandit chiefs were silent, each calculating their own schemes.

The atmosphere in the room grew tense.

Someone muttered, “Might as well break up—everyone go their own way.” As soon as the words left his mouth, others nodded in agreement, which nearly drove Zhang Yi mad with rage.

He dropped the pretense, sneered coldly, and said, “Fine, do as you wish. But first, we must work together to clear out the marauders. Otherwise, after the split, none of you will have peace. That’s only logical. From today, every unit in the alliance will stop shirking—spread the net, turn the southern border of the Northland upside down! Let’s see where these bandits can hide.”

The bandits exchanged confused glances, finally agreeing half-heartedly to this task.

...

“Bah, Zhang Yi’s rotten to the core—he’d love for us all to die!” The bandit who had muttered in the tent now wandered the woods with his men, cursing Zhang Yi one moment and complaining about the weather the next.

“These so-called marauders—it’s just Wu the Second and Xie the Dog’s old grudges making the whole alliance paranoid, everyone watching their former enemies. Luckily, I’ve always stayed on good terms with folks—never stirred trouble. Even at a time like this, life’s still decent.” The bandit, riding a fine horse, rambled to himself.

As dusk settled, he yawned and waved a hand to the gathering darkness, shouting, “Boys, that’s enough for today—back to camp for a meal!”

The woods remained silent, the shadows seemed to grow, but none answered his call.

Suspicious, he dismounted, cursing as he approached. “Usually everyone’s starving—always thinking about food even on guard duty, but now they’re playing coy?”

He shone his lamp on the nearest shadow, revealing Qi Yong and the Mount Si generals grinning, teeth gleaming. The bandit’s knees buckled in fear, thinking he’d met ghosts. Trembling, he blurted out, “Uh, big brother, have you eaten?”

“Not yet, have you?” Qi Yong, intent on teasing, played the part of a hanging ghost, tongue lolling, voice muffled.

“I—I haven’t eaten either, big brother.” The bandit’s face twisted in misery, wanting to flee but hemmed in by the white-clad shadows, who looked like harbingers of death. “If you haven’t eaten, go ahead—I’ll wait for your invitation. I can eat three hundred pairs of boys and girls in one meal—none left for you.” Qi Yong cackled, frightening the bandit into a trembling ball. Kneeling, he pleaded, “Sir, I’m turning thirty this year—no innocent boy or girl here. Spare me, please! When I pass on, I’ll bring plenty of paper money for you—whatever you need!”

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Qi Yong’s eyes gleamed as he suddenly thrust his head forward, breath hot on the bandit’s face. “Not too old, not too old—you look tender. Thirty’s still a baby to me. I thought to share you among the brothers, but the underworld has its rules. Tell me honestly—what’s your name, where are you from, what misdeeds have you done, and what good deeds?”

The bandit dropped to his knees, tears and snot streaming, sobbing as he replied, “Sir, my name’s Yang Feng, from a village in the Northland. When disaster struck, I joined others heading south and became a bandit. The worst thing I ever did was cut the widow Wang’s daughter’s braid when I was six—she beat me for it, and I smashed her window in anger. That little girl blackmailed me for it. Later, when bandits raided the village, only she and I survived. She clung to me shamelessly, and for revenge—guess what? She insisted on marrying me and gave me two fat sons. The youngest is turning one soon, still babbling, dumb as a brick—must take after her! Nothing to do with me.”

As he spoke, Yang Feng’s fear faded, and he rambled on, complaining but rarely straying from the topic of the widow Wang’s daughter.

The Mount Si generals listened quietly to Yang Feng’s rambling. Qi Yong rubbed his head, feeling a pang of sadness. He gazed at the sky, recalling something, but soon a large hand rested on his shoulder. Turning, he saw Lu Liang.

With a glance, Qi Yong brushed away his tears.

Yang Feng was lucky—at least someone in his village could share his thoughts with him. But Qi Yong’s homeland was filled with lonely graves.

Were the dead lonely in their tombs? As ghosts, they still had fellow villagers for company. Only Qi Yong, in this world, was truly alone.

The Northland was rife with contradictions. Just as commoners in Wen Yuan Divine Continent looked down on others, never caring for other regions, but before local nobles, their pride faded, revealing only servility.

When bandits raided the village, what did the survivors do? They nursed deep hatred and went up the mountain to become bandits themselves, taking up robbery.

Old grudges bred new ones—a cycle, a trap no one escaped for centuries.

Night fell completely. The Mount Si generals sat around Yang Feng, lanterns glowing, listening as he rambled through his life.

A mouse sharing its troubles with cats—and the cats listened intently, for they too might be mice in the sewer. Only those living small lives can understand each other.

Yang Feng’s face was troubled, drunk though he hadn’t touched liquor. “All you ghost immortals, give me some advice. The alliance is in chaos—I don’t want to be the scapegoat, but the bigwigs force us fence-sitters to take sides. Isn’t that unfair? Recently, Zhang Yi learned I spoke out in council and stripped me of command, sending only old and weak men to patrol with me. Isn’t that sending me to my death? But if I side with those other lords, they’re no match for Zhang Yi. Once the white-clad marauders are dealt with, they’ll be next. I don’t want to die yet—I promised the girl I’d take her beyond the Northland, show her pearls from the Southern Sea, and bring all sorts of treasures from the Central Land so our brothers in the Northland can see the world.”

“Wait—white robes!” Yang Feng suddenly realized, swallowing hard. “So you guys are the marauders?”

The Mount Si generals blinked and nodded in perfect unison—far more coordinated than when they faced the enemy.