Thirty Years East of the River, Thirty Years West of the River, Don't Bully a Young Man When He's Poor

Before dawn had even broken, Xiao Yan was already awake.

He climbed out from the floor without a sound. Last night, he had tried to sleep on the bed Shi Hao had broken, but the moment he lay down, he had flipped over and landed flat on his back, so he had given up on it.

On his right arm, the exotic flame patterns flickered in the morning light like sleeping snakes. He clenched his fist, his nails digging into his flesh; the pain kept him sharp.

Yesterday's events were still vivid in his mind.

A loser, thirty years east of the river? You're killing me, a one-ring piece of trash...

Those mocking words pierced his heart like needles, stinging even more than when Nalan Yanran had broken off their engagement all those years ago.

It wasn't because the words were particularly vicious, but because he was truly weak right now.

Xiao Yan took a deep breath. "Thirty years east of the river, thirty years west of the river; do not bully a young man because he is poor."

He spoke in a low voice. It wasn't loud, but every word was squeezed out from between his teeth, carrying a bone-deep resolve.

These eight words had once supported him as he climbed from the trash of Wutan City to the peak of the Great Thousand World.

Now, they would support him once again as he crawled up from the bottom of Douluo Continent.

Movement came from behind him.

Shi Hao had woken up at some point and was hanging upside down from the edge of his bed, doing sit-ups. Hearing Xiao Yan's words, he tilted his hanging head to look over.

"Do you have to say that every day?" Shi Hao asked, his tone devoid of mockery, filled only with pure curiosity.

Xiao Yan didn't even turn his head. "Shut up, lunatic."

Shi Hao stopped his sit-ups. "Say that again?"

Xiao Yan turned around and looked at the upside-down Shi Hao. "Lunatic."

Shi Hao flipped off the bed with the fluid grace of a cat. He stood straight and cracked his knuckles; the sound was piercingly sharp in the silent dormitory.

"Say it again. Say it one more time."

Shi Hao's expression was deadly serious—so serious that it was clear he wasn't joking. He was genuinely prepared to fight.

Xiao Yan showed no fear; instead, he took a step forward. "I'll say it a hundred times if I have to. Lunatic, luna—"

"Enough."

A cold voice drifted from the corner of the room.

Wang Lin was leaning against the wall, his eyes already open.

"If you want to fight, go outside. Don't disturb This Seat's sleep."

His voice was low, but the indifference and impatience were palpable, as if, in his eyes, these two were nothing more than mosquitoes buzzing in his ear.

Xiao Yan and Shi Hao both looked at Wang Lin.

Xiao Yan: "What's it to you?"

Shi Hao: "You want to fight too?"

Wang Lin closed his eyes, his tone as calm as if he were commenting on the weather. "This Seat does not wish to fight; This Seat only wishes to sleep. But if you continue to make noise, This Seat does not mind letting you experience what a cycle of cause and effect truly is."

Xiao Yan and Shi Hao exchanged a glance.

Xiao Yan wanted to snap back—when had he ever been threatened like this in the Great Thousand World? But the words died in his throat. It wasn't that he feared Wang Lin, but he remembered the scene from yesterday where Wang Lin had left that student paralyzed on the ground.

Shi Hao didn't care, but after looking at Wang Lin's pale face and then at Xiao Yan's furious expression, he suddenly felt bored.

"Forget it." Shi Hao waved his hand. "If we aren't fighting, we aren't fighting. I'll go to the training grounds and find someone else."

He grabbed a jacket—actually an old piece of clothing Tang San had sent over yesterday—threw it over his shoulders, and strode out of the dormitory.

Xiao Yan stood where he was, the anger on his face yet to fade.

He glanced at Wang Lin, who had already closed his eyes to feign sleep, as if nothing had happened.

He then looked at Han Li's bed. Han Li had risen at some point and was sitting cross-legged, staring blankly out the window, seemingly deaf to everything that had just occurred.

Xiao Yan let out a cold snort and walked out of the dormitory as well.

He needed to find someone to fight—a real, brutal fight.

On the training grounds, Zhao Wuji was sipping tea.

"Zhao Wuji!"

A voice rang out from the entrance of the training grounds, carrying the bravado and defiance unique to a youth.

Zhao Wuji looked up and saw a disheveled boy walking toward him.

He recognized this boy; he was one of the four weirdos who had fallen from the sky. Xiao Yan, he was called—the one with the foul mouth.

"I want to challenge you!" Xiao Yan stood before Zhao Wuji, head held high, his gaze like a torch.

Zhao Wuji's hand, holding the teacup, paused. "What?"

"I said, I want to challenge you!" Xiao Yan repeated, his voice even louder than before.

Zhao Wuji looked Xiao Yan up and down. A one-ring Spirit Master, covered in bruises from his fall, face swollen and battered—he looked like a street punk who hadn't learned his lesson after being beaten ten times over.

Zhao Wuji laughed. "You, a one-ring Spirit Master, want to challenge me, a seven-ring Spirit Saint?"

The contrast was so stark that Zhao Wuji felt the kid wasn't challenging him, but telling him a joke.

But Xiao Yan's expression didn't look like he was joking at all.

"Thirty..."

Xiao Yan took a deep breath, and the Exotic Fire patterns on his right arm lit up. That aura, which had once burned through the eight wildernesses, was faint, yet it still persisted.

"Thirty years east of the river, thirty years west of the river!"

He roared, his voice shaking the surroundings, sending the sparrows in the training ground scattering in fear.

Zhao Wuji blinked. "Are you just shouting slogans?"

"Do you dare to accept?" Xiao Yan didn't answer, pressing him directly.

Zhao Wuji took another sip of tea, placed the cup on the armrest of his chair, and stood up to stretch.

"Fine, I'll play along."

He didn't even release his Martial Soul.

At the edge of the training ground, a crowd had gathered at some point.

Oscar had a sausage hanging from his mouth, counting vaguely: "Third time... fourth time... fifth time..."

Ma Hongjun squatted on the ground, gnawing on a chicken leg, watching with great interest: "This is the twelfth time already, right?"

Oscar shook his head: "No, only the eighth. Was your math taught by a gym teacher?"

Ma Hongjun: "My math was taught by the cafeteria lady."

In the center of the field, Zhao Wuji extended one finger—just his index finger.

Xiao Yan charged over and threw a punch.

Zhao Wuji flicked his finger, and Xiao Yan went flying.

Bang.

Xiao Yan rolled three times on the ground and climbed up. There was blood at the corner of his mouth, but his eyes were brighter than before.

"Thirty years east of the river!" He charged again.

Bang. Sent flying.

"Do not bully the young because they are poor!" He charged again.

Bang. Sent flying.

"Thirty years east of the river!" He charged once more.

Bang.

"Do not bully the young because they are poor!"

Bang.

Oscar's counting couldn't keep up, and Ma Hongjun had forgotten to gnaw on his chicken leg. Even Zhu Zhuqing, who was usually as cold as frost, stopped in her tracks to take a few extra looks.

The seventeenth time.

Xiao Yan lay on the ground, face down, covered in dirt, his right arm full of scrapes.

Zhao Wuji sighed: "Young man, give up. You can't beat me."

Xiao Yan pushed off the ground with his hands, trembling as he climbed up.

His nose was bleeding, the corner of his mouth was split, and his left eye socket was heavily bruised, but his eyes—those eyes—shone like two balls of fire.

"The eighteenth time."

He took a deep breath...

"Thirty years east of the river, thirty years west of the river, do not bully the young because they are poor!!!"

After the roar, he charged again.

Zhao Wuji looked into those eyes and was suddenly moved.

He had seen many people—geniuses, mediocrities, those who gave up, and those who persisted—but rarely had he seen someone who, after being knocked down eighteen times, still possessed such a gaze.

There was no fear in those eyes, no hesitation, only a near-paranoid stubbornness.

This kid, if he were truly given time...

Zhao Wuji pulled his finger back.

In its place, he used his hand to steadily catch Xiao Yan's fist.

Xiao Yan froze.

Zhao Wuji didn't flick him away.

Zhao Wuji looked at Xiao Yan and shook his head: "Young man, you've already proven yourself today. If you keep fighting, you'll get hurt."

Xiao Yan gritted his teeth: "I'm not afraid of getting hurt!"

"I know you aren't." Zhao Wuji let go and patted Xiao Yan on the shoulder. "But if we keep going, others will think I'm bullying a child."

He turned and walked back to his chair, picked up the now-cold teacup, took a sip, and sighed, "He's a talent worth molding, it's just a pity his brain doesn't work."

Xiao Yan stood there, fists clenched tight, his whole body trembling with unreconciled resentment.

He knew the gap between himself and Zhao Wuji was as vast as heaven and earth, but he had thought he could at least touch Zhao Wuji's clothes. And the result? Eighteen times, and he hadn't even brushed a single finger against him.

"I won't give up."

Xiao Yan whispered, unsure if he was speaking to Zhao Wuji, to himself, or perhaps to that version of himself who once stood at the pinnacle of the Great Thousand World.

"Thirty years east of the river, thirty years west; one day, I will stand at the peak of this world."

Tang San ran over from the sidelines.

He held a towel and a flask of water, his face etched with concern.

"Brother Xiao Yan, are you alright? Those hits just now were brutal. Do you want me to check your wounds? I know a bit of medicine..."

He reached out, intending to help Xiao Yan up.

Xiao Yan shook his hand off.

The movement was crisp and clean, the force so great that Tang San nearly lost his footing.

"I don't need your help, floor tile."

Xiao Yan walked away without looking back.

Tang San stood rooted to the spot, his hand still outstretched, his face filled with bewilderment.

"Floor tile... what does that mean?" he asked.

Xiao Yan's voice drifted from afar, carrying a hint of mockery and self-deprecation: "It means trash among trash."

Tang San froze.

He opened his mouth, wanting to say something, but found he had no words.

He wanted to retort: I am not trash, I am a genius of the Tang Sect, I am a transmigrator, I possess the Mysterious Heaven Skill, Hundred Interpretations of Hidden Weapons, and the Purple Demon Eye; I will become the Sea God in the future...

But were those things truly useful in this world?

Tang San looked down at his own hands, then at Xiao Yan's retreating back.

That youth, who had been sent flying eighteen times, covered in wounds and bruised, still walked with his head held high and his chest puffed out.

Yet he, Tang San, with sound limbs and not a single scratch, always felt he couldn't straighten his own spine.

Tang San squatted on the ground, drawing circles with a twig.

Xiao Wu walked over and crouched beside him: "Third Brother, are you brooding again?"

Tang San: "No."

Xiao Wu: "Every time you say no, you're brooding."

Tang San was silent for a moment, then asked in a muffled voice: "Xiao Wu, am I really that useless?"

Xiao Wu thought for a moment and answered earnestly: "Third Brother, you aren't useless, you are... a very, very gentle kind of useless."

Tang San: "...That assessment makes me feel even worse."

Xiao Wu patted his head: "Alright, alright, I'll make braised pork for you tonight."

Tang San looked up, light returning to his eyes: "Revive, my..."

Xiao Wu covered his mouth: "Shut up!"