Chapter Ten: The General’s Renown

The Yang family’s reputation for loyalty and valor had spread far and wide, earning them the respect of both heroes of the martial world and upright officials at court. Yet, the old General Yang’s sacrifice in the name of loyalty failed to win Emperor Ji Yan’s trust—instead, it plunged the Yang family into a bottomless abyss.

With the death of the Yang family patriarch in the northern barbarian lands, the eldest son, Yang Jizhong, was left to shoulder the family’s banner. When he returned to the imperial capital, his father’s body was barely cold, and before he could observe the rites of filial piety, Ji Yan dispatched him once more to the northern front, appointing him as the new General Who Guards the North. Less than three months into his appointment, with provisions running short and morale crumbling, Yang Jizhong, desperate, fell prey to a ruse of false negotiations and was beheaded by a northern barbarian commander.

The campaign against the northern barbarians ended in disaster for the Yang family’s forces. Taking advantage of their defeat, Qi Ying stripped the Yangs of their hereditary titles and sent the six remaining sons to distant borders, sentencing them to certain death. Third Brother Yang Kuangzheng and Fourth Brother Yang Beizhen soon perished in the ongoing wars against the northern barbarians.

Egged on by Qi Ying, Ji Yan then resolved to eradicate the Yangs completely, absurdly accusing them of colluding with the enemy and ordering the surviving three sons to drink poisoned wine, ensuring no future threat would remain. Second Brother Yang Chaoqing, refusing the imperial command, barricaded himself within the Yang residence, only to be surrounded by Qi Ying’s troops and killed by a volley of arrows.

The entire Yang clan was condemned to extermination. Not a single soul survived in the Yang residence of old Chen’s capital; from the elderly to women and children, all were beheaded at the city’s north gate as a warning.

Yang Wulang, the fifth son, was on campaign when he received the news. Consumed with rage, he tore down the banner of Chen, hoisted the Yang family’s flag, donned a white mourning headband, and with thirty thousand elite troops stormed the capital—a battle that marked the beginning of the end for the old Chen dynasty. Though ultimately defeated, Yang Wulang, with six hundred loyal guards, broke into the city, shattered three thousand armored foes, and slew the treacherous Qi Ying in the midst of ten thousand enemy soldiers.

With that, five generations of the Yang clan’s loyal generals were wiped from the earth. Only the youngest, Yang Liu Lang, survived, cast adrift in the martial world.

Mister Guo once mentioned the rumors that, before setting out, Yang Wulang entrusted the youngest to the family’s chief retainer, instructing him to hide the boy among the rivers and lakes, hoping to preserve the family line.

Ten years later, a young hero known as the “Silver Lance Little Overlord,” Yang Yanlang, emerged in the martial world. At just eighteen, he claimed a spot in the prestigious rankings of martial heroes, placing third among the best of the best. By now, Yang Yanlang had become the undisputed leader of the rankings, revered as the “Overlord of the Earthly Star, Master of the Tyrant’s Lance.”

Mister Guo also recounted how Yang Yanlang joined the army to repel invaders, took part in campaigns against the old Chen dynasty, and later helped the new Tang dynasty capture city after city. The White Horse, Silver Lance Little Overlord—one man, one steed, charging thrice into and out of enemy formations of a thousand riders, slaying over a hundred foes, so fearsome that eight thousand cavalrymen would retreat at his mere approach, not daring to face him in battle.

When the crusading army finally breached the capital, in front of the imperial inner walls, Yang Liu Lang leveled his silver lance at Emperor Wu of Chen and shouted, “Tyrant! Today I will storm this city and see your corpse kneel before the Hall of Heaven and Earth, so that even in death you must answer for your crimes against my father and brothers!”

What spirit! What lofty ambition, for a general to point his lance at the emperor.

After the fall of old Chen, it was this same general who led ten thousand cavalry to rout Yu Wenfu’s seventy thousand strong army—a legendary victory.

The Tiger General of the Yang clan, Yang Liu Lang—the White Horse, Silver Dragon Little Overlord, the Young God General of New Tang, the Overlord of the Earthly Star, the General of the Fine-Scaled Cavalry—these titles are the world’s praise for Yang Yanlang.

Storytellers sang his praises in every form. Seeing such a famed hero and New Tang general standing before him, how could Zhong Ming, the youth, not be awestruck?

Later generations would remark: Had Emperor Wu of Chen not been so blinded by suspicion as to annihilate the Yang family, perhaps the old Chen dynasty would never have fallen; no matter how cruel the emperor, the Yangs could have preserved the nation.

A flawless jade marred by slander, loyal ministers dying as leaderless ghosts. The tragic, stirring tale of the extermination of a loyal family of generals could bring tears to stone. Every time young men heard the stories of the Yang generals, they felt a peculiar stirring in their hearts.

From initial disdain for the old general’s “foolish loyalty” to later admiration for Yang Yanlang’s forbearance and determination to avenge his family, the youth came to deeply revere every one of the Yang generals.

Stunned for a long moment, the youth in coarse clothes finally drew a deep breath and cautiously asked, “Are you, sir, the General Yang, one of the Three Divine Generals of New Tang?”

Yang Yanlang only smiled, silently polishing his Silver Dragon Lance until its tip gleamed. At last, he sighed, “Let’s not speak of the past. I am no longer a general, nor worthy of the title of New Tang’s Divine General.”

After his sigh, he looked at Zhong Ming with a smile: “There’s no need to be so formal, nephew. These are but empty titles given by friends in the martial world. Though you and I are not kin by blood, your father and I were sworn brothers, closer than family. Don’t call me ‘sir’—I don’t like it. ‘Uncle’ sounds far better to my ears.”

The youth, after the initial shock and excitement, regained his composure. Mature beyond his years, he was not so quick to accept this famed uncle. It would be well and good to claim such a connection, but if he had the wrong person, it would be a serious blunder.

He knew his own origins well. When he took over this body, he was already an orphan. Four years prior, his mother had still been alive, but he had arrived too late, never meeting her in person; all that remained were memories.

He’d never heard mention of his father having sworn brothers, and he had never so much as seen his “cheap father” in this life, nor even knew what he looked like. His mother often said his father was a hero, leading troops to fight bandits while Zhong Ming was still swaddled in his arms. But the garrison of their border town was pitifully small. Within a few years, they were swallowed by the chaos of war. Over a decade, the town changed hands many times, the garrison disappeared, and his father never returned.

Perhaps it was all a coincidence, but it was best to ask clearly.

Having resolved this, the youth cupped his hands and said, “Sir, I think there’s no rush to call you ‘uncle.’ Perhaps you could explain the connection, so there’s no misunderstanding.”

This gave Yang Yanlang pause. He looked at Zhong Ming with a smile of real interest. Most would have jumped at the chance to claim him as an uncle, even fabricating stories if need be. He hadn’t expected such rational caution.

What an unshakable youth!

“Very well, nephew. Wait a moment,” said Yang Yanlang, rising and handing his lance to Sun Longhu, who in turn handed him an object wrapped in black silk. Its shape resembled a saber, but it was a foot longer than any ordinary saber—its true nature unclear.

Taking the wrapped object, Yang Yanlang beckoned Zhong Ming, “Come, nephew, follow me.”

The youth followed Yang Yanlang into the main hall of the temple, the entrance guarded by soldiers outside.

The dilapidated temple had long fallen into disrepair. Inside, it was desolate: beams and rafters draped with cobwebs, half the bricks and tiles missing, sunlight streaming through holes in the roof, dust motes floating in the air.

At the center stood a clay statue, its upper half missing. It should have held a sword in one hand and a horsetail whisk in the other, but only half an arm remained, the rest vanished.

This was a statue of the Patriarch of Daoism. The local founding sage was said to be the legendary Zhang Daoling, of whom Zhong Ming had some knowledge. It was rumored that this figure had received the teachings of immortals, mastering divination, talismans, alchemy, and even the magical arts of drawing lightning from a clear sky and summoning rain.

There was a saying, “An immortal strokes my head, tying my hair and granting me long life,” which spoke of Zhang Daoling’s quest for immortality.

As a soul from a later age, Zhong Ming always heeded the maxim: “Respect the spirits, but keep your distance.” Besides, the Daoist priest here had once saved his life. Remembering his mother’s tales of the priest’s healing herbs curing him of a fever, he bowed respectfully to the broken statue.

Unexpectedly, this gesture provoked Yang Yanlang’s ire. He frowned and snorted, “Ghosts and spirits, mere superstitious nonsense to deceive the masses—what is there to bow to?”

With that, the general raised his hand and, with a casual push through the air, sent the broken statue toppling with a crash that left Zhong Ming’s ears ringing and filled the hall with swirling dust.

Zhong Ming thought to himself: Why is the general so reckless, getting worked up over a clay statue? Now he’s made a mess of things. But as he opened his eyes, he realized a breeze had sprung up at Yang Yanlang’s feet, wrapping around them both and keeping the dust at bay.

The youth was amazed. This was his first time witnessing such a miraculous technique. What a wondrous world this was, where the internal arts of martial legends could move objects at a distance and part dust with a wave of energy.

A fresh wind swept through the hall, clearing away the dust, and only then did Yang Yanlang’s expression soften.

Still confused by the general’s earlier anger, Zhong Ming said, “Sir, I do not know why you were upset, but the old Daoist here once saved my life. My mother often told me how his medicines cured me of a fever when I was a child. That respect, at least, I must pay.”

Yang Yanlang’s frown gradually eased. “That old Daoist had some conscience, unlike those frauds in the Hall of Heaven and Earth—hypocrites with hearts blacker than ink, feigning holiness to extort from the emperor, insatiably greedy! It infuriates me. One day, I’ll….” He cut himself off mid-sentence, realizing he’d said too much. With a click of his tongue, he spoke no further.

From his words, the general seemed to hold deep disdain—perhaps even hatred—for immortals and their ilk. Could there be some conflict between New Tang and the fabled White Jade Capital? As the general fell silent, Zhong Ming’s thoughts ran wild, though he soon laughed at his own wild suspicions.

Yang Yanlang had no intention of discussing his views on the supernatural. He sat down on the steps, smoothing his robe, and gently patted the empty spot beside him. “Come, nephew, sit. Let me explain our connection as uncle and nephew.”

It was a strange sight—this white-robed general sitting in a ruined temple with a youth in coarse clothes. Zhong Ming smiled, finding it rather amusing.

On the steps, two figures—one, the general in silver helm and white robes; the other, the youth in rough linen—sat side by side, even sharing a smile. It was a scene to marvel at.

Yang Yanlang first handed Zhong Ming the silk-wrapped item. “Open it, nephew. See if you recognize this.”

The youth examined the object carefully. The black silk was of the finest quality, every knot fastened with utmost care, a sign of how much Yang Yanlang valued it.

With a touch of reverence, the youth slowly unwrapped the silk, revealing first a ring-pommel hilt. His eyes brightened—it was a saber.

He gripped the hilt and gave a firm shake; the silk fell away entirely.

What a formidable blade! Longer by a full foot than ordinary sabers, it exuded a powerful aura and was weighty enough that the youth struggled to lift it one-handed.

At the end of the hilt was a large ring, carved with dragons and sparrows biting their tails, the hilt and blade seamlessly forged as one.

He slowly drew the blade from its scabbard—the edge glimmered coldly, shining like a crescent moon.

This was an extraordinary weapon. Even without knowledge of arms, Zhong Ming could tell as he stroked the blade, reluctant to let it go.

After a long moment, he sighed. The saber was not his to claim. Shaking his head, he said, “Sir, I do not recognize this blade.”

Astute as he was, Zhong Ming could guess that the person the general sought must have had a profound connection to this sword. Unfortunately, he had no memory of it. Try as he might, he could not recall anything related to this weapon. It seemed the general had mistaken him for someone else—a youth with no fate tied to the legendary blade.