Thirty Years East of the River, Thirty Years West-Never Bully a Poor Young Man

It wasn't even dawn when Xiao Yan got up.

He quietly climbed to his feet. Last night, he'd tried lying down on Shi Hao's bed, but the moment he did, the cracked bed board gave way and sent him sprawling. He'd given up after that.

On his right arm, the Heavenly Flames' markings shimmered faintly in the morning light, like little snakes curled up asleep. He clenched his fist until his nails dug into his palm. The pain kept him alert.

Yesterday's events were still fresh in his mind.

"Scrub. Thirty years east of the river? You've got to be kidding me. A useless One-Ring Soul Master..."

Those mocking words had stabbed into his heart like needles, hurting even more than when Nalan Yanran had broken off their engagement.

It wasn't that the words had been especially cruel. It was that he really was weak now.

Xiao Yan drew a deep breath. "Thirty years east of the river, thirty years west. Never bully a poor young man."

He spoke softly, but every word seemed squeezed through clenched teeth, carrying a bone-deep resolve.

Those eight words had once carried him from being a good-for-nothing in Wutan City all the way to the peak of the Great Thousand World.

Now, they would carry him up from the bottom of Douluo Continent once again.

A noise came from behind him.

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

"Do you have to say that every day?" Shi Hao asked. There was no mockery in his voice, only genuine curiosity.

Xiao Yan didn't even turn around. "Shut up, you lunatic."

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

Xiao Yan turned around and looked at Shi Hao, still upside down. "Lunatic."

Shi Hao flipped off the bed, moving as fluidly as a cat. He stood upright and cracked his knuckles. The sound echoed through the quiet dormitory.

"Say that again, again, again?"

Shi Hao looked perfectly serious—so serious that it was clear he wasn't joking. He really was ready to fight.

Xiao Yan wasn't afraid in the slightest. Instead, he stepped forward. "I can say it a hundred times. Lunatic, lun—"

"Enough."

A cold voice came from the corner.

Wang Lin leaned against the wall. No one knew when he'd opened his eyes.

"If you want to fight, take it outside. Don't disturb this venerable one's sleep."

His voice wasn't loud, but his coldness and impatience were plain to hear. In his eyes, the two of them might as well have been a pair of 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 voice was as calm as if he were commenting on the weather. "This venerable one doesn't want to fight. This venerable one only wants to sleep. But if you keep making noise, this venerable one won't mind letting you experience what it means to be caught in a cycle of karma."

Xiao Yan and Shi Hao exchanged a glance.

Xiao Yan wanted to snap back. When had anyone in the Great Thousand World ever dared threaten him like this? But the words died on his tongue—not because he was afraid of Wang Lin, but because he remembered seeing Wang Lin leave that student sprawled on the ground yesterday.

Shi Hao didn't seem to care, but he glanced at Wang Lin's pale face, then at Xiao Yan's angry expression, and suddenly felt a little bored.

"Fine." Shi Hao waved a hand. "If we're not fighting, we're not fighting. I'll go find someone to fight at the training grounds."

He grabbed a jacket—it was actually an old set of clothes Tang San had brought over yesterday—draped it over his shoulders, and strode out of the dormitory.

Xiao Yan stood where he was, the anger still lingering on his face.

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

Then he looked toward Han Li's bed. Han Li had gotten up at some point and was sitting cross-legged, gazing out the window without expression, as though he hadn't heard a thing.

Xiao Yan gave a cold snort and left the dormitory too.

He was going to find someone to fight. He was going to fight hard.

At the training grounds, Zhao Wuji was drinking tea.

"Zhao Wuji!"

A voice rang out from the entrance to the training grounds, brimming with the bold defiance unique to a young man.

Zhao Wuji looked up and saw a dust-covered youth striding toward him.

He knew this young man. He was one of the four weirdos who had fallen from the sky—the one called Xiao Yan, the one with the foul mouth.

"I challenge you!" Xiao Yan stood in front of Zhao Wuji with his chin raised and his gaze blazing.

Zhao Wuji paused with his teacup halfway to his lips. "What?"

"I said, I challenge you!" Xiao Yan repeated, his voice louder this time.

Zhao Wuji looked him up and down. A One-Ring Soul Master, covered in bruises from a fall, with a swollen nose and black eye—he looked like a street punk who'd been beaten ten times and still hadn't learned his lesson.

Zhao Wuji laughed. "You're a One-Ring Soul Master, and you're challenging me, a Seven-Ring Soul Sage?"

The gap was so absurd that Zhao Wuji thought the kid wasn't challenging him at all. He was telling a joke.

But Xiao Yan didn't look like he was joking in the slightest.

"Thirty..."

Xiao Yan drew a deep breath. The Heavenly Flames' markings on his right arm lit up. The aura that had once burned across the eight directions was faint, but it was still there.

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

He roared the words, his voice shaking the surroundings. The sparrows at the training grounds scattered in fright.

Zhao Wuji blinked. "Are you chanting a slogan?"

"Do you dare accept?" Xiao Yan didn't answer. He demanded a response instead.

Zhao Wuji took another sip of tea, set his cup on the armrest of his chair, then stood and stretched.

"Fine. I'll humor you."

He didn't even release his Martial Soul.

At some point, a crowd had gathered around the edge of the training grounds.

Oscar had a sausage in his mouth and was counting indistinctly. "Third time... Fourth time... Fifth time..."

Ma Hongjun squatted on the ground, gnawing on a chicken leg as he watched with great interest. "That's the twelfth time already, right?"

Oscar shook his head. "No, it's only the eighth. Did your PE teacher teach you math?"

Ma Hongjun: "The cafeteria auntie taught me math."

In the center of the training grounds, Zhao Wuji held up one finger. Just one index finger.

Xiao Yan charged over and threw a punch.

Zhao Wuji flicked his finger. Xiao Yan went flying.

Bang.

Xiao Yan rolled across the ground three times before getting back up. There was blood at the corner of his mouth, but his eyes burned brighter than before.

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

Bang. Sent flying.

"Never bully a poor young man!" He charged again.

Bang. Sent flying.

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

Bang.

"Never bully a poor young man!"

Bang.

Oscar had lost track of the count, and Ma Hongjun had forgotten to take another bite of his chicken leg. Even Zhu Zhuqing, usually as cold as ice, paused to watch.

The seventeenth time.

Xiao Yan lay facedown on the ground, covered in dirt, his right arm scraped and bruised.

Zhao Wuji sighed. "Kid, give up. You can't beat me."

Xiao Yan braced a hand against the ground and shakily pushed himself up.

His nose was bleeding, the corner of his mouth was split, and his left eye was badly bruised. But his eyes—those eyes—burned like twin flames.

"Eighteenth time."

He drew a deep breath...

"Thirty years east of the river, thirty years west. Never bully a poor young man!!!"

As soon as he finished shouting, he charged again.

Looking into those eyes, Zhao Wuji was suddenly moved.

He had met all kinds of people: geniuses, mediocrities, those who gave up, and those who persevered. But few people could still look like that after being knocked down for the eighteenth time.

There was no fear in those eyes, no hesitation, only a stubbornness bordering on obsession.

If this kid were only given time...

Zhao Wuji withdrew his finger.

In its place, he held out a hand and caught Xiao Yan's fist firmly.

Xiao Yan froze.

Zhao Wuji hadn't sent him flying.

Zhao Wuji looked at Xiao Yan and shook his head. "Kid, you've proved yourself today. If we keep going, you'll get hurt."

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

"I know you're not." Zhao Wuji let go of his hand and patted him on the shoulder. "But if I keep going, people will think I'm bullying a kid."

He turned and walked back to his chair. Picking up the now-cold teacup, he took a sip and sighed. "You've got potential. Your head's just not screwed on right."

Xiao Yan stood there, fists clenched, his body trembling with frustration and unwillingness to accept defeat.

He knew the gap between him and Zhao Wuji was as vast as heaven and earth. Still, he'd thought he could at least touch Zhao Wuji's clothes. But what had happened? Eighteen tries, and he hadn't even touched a single finger.

"I won't give up."

Xiao Yan spoke softly. He didn't know whether he was talking to Zhao Wuji, to himself, or to the version of himself who had once stood at the peak of the Great Thousand World.

"Thirty years east of the river, thirty years west. One day, I'll stand at the peak of this world."

Tang San ran over from the edge of the training grounds.

He was carrying a towel and a jug of water, his face full of concern.

"Brother Xiao Yan, are you all right? Those hits were brutal. Want me to take a look at your injuries? I know a little medicine..."

He reached out to help Xiao Yan.

Xiao Yan shook off his hand.

The movement was quick and decisive, and so forceful that Tang San nearly lost his balance.

"Keep out of it, floor tile."

Xiao Yan walked away without looking back.

Tang San stood there, his hand still outstretched, confusion written all over his face.

"What does 'floor tile' mean?" he asked.

Xiao Yan's voice drifted back from the distance, carrying a trace of mockery and self-mockery. "It means you're the most useless of the useless."

Tang San froze.

He opened his mouth to say something, but realized he had nothing to say.

He wanted to argue: I'm not useless. I'm a genius of the Tang Sect. I'm a transmigrator. I have the Mysterious Heaven Skill, the Hundred Interpretations of Hidden Weapons, and the Purple Demon Eye. One day, I'll become the Sea God...

But did any of that really matter in this world?

Tang San lowered his head and looked at his hands, then at Xiao Yan's retreating figure.

The youth who'd been sent flying eighteen times, battered and bruised, with a swollen nose and black eye, still walked with his head held high.

But Tang San, with all four limbs intact and not a scratch on him, always felt as if he couldn't straighten his back.

Tang San crouched down and used a twig to draw circles on the ground.

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

Tang San: "No."

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

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

Xiao Wu thought it over and answered earnestly, "Third Brother, you're not useless. You're... a super, super gentle version of useless."

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

Xiao Wu patted his head. "All right, all right. I'll make you braised pork tonight."

Tang San looked up, a light returning to his eyes. "Come back to life, my—"

Xiao Wu clapped a hand over his mouth. "You shut up!"