Chapter 62

Time flew by, and before anyone knew it, three years had passed—it was now 35.

The country remained in chaos, with artillery fire blazing and protests rising one after another.

In 33 and 34, the two masters, Sun Lutang and Li Shuwen, passed away one after another; Wang Yan traveled halfway across the nation to pay his respects.

Both masters had countless disciples, many holding high positions. Though Wang Yan carried an invincible aura, to them he was merely a skilled fighter—famous, but without prestige. He received the proper courtesies, but to ask for more would be to forget his own name.

In the rest of his time, Wang Yan did not idle; besides daily martial training, calligraphy, and medicine, he secretly assembled a five-hundred-man force. These men were all disciples or apprentices of reliable elder masters he had visited, some even sent by blood relatives. In fact, over these years, many of their disciples had already joined the military.

But the outcome broke their hearts—many of them died in the warlord conflicts and power struggles, becoming pawns in someone else’s game. That was why, when Wang Yan made it clear he intended to fight the Japanese, they offered limited support. They didn’t fully trust him, but they couldn’t ignore the possibility—better to watch what Wang Yan would do, so they sent a few capable disciples.

With the vast wealth he’d earned through business, Wang Yan used gold bars to bribe the foreign devils and acquired plenty of elite equipment, arming the five hundred. Ye Wen and Zhou Qingquan said nothing about his spending—they fully supported it. They were men of reason and principle; in times of life and death, this was only right. In truth, they couldn’t afford to maintain many men—food and fodder cost money.

These men all had excellent physical conditioning; once their rebelliousness was crushed and they learned obedience, they’d make fine soldiers. Wang Yan didn’t know how to train troops, so he followed his own instincts. These men weren’t afraid of hardship—they could endure it—and with his collection of herbal formulas, even if it shortened their lives, it wouldn’t be too severe.

He trained them according to his memory of formations, physical conditioning, marksmanship, and his own synthesized practical killing techniques from various schools—all designed to kill in one strike. If they didn’t kill the enemy, they’d kill themselves. That’s why it shortened their lives—it was all speed and strength, pushed to the extreme: fast survives, slow dies.

These men were all martial artists; they knew the flaws in what Wang Yan taught. But when they left home, their masters had warned them: if you leave, only your corpse may return. And they’d come of their own free will—what did they care about the risks? Kill one, break even; kill more, profit.

After initial training, Wang Yan led them north and fought several battles. He knew no military strategy, had no grand vision—just elite tactics: relying on his superior skill, accurate shooting, and high mobility, he burned and killed everywhere. He aided Ma Zhanshan and later the *** in Mobile Corps Commander warfare, sabotaging supply lines. At first it worked—he delayed enemy forces and killed many—but soon the enemy grew wary.

They launched relentless encirclements and ambushes; after nearly a hundred men died, this force, tempered by war, finally took shape. Wang Yan no longer needed to micromanage—he only had to control them, join them occasionally in operations, and ensure supply lines. The rest was up to the veterans to train the newcomers, grow steadily, and let them fend for themselves.

The things he’d done had shifted minor situations, but meant nothing to the grand tide. With only a few rifles, he could never amount to anything—just the bravery of a lone man.

Wang Yan had to once again retreat into quiet self-cultivation. He’d personally killed over a hundred people through assassinations and brutal executions—he’d truly gone blood-mad. Now, whenever he faced a problem, his first instinct was to kill. That wouldn’t do.

Thanks to tight secrecy and the elders’ silence, everyone knew of this elusive force, but no one knew who led it. Perhaps some sharp minds had pieced together clues, but they wisely kept quiet, sending emissaries to secretly contact Wang Yan. After all, this force was formidable—and wasted in Wang Yan’s hands.

Wang Yan wasn’t a fool. He knew if anyone discovered he was working as someone’s hired killer, his men would be gone by tomorrow—and he might end up like Ding Lianshan. The elders were old, but not helpless—he couldn’t deceive them like that. So he only met those who came seeking aid, and since they’d been doing hard, dangerous work, he provided some supplies—better than nothing. Everything else, he denied outright.

There’s a saying: don’t assume what you think—assume what I think. The Japanese also sensed something was off and took action against Wang Yan—assassinations, ambushes, that sort of thing. He endured several waves of attacks, because these men were carefully trained, far more valuable than regular soldiers—they had greater roles. It wasn’t worth losing so many to kill one martial artist.

But it inevitably affected Gong Baosen in Fengtian. With the Japanese pushing their Manchukuo and “co-prosperity” agenda, they couldn’t easily target someone of Gong’s stature. Still, it was a constraint—the Gong family struggled. Gong Baosen wrote to Wang Yan: don’t worry, do what you must. He was truly pleased—this Wang boy hadn’t been wasted; his efforts hadn’t been in vain.

One day, Wang Yan and Zhou Qingquan were having lunch at Ye Wen’s home.

Zhang Yongcheng was tending to Ye Zhun, who refused to eat properly; Zhou Qingquan’s son, Zhou Guangyao, silently stuffed food into his mouth.

Zhou Qingquan picked up a chopstick and said, “Ah Yan, thank you so much—Guangyao has improved so much. Not to mention anything else, his health has gotten a lot better.”

Hearing this, Guangyao immediately slowed down and became more refined.

“Hah, you, why scare the child?” Ye Wen laughed. “Guangyao, eat freely—we don’t have so many rules.”

Wang Yan smiled too: “It’s my fault. Guangyao and Azhun have been my students for two years, and only recently have I begun teaching them anything.”

“Take your time,” Zhou Qingquan reassured. “Guangyao’s only thirteen—he has time.” He knew what Wang Yan meant; much of the supplies passed through his hands.

Wang Yan shook his head, about to speak, when Xiang Shu entered: “Master, a Master Liao is outside seeking you.”

Ye Wen gestured to Wang Yan and Zhou Qingquan, then went out to greet the visitor.

Wang Yan knew—this was the start of Ye Wen’s story. Challenge seekers never came to him. From north to south, universally recognized as invincible—who’d dare challenge him?

Soon, Ye Wen returned with the man, telling him to wait outside. Wang Yan and Zhou Qingquan exchanged glances but said nothing. They ate in silence, the only sound the clinking of chopsticks and bowls.

As Ye Wen ate, he glanced around. Seeing no one speak, he turned and asked, “Master Liao, have you eaten?”

Seeing him shake his head, Ye Wen invited him to join the table.

Aside from Zhang Yongcheng and Zhou Qingquan, everyone at the table was a martial artist. Soon, the meal was finished, leaving only scraps.

Ye Wen proposed a private sparring session with Master Liao. Wang Yan had no interest in watching, and Zhou Qingquan wasn’t curious either—they went to sit on the stone bench in the courtyard.

“Ah Yan, a shipment of supplies is coming soon—arrange for someone to meet it,” Zhou Qingquan said, sipping tea.

“Mm, I’ll give orders later.”

“By the way, Ah Yan, we need to pause our support for them for a while—I’ve noticed some unfamiliar faces.”

Wang Yan paused, considering whether to eliminate them. Finally, he nodded: “Then lie low for now. Good timing—I’ve lost more men recently. We need to handle compensation and recruit new ones.”

He lifted his tea, drank, then continued: “And you—you must practice what I taught you. Even with protection, you’re not safe anymore.”

Zhou Qingquan nodded, saying nothing.

At that moment, someone climbed over the wall. Wang Yan recalled the plot and remembered—this was Sha Danyuan. He’d killed so many these past two years he’d lost track of minor characters like him.

He was unguided, uneducated, a street thug, full of bad habits. In this era, such boys were common—just surviving was a miracle.

When he climbed onto the wall and steadied himself, Wang Yan called out: “Hey, kid.”

The shout startled Sha Danyuan so badly he nearly fell. He turned and stared at Wang Yan—frozen. In Foshan, he knew who Wang Yan was. The legends about him were countless.

Seeing Wang Yan beckon, he scrambled down and hurried over, bowing low: “Master Wang, what do you need?”

“Can you kill?” The boy was old for his age—seventeen or eighteen.

Though he didn’t know who to kill, Sha Danyuan wanted to shout “yes.” But he was just a small-time hood with no ambition—sweat broke on his forehead, his legs trembled. He bowed his head, trembling, silent.

Zhou Qingquan rolled his eyes at Wang Yan—why scare the child?

Just then, Ye Wen and Master Liao emerged. Wang Yan, bored, waved his hand at Sha Danyuan: “Go.”

Sha Danyuan felt like he’d been pardoned—he turned and ran, even forgetting his kite.

Ye Wen saw Master Liao off, then returned and sat in the courtyard. He had the two boys perform a form to aid digestion, observe their progress, and correct them.

After a while, they chatted briefly and went home.

Sha Danyuan returned home, hesitated long, then told his brother, the martial arts fanatic Lin, about the day’s events—he couldn’t bear the uncertainty.

“Brother, today I met Master Wang at Ye Wen’s house. He asked me if I had the courage to kill.” Sha Danyuan said to Lin, who was washing dishes.

Lin asked automatically: “Master Wang? Which Master Wang? Oh…” Then he froze, stopped washing, and asked: “And what did you say?”

Sha Danyuan grimaced: “I… I didn’t say anything…”

Lin dismissed it—why would a great man care about a child? He comforted: “Don’t worry. Master Wang is who he is—he wouldn’t care about us. Just stay safe, don’t cause trouble.”

In truth, Lin resented Wang Yan—such a powerful man had countless others to do his bidding. Why scare my little brother?

He didn’t know—Wang Yan wasn’t just scaring the child. If Sha Danyuan had said “yes,” he’d have been sent away the next day—thrown into the base, trained to death, then sent to the battlefield.

It was a small thing—Wang Yan didn’t care. He stayed home, cultivating peace, calming his restless heart.

Another peaceful day—he visited a nearby base, checked on new recruits’ training, and listened to Li Qiankun’s report.

After Li Shuwen’s death, Li Qiankun came to join Wang Yan. The son of the Li family didn’t have to follow him—but Wang Yan couldn’t let him die; he’d have no one to answer to. So he took him into several battles, convinced him, then assigned him to logistics.

With constant war, everyone struggled. Wang Yan coerced and bribed a group of decent traditional physicians—didn’t dare touch famous ones; too many owed them favors. He placed them at this base—treated wounded when needed, mostly studied herbal formulas.

His goal: fully understand their medical principles, find substitute herbs. The original ingredients were too rare, too expensive—he couldn’t afford to sustain so many. Later, he’d capture some foreign devils—combine Eastern and Western medicine. Ultimately, he needed to improve, popularize—this required long-term commitment and constant investment.

After checking the physicians’ progress, Wang Yan left and returned to Foshan. He didn’t even need to look—this wouldn’t yield results in months, years, or even decades.

Back in the city, people who’d met him greeted him: “Master Wang, good day! Going to Master Ye’s?”

“Huh? Why say that?” Wang Yan often visited Ye Wen’s, but their relationship wasn’t public knowledge—and this man wasn’t from the martial world.

“You don’t know? A martial artist came from the north, challenging Ye Wen. Many martial artists have gone to watch.”

“I just heard. I’ll go see the spectacle.” He politely replied and walked toward Ye Wen’s home.

At Ye’s mansion, a crowd had gathered. Seeing Wang Yan, they called out “Master Wang!” and parted ways.

At the closed gate, Li Zhao saw Wang Yan and hurried to greet him. Wang Yan waved dismissively—he recognized Li Zhao, an unofficial subordinate who’d handled cleanup after his kills.

After waiting, Jin Shanzhao emerged, dusty and beaten. He ordered Li Zhao to clear the crowd. Wang Yan said to Jin Shanzhao: “Come with me.” Then walked inside.

Jin Shanzhao didn’t know Wang Yan—still angry from being beaten: “You’re…”

Li Zhao punched him hard: “I’m saving you, don’t be ungrateful. This is Master Wang—don’t be so stupid as to die.”

“Master Wang? Which Master Wang?” Jin Shanzhao was confused.

Someone nearby smirked: “The one who beat everyone from north to south—undefeated Master Wang.”

No one called Wang Yan by name directly—privately, fine; publicly, it was respect for strength.

“Ah…” Jin Shanzhao realized: “Just say his name is Wang Yan—I’d have known! Thanks!”

He turned, led his men into the ruined main hall.

Li Zhao shook his head, muttering “brute,” then called out: “Everyone, disperse! Master Ye won—no more show. Go home.”

The crowd chattered about Wang Yan, then dispersed.

Jin Shanzhao entered the main hall and saw Wang Yan seated, talking with Ye Wen, while Xiang Shu poured tea.

Wang Yan pointed to Jin Shanzhao and said to Xiang Shu: “Xiang Shu, have them clean this up.”

Jin Shanzhao said nothing, quickly gathered his four men, and under Xiang Shu’s direction, cleaned the hall—finally mopping the floor.

Wang Yan looked at the five men standing before him: “Hungry?”

Jin Shanzhao answered without hesitation: “Hungry.”

“Can you endure hardship? Can you kill?”

“Yes.” Jin Shanzhao nodded firmly.

Wang Yan asked his men: “What about you?”

“We follow our boss.”

Wang Yan nodded, asked Xiang Shu for paper and brush, wrote something, and handed it to Jin Shanzhao: “Take this. Go ten li north of the city. Go.”

Jin Shanzhao took the note, bowed deeply: “Thank you, Master Wang, for the meal.”

Seeing Wang Yan nod, he turned and left with his men, heading north toward the mountains.