Volume One: Wild Child Chapter Seventy-Six: Slaying Evil

This world... is truly too difficult to bear.

The soldier on sentry duty grumbled inwardly. He had once been an ordinary villager, but the generous treatment in the Sishan Army had made him grit his teeth and pick up arms. Life had been comfortable enough, but if he didn’t grumble about his woes now and then, he’d feel stifled inside.

For better or worse, there were few things that all the soldiers on Sishan would constantly talk about. The change in the commander’s seat was one; Zhang Yi losing his life at Yishan was another.

And then there was the matter that drew everyone’s curses—the “valiant soldiers.”

The old men on the mountain could still preserve their dignity; these arrogant brutes, flush with their own achievements, did not dare provoke them too much. But new recruits were not so lucky. Sarcasm and mockery were routine, and beatings and scoldings were part of everyday life. The mountain road, broad enough for a dozen strong men to walk side by side, now saw the valiant soldiers declare that any newcomers had to step aside for them—why, not even Commander Lin demanded such deference!

But in truth, it was nothing much. Everyone here was used to hardship, used to reading faces to survive—it wasn’t their first day in this life. Besides, the army’s treatment was so generous! Commander Lin had promised that on Sishan, even basic needs like food and warmth were guaranteed.

Yet who had really come for that alone? Over the years, the leaders had changed rapidly—each one promising full bellies and warm clothes, each claiming to be a good man. Yet in the end, all they could manage was barely scraping together a couple of meals a day.

But this tired old tale had become reality on Sishan, and the people of the Northern Territory were dumbfounded. Lin Changtian himself was rather perplexed.

To have enough to eat and wear—a thing even the beggars in Wen Yuan’s Divine Continent would scoff at.

Was the Northern Territory truly so barren? Or were honest folk so few?

The land was rich, the people straightforward.

But the resources were in the hands of those with weapons, and those same weapons forced honest folk into dishonesty.

And what could they do?

Go up the mountains and become bandits.

That was why the scourge of banditry in the north could never be eradicated—for anyone could become the next “vile villain.”

This was the landscape of the North-South Border: the poorest of the four regions, where the hills were teeming with “honest people.”

If one could survive with food and warmth without becoming a bandit, who would refuse? A bit of abuse was easy enough to endure—it was just the price of living under another’s roof. Survival itself is a matter of thick-skinned persistence.

But one day, at the midday assembly, every one of these dependents bore a killing intent between their brows that did not belong to them.

The valiant soldiers hurled abuse at the mountain generals with impunity; apart from Kuisheng, it seemed none of them were worthy of respect. When Lin Changtian’s name came up, there was a moment’s hesitation, but soon enough, someone sneered and said, “So the great commander’s seat on Sishan is given to a greenhorn? What, is he Yu Baili’s... what, not good enough?”

The newcomers clenched their teeth. Amid all the jeering, one lad of their age swung his fist.

After that... no one dared cause trouble at the assembly, but that night, word spread that a fire had broken out in the boy’s family’s hut. Not a soul escaped.

The sentry shuddered at this memory, pulled his coat tighter, and tried not to think about it any further.

A dark crowd was descending the mountain, shadows flitting in the night. When they reached his post, the soldier wiped the displeasure from his face and put on a smile, stepping aside to let them pass.

You could tell at a glance whose men these swaggering soldiers were.

“Heh! Our great commander sure knows how to pick a time—insists on settling things at night. If he’s going to interrupt our dreams, we may as well go all out against his recruits and show him whose sons Sishan truly relies on!” Li Luer cursed loudly, his mouth vile, complaining to his companions.

“Li Luer, who do you think Commander Lin will pick to challenge us?” asked a one-eyed man, seeming indifferent. He hadn’t even bothered with his armor, just slung a blade and strode out.

Li Luer scratched his head with a show of simple-mindedness. “He’s the commander—his will is unfathomable. Who knows which troops he’ll choose? Still, we’re all under his command. Look at you lot—do you call that showing respect to a superior? Learn from me—start thinking how to let him save face.”

The valiant soldiers’ laughter and jeering faded into the distance. The sentry wiped a cold sweat from his brow and muttered a curse under his breath.

...

There was a valley, strange and mysterious, where brooks ran against the season.

Lin Changtian sat leaning on his sword beneath a towering tree, startled awake by the snow falling upon him.

The snow had already buried him up to his waist.

Before any men entered the valley, he heard raucous laughter approaching—rough voices, sharp and shrill, trampling all peace.

“Commander Lin, since you called us here for a contest, why haven’t you brought your men?” Li Luer reined in his horse, stopping just a few paces away, the beast’s steaming breath swirling around his face.

Lin Changtian’s expression was calm as he looked at Li Luer, suddenly asking, “Li Luer, tell me, when have I ever treated you unfairly? Have I failed in reward or punishment, or in justice?”

Li Luer didn’t reply, but winked at his comrades. “Commander Lin’s rewards and punishments are just, never muddled. But we’re soldiers drawing rations—give me food, I fight for you, simple as that. Whoever fights hardest eats the most. That’s always been the rule in the north—you ought to play favorites sometimes.”

“I see,” Lin Changtian nodded, as if agreeing, though a strange look flickered in his eyes—like one looking at a dead man.

He rose, legs numb from sitting. Outside the valley, a figure approached, shuffling, heavy-footed.

But the footprints left were light as feathers, vanishing with the next strong wind.

The old man was Liu Qingshan. Today, he carried a long spear instead of his cane.

“Changtian, I am here,” the old man called.

Lin Changtian clasped his hands in greeting, then drew his sword.

“Li Luer, I have given you a chance. There are two exits in this valley—if you can get out through either, I’ll pursue it no further. Even the recent fire on the mountain, I’ll let it go. But if you can’t escape...”

He raised his jagged blade, pointing it at Li Luer’s throat, slicing through the air.

No mercy!

Li Luer wiped cold sweat from his brow—he had already spurred his horse to the rear of the group. His voice trembled: “Commander Lin, do you truly mean to kill us? Think carefully! If we die, who will fill the valiant soldiers’ place?”

“You’re all cavalry, are you not? I’ll give you a moment to form up,” Lin Changtian replied without looking back, twirling his blade.

The valiant soldiers grew restless, arguing without result. “Commander Lin, we admit our mistake—can’t you spare us for past service? After all, we’re the only cavalry capable of raids on the whole mountain!”

“Time’s up.” Lin Changtian turned, true power erupting from him—his first full display in the north.

The jagged blade danced among the falling dead leaves, silent and alone.

He leapt into the cavalry’s ranks, and in their terror, men and horses fell in chaos.

His blade was swift—so swift that the spark of rebellion was extinguished as soon as it arose.

Blades flashed, shadows flew, and his aura was unstoppable.

He was like a lone hero rescuing the borders, turning his enemies’ ranks upside down.

But unlike the hero of legend, his weapon was raised against his former comrades.

Lin Changtian’s jagged blade was for killing—not punishing evil, but simply killing.

The blood that dripped from his blade formed a stream, drawing out the winter ants to swarm greedily after their share of the leavings.

Compared to this, the pass where Liu Qingshan stood was uncannily quiet. Even facing the carnage of the mountain demon, no one dared entertain thoughts of escape from the old man.

When Lin Changtian and his men had first arrived on Sishan, the pile of corpses at the mountain’s foot—stacked like paper—had been his work alone.

That hunched figure, clutching a spear taller than himself, stood at the pass, cold wind howling, lonely beyond measure.

“Changtian, keep your mind clear when you kill—hold down that rage!” Liu Qingshan shouted, warning Lin Changtian, urging him to calm himself.

The jagged blade slowed; Lin Changtian realized his own madness, though the urge to kill still scratched at his heart, tempting him to finish off the remaining “villains.”

His eyes showed no joy or anger, only a lingering sorrow—the clarity before the rage was washed away.

Li Luer’s eyes darted around. Seeing the killing had paused, he drew the longbow from his saddle, pulled the string to its limit, face twisted in ferocity and hatred.

The arrow shot forth, aiming straight for Lin Changtian’s face—murderous intent blazing.

Li Luer was already laughing wildly—today, the commander of Sishan would die by his hand. He fantasized, intoxicated by visions of presenting the severed head to Ma Hui for reward.

But he had not been there at Weinan Pass, had not seen Lin Changtian save Qi Yong from Guo Huai’s arrow at the critical moment.

Once again, the urge to kill flooded Lin Changtian’s heart.

The commander’s face was calm as water. Under Li Luer’s shock, he snapped the flying arrow and strode towards him, step by step.

“Li Luer, you have misunderstood something. Let me make it clear today: soldiers in their thousands are easily found, but a true general is hard to come by. Brutes like you can be replaced at any time. But the generals on this mountain—wisdom is essential, courage indispensable. To be brave without bullying the troops, and wise without arrogance—such men are the rarest of all. Kuisheng is such a man. Qi Yong is, Lü Liang is—many of our generals are. But not I. As commander, my task is to lead soldiers and punish the wicked.”

He broke off, resting his blade on Li Luer’s neck, drawing a shallow line of blood.

“Changtian! Changtian!” Kuisheng rode up in haste, dismounted in a tumble. Li Luer, seeing him, cried out, “General Kuisheng, save me!”

Kuisheng fell to his knees, tears streaming down his face. “Commander Lin, for the sake of their service, spare their lives!”

The jagged blade fell.

Blood spattered, covering Kuisheng’s face—whether it was hot tears or sweat mingled with blood, he seemed lost and helpless.

“Kuisheng, who is more important—me, or them?”

“Of course it’s you, Commander.” He prostrated himself on the ground—this fierce general now humble, even abject.

“Rise.” Kuisheng stood, silent, and walked alone toward the camp, utterly dejected.

Lin Changtian cast aside his blade, dazed. Was it the killing that had clouded his eyes?

No, it was more that he had seized this excuse to indulge his own nature.

He felt he was not wrong, yet could not be sure, for the voices of doubt echoed in his ears.

Even in clarity, there was confusion.

A strong wind swept through—perhaps all that happened in this valley would soon be lost in the torrent of time.

Right or wrong, the sun would rise again tomorrow.