Lin Yuancheng

Snow fell. Blood fell as well. The snow was cold. The blood was colder still. In the pure white snow stood a youth. In his hand, he held a sword. Before him lay a fallen man. Yet upon the edge of his blade, there was no blood. Blood was in the air, upon the snow, across his opponent's body—everywhere except upon his sword. That day, he learned that as long as your blade was fast enough and your swordsmanship supreme enough, you could take a life without staining your steel. Watching the man before him slowly cease breathing, the youth sighed softly. That year, Lin Yuancheng was fourteen years old. And the man who lay dead before him was his master. If there truly existed in this world a once-in-a-myriad martial prodigy, then Lin Yuancheng was undoubtedly one. He began practicing martial arts at seven, took up a sword for the first time at eight, and after the age of thirteen, had never suffered defeat. At fourteen, he defeated and slew his own master with his own hands. For in that year, his mentor—Fan Zhengting, a figure of considerable renown in the jianghu known as the "Seven Stars Sword"—had discovered the boy's talent and sought to eliminate him. Yet Fan Zhengting had miscalculated one thing: he assumed that no matter how extraordinary Lin Yuancheng's gift might be, as an established swordsman of long renown and Lin Yuancheng's master to boot, there was no way he could lose to a boy who had practiced the sword for a mere five or six years. He was wrong. Utterly and disastrously wrong. Something that could be measured or calculated by common logic could not be called true talent. And one who could be bound or constrained by common sense was hardly a genius. The Seven Stars Swordplay that had made Fan Zhengting famous took Lin Yuancheng only a single year to master thoroughly. In his second year with the blade, his understanding of the sword art already surpassed that of his master. In the years that followed, Lin Yuancheng learned virtually nothing from Fan Zhengting. He merely went through the motions to humor him, pretending there was still more to learn to preserve his master's dignity. After all, Fan Zhengting was the mentor who had taken him in and raised him. Even setting aside the bond of master and disciple, there was the debt of upbringing. Or so Lin Yuancheng had believed. Fan Zhengting, however, thought no such thing. Fan Zhengting had always been a hypocrite. On the surface, he spoke incessantly of benevolence and righteousness, traveling about righting wrongs. In secret, he accepted bribes to stage displays of "upholding justice," executing targets and silencing witnesses. His knack for saying one thing and doing another far exceeded his skill with a blade. He conducted affairs without leaving a trace and cleaned up every loose end with immaculate care, earning himself a stellar yet fraudulent reputation. And Lin Yuancheng was merely one of the many orphans Fan Zhengting had taken in. Whenever the opportunity arose, Fan Zhengting adopted one or two such children and began teaching them martial arts from a tender age. In name, they were master and disciples, but in truth, these children were merely his tools. Those who proved obedient were groomed as subordinates; those who did not were quietly disposed of. After all, they were orphans to begin with, and no one would ever investigate their disappearance. Thus, when Fan Zhengting belatedly realized that one of these children was an unprecedented martial prodigy who was bound to surpass him before long, his first instinct was to kill him. Though Lin Yuancheng had never shown the slightest sign of defiance, a petty scoundrel like Fan Zhengting understood better than anyone: a person stronger than you could never remain your pawn forever. That snowy night, the snowfall was light, and the moon was still visible in the sky. Fan Zhengting summoned Lin Yuancheng to a clearing in a desolate forest, claiming he wished to teach him the profound secrets of his swordsmanship. Yet once they took their stances, even before Fan Zhengting's sword left its scabbard, Lin Yuancheng already knew the man had not brought him here to teach him anything, but to kill him. Lin Yuancheng did not understand people, but he understood the sword. People could lie; the sword could not. A murderous sword carried killing intent even without leaving its sheath. "Must it really come to this?" Lin Yuancheng asked. Fan Zhengting smiled, knowing he had been seen through. "What do you think?" "Not necessarily," Lin Yuancheng said. "Then do you see another way?" Fan Zhengting replied. "I will leave and never return," Lin Yuancheng said. "So long as our paths never cross again, I will not kill you. Consider it my repayment for raising me." Hearing this, Fan Zhengting was as furious as he was shocked. "Boy, aren't you looking down on your master a bit too much?" "I am," Lin Yuancheng said coldly. "Naturally, I look down on you... both as a man and for your martial arts." He paused. "Yet unlike you, I am still human. That is why I wanted to give you one more chance." "Save your nonsense for when you're a ghost!" Believing the boy was mocking him, Fan Zhengting roared in fury and drew his sword, charging forward. The Seven Stars Swordplay was originally a Daoist sword art. It emphasized guiding qi through seven acupoints and moving the blade along the path of the Seven Stars. Each form could branch into seven variations, yielding forty-nine routines in all. Moreover, the sword art came with its own chant for cultivating internal energy, complementing the forms in perfect harmony. Objectively speaking, the Seven Stars Swordplay was a first-rate sword art: an orthodox cultivation method that trained both internal energy and external technique, featuring exquisite blade forms and abundant variations. And Fan Zhengting could be considered a near-first-rate expert. Though his natural talent was unremarkable, having practiced a first-rate sword art for so many years, there was no reason for him to be weak. His sword qi was heavy and imposing; his sword forms were nimble and incisive. Yet all of it—all his decades of cultivation—appeared so clumsy, so pathetic before Lin Yuancheng... *Clang!* In that instant, a sharp chime rang out. A flash of sword light startled the eye against the backdrop of snow and moon. Black, white, and silver unfurled across the frigid night, culminating in a wild, brilliant scarlet that elevated the scene into a breathtaking portrait. *Hiss—* The sound of blood spurting from the wound was like wind blowing through wheat ears. If you closed your eyes, it sounded like a woman's hands gently brushing across your skin. "You..." Fan Zhengting leaned on his sword planted in the ground, struggling to keep from collapsing, while his other hand clutched the wound at his neck in an attempt to slow the bleeding. His eyes went wide as he stared at Lin Yuancheng in utter disbelief. "...This sword technique... from whom did you..." Knowing what he meant to ask, Lin Yuancheng cut him off directly. "The Seven Stars Swordplay never needed forty-nine forms. Seven are enough." He paused. "The remaining dozens of forms were left behind by the founder specifically for disciples who lacked talent, because most people simply cannot resolve a fight using only the first seven moves... I realized that when I was ten." By the time he said this, Fan Zhengting had already dropped to one knee from massive blood loss, his strength fading fast. Yet Lin Yuancheng was not finished. "As for the blow you just took, it was the 'Eighth Sword' I derived from the true Seven Stars Sword. Running the Kaiyang sword stance in reverse yields this kind of power... Quite fascinating, isn't it?" To him, it might have been fascinating. To Fan Zhengting, those words brought only despair and regret. Before long, Fan Zhengting collapsed. Lin Yuancheng let out a soft sigh, sheathed his sword, and departed. In truth, the swordsmanship he had used to kill Fan Zhengting that night was not even his strongest. He had chosen it merely because using the Seven Stars Swordplay felt more ceremonial. The swordsmanship Lin Yuancheng truly excelled at was a style he had created himself between the ages of ten and thirteen, which he named "Lament of Solitude." That melancholic, self-indulgent name perfectly captured the loneliness of a youth who was unrivaled under heaven... * * * After that night, Lin Yuancheng traveled far from home. Fan Zhengting had been a sly man. To make it easier for the disciples he trained to carry out dirty deeds in secret, and equally easy to silence them if necessary, he had always maintained single-line contact with each disciple. As a result, following his death, all of his pupils became like kites with severed strings. Of course, none of that concerned Lin Yuancheng. He only needed to be certain that no one in the jianghu knew his background. A few months later, Lin Yuancheng arrived at the Xingyi Sect in Cangzhou to seek apprenticeship. He claimed he had been an orphan since childhood, had followed a nameless old Daoist to learn martial arts for a few years, and now that the old Daoist had passed away, he wished to join the Xingyi Sect... Hearing this, the people of the Xingyi Sect found it entirely reasonable. In this world, youths in the jianghu who had trained in martial arts for a few years and possessed a foundation of internal force were quite common. Moreover, the Xingyi Sect could tell that Lin Yuancheng's internal energy was indeed orthodox Daoist internal energy, so they believed him and took him in. Yet a person like Lin Yuancheng could never keep a low profile anywhere he went. In little more than two years, he had mastered most of the Xingyi Sect's martial arts... Naturally, that had been one of his reasons for joining in the first place: everyone in the jianghu knew Cangzhou was the home of martial arts, and the Cangzhou Xingyi Sect had always been renowned for possessing vast numbers of martial arts manuals—vast in quantity, though not necessarily top tier. Later, realizing that remaining among his fellow disciples day in and day out would bring him no further improvement, Lin Yuancheng began roaming the jianghu, seeking to elevate his skill through real combat. Soon after, he earned the moniker "Young Hero of Cangzhou." Earlier, the gang under Kang Haijiao whom Sun Yixie and Huang Donglai encountered at Dragon King Cave had actually been thrashed by Lin Yuancheng. However, the Young Hero felt they were far too small-time to serve as the very first lives he took upon officially roaming the jianghu, and so he had spared them. By now, Lin Yuancheng's name carried a fair amount of renown throughout the jianghu. At this Youth Heroes Assembly, he was also the top seed. At least in the eyes of most presiding sect leaders, Lin Yuancheng's strength was simply on a completely different level from his peers. For instance, in the second match of the quarterfinals, Lin Yuancheng had stepped onto the platform and instantly dispatched Di Gui, nephew of the Water Transport Gang's leader Di Bujuan, in a single move. That spectacle had turned the faces of Feng Shunfeng and Feng Shunshui pale in the audience... Not only were they pained to see their chief's nephew routed in an instant, but they also harbored a sinking suspicion that had either of them gone up there, they might have suffered the same fate. All in all, the Young Hero Lin's strength was truly astonishing. To be frank, Chun Kong had less than a twenty percent chance of victory against him. If Lei Buji had advanced instead and Lin Yuancheng had agreed to fight bare-handed without his sword, they might have stood on roughly even footing and delivered a magnificent contest. Yet what-ifs were, in the end, only what-ifs. Consequently, the first semifinal match saw no earth-shattering struggle. Given the clear disparity in strength to begin with, Chun Kong faced the armed Lin Yuancheng empty-handed and was rapidly overwhelmed—after merely five exchanges, Lin Yuancheng's sword was resting against Chun Kong's neck. Chun Kong conceded crisply with an "Amitabha." Lin Yuancheng politely returned the courtesy before stepping down from the stage. Because their match had ended so quickly, Sun Yixie had barely had any time to rest. Cursing under his breath, "Motherfucker!" he trudged back onto the challenge arena. His opponent, Heroine Song, had already been waiting for quite some time. She immediately vaulted onto the stage, cupped her fists with saber in hand, and called out, "Please!"