Chapter 2: Chang'an
A breeze swept through the courtyard, carrying a few clear, crisp whistlings of a spear mixed with a childish yet hearty shout that echoed across the grounds.
Yang Chang'an stood in a horse stance, his small body tense and straight, and the baby fat on his face quivered slightly with his movements. Although his cheeks were puffed out, his grip on the spear was steady and powerful.
The wooden spear in his hands was a full half-head taller than he was, yet he wielded it with a roaring momentum. When the tip of the spear swept across the ground, it kicked up fine, powdery stone debris, and every movement was grand and open, adhering strictly to form.
Splitting, thrusting, parrying, sweeping-his movements were crisp and decisive, entirely devoid of infantile clumsiness, and instead exuding the seasoned majesty of long practice. For such a tender age, he surprisingly possessed the grand demeanor of a master.
The bluestone slabs of the courtyard were dampened by the morning dew, and the shaft of the wooden spear occasionally grazed the ground, producing tiny rustling sounds that intertwined with the whistling of the spear to form a unique rhythm within the courtyard.
It was unknown how much time had passed when the final spear thrust drove heavily into the ground. The wooden spear shaft vibrated slightly, and Yang Chang'an withdrew his spear to stand upright, the wooden spear propping him up as his small body stood as firm as a green pine.
"Not bad, not bad. Little Chang'an has improved quite a bit compared to a few days ago."
An aged voice drifted from the courtyard entrance, and Yang Chang'an snapped his eyes open, turning to see an elderly man with hoary white hair walking leisurely over.
The elder wore a set of grey cloth robes washed to a pale hue, his stride even, and his aura ordinary. He looked indistinguishable from an ordinary old man on the street, save for a hint of unmaskable desolation deep within those deep eyes.
"Grand-uncle."
Yang Chang'an immediately lowered the wooden spear, taking quick steps on his short legs to greet him.
This elder was Yang Quji, the youngest among the generation of great-granduncles in the Yang family. In terms of seniority, he was Yang Chang'an's great-granduncle, but in actual age, he was only ten years older than Yang Chang'an's grandfather, Yang Wushuang.
Yet within the clan, seniority surpassed the heavens. Even though Yang Quji looked not much older than Yang Wushuang, Yang Chang'an still had to respectfully call him Grand-uncle.
Yang Quji chuckled heartily as he bent down, reaching out to scoop Yang Chang'an up into his arms. He weighed him in his arms and smiled playfully:
"Oh, Little Chang'an has gotten heavier again. It seems the meals these past few days were not eaten in vain."
The smile on his face was genuine, and even the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes scrunched together, banishing much of the gloom from the depths of his eyes and softening his surrounding aura by a fraction.
There were quite a few little ones of this generation in the Yang family, every single one sensible and obedient, but the only one who managed to raise himself up plump and fair was Yang Chang'an.
It was not that the other children lacked food or clothing, but rather that the clan's descendants trained from a young age, mostly keeping robust and agile physiques. Only Yang Chang'an, no matter how exhausting things were, always relished every meal, making his body sturdier than that of his peers and rendering the baby fat on his face all the more endearing.
Yang Chang'an struggled briefly in Yang Quji's embrace, kicking his little arms and legs, yet it produced not the slightest effect.
Although Yang Quji looked lean and slender, his actual strength was solidly formidable. Even though Yang Chang'an had trained from a young age and his foundation far surpassed that of ordinary children, he still remained entirely powerless before Yang Quji.
"Grand-uncle."
Yang Chang'an let out a helpless cry and gave up struggling, his little face brimming with resignation-an expression that made Yang Quji roar with laughter.
Smiling, Yang Quji raised a hand and gently patted Yang Chang'an's little head, his fingertips carrying a somewhat rough texture:
"Hahaha, this little fellow really cannot take a joke."
Saying this, he reached out again to knead his chubby cheeks, the texture soft and yielding, which only deepened the smile on his face before he finally set him back down.
After setting Yang Chang'an down, Yang Quji watched as the boy's cheeks remained slightly puffed out, and muttered:
"No fun at all. The Little Chang'an from before was more fun."
Hearing this, Yang Chang'an chuckled bitterly in his heart.
Where was he fun before? It was clearly that he had been young, weak in strength, and powerless to resist.
"Oh right, Grand-uncle, where is Grandpa?"
Suppressing the thoughts in his heart, Yang Chang'an quickly changed the subject, raising his small face to look at Yang Quji with a hint of inquiry in his eyes.
At the mention of Yang Wushuang, the smile on Yang Quji's face faded slightly. He sighed softly and cast his gaze toward a room deep within the courtyard.
"Him? He should still be studying those medicinal formulas right now."
Ever since the events of that year, Yang Wushuang's spirit had been completely crushed.
Once upon a time, he too had been the pride of the Yang family. Blessed with exceptional talent, he had carved out quite a reputation for himself in the Soul Master World at a young age, yet that great battle stripped away all his pride.
Over these years, not only had his cultivation failed to make the slightest progress, but it even showed faint signs of regression. All day long, he hid away in the Medicine Cottage, studying those life-saving medical formulas as though atoning for sins, or perhaps escaping reality.
Everyone in the clan understood that it had not been Yang Wushuang's fault, and no one blamed him, but he himself could ultimately never cross that hurdle in his heart.
Yang Chang'an fell silent. His small body stood in place with lowered eyes, the liveliness on his face just moments ago now gone.
Having arrived in this world for five years, he had long since integrated into the Yang family and regarded Yang Wushuang as his true grandfather.
He had once heard the elders of the clan speak of Yang Wushuang's high-spirited appearance back in the day, and he had also seen what his grandfather looked like now. He was silent and taciturn all day long, his brows and eyes laden with exhaustion. Comparing the two only made one's heart ache all the more sourly.
Noticing the silent Yang Chang'an, Yang Quji realized he had spoken out of turn and shouldn't have brought up these upsetting matters in front of a child. A trace of awkwardness inevitably surfaced on his face, and he hurriedly raised a hand to pat the boy's shoulder, shifting the topic:
"Didn't you say early this morning that you wanted to go out for a stroll? The hour is not early, so hurry along."
"Mn." Yang Chang'an nodded, suppressing the emotions in his heart. Raising his gaze to look at Yang Quji, he forced a shallow smile, turned, and walked toward the direction of the main gate.
Yang Quji stood in place, watching the departing back of Yang Chang'an and tracking that small figure step by step as he walked out of the courtyard. At last, he shook his head gently and murmured softly under his breath:
"What a pity."
A pity for Yang Wushuang's talent, a pity for the glory of the Yang family, and an even greater pity for this child, Yang Chang'an.
Sensible from a young age and possessing spear-fighting talent that was one in ten thousand, he was born precisely into such circumstances, forced to bear these heavy burdens that outsiders could not comprehend at such a tender age.
Stepping out of the main gate of the Yang estate, Yang Chang'an paused his steps and turned his head to gaze at the quaint courtyard behind him. This courtyard covered quite a vast expanse, featuring grey bricks, dark tiles, and carved beams and painted pillars, everywhere revealing the deep foundation of a soul master clan, yet the main gate above was entirely empty, hanging no plaque whatsoever.
That plaque had shattered along with the glory of the Breaking Clan following the great battle of that year.
He gazed for a long time, until the morning breeze ruffled the hem of his garment, before slowly withdrawing his gaze and walking toward the street.
Yang Chang'an was not originally a person of this world, but rather an ordinary person from the mysterious East. In an accident, he had sunk to the bottom of the water while saving a passing stranger who had fallen in, and never woke up again.
When he opened his eyes once more, he had already arrived in this unfamiliar yet familiar world-Douluo Continent.
He had become the legitimate grandson of the Yang family, the grandson of Yang Wushuang.
In truth, his original name in this lifetime had been Yang Mingfeng, but after that great battle, Yang Wushuang had changed his name, altering Yang Mingfeng to Yang Chang'an.
He still remembered how Yang Wushuang had forced a smile at the time as he spoke to several elders of the clan:
"There's no need to be so razor-sharp. To endure long and prosper safely, that is quite good enough."
At that time, the light in Yang Wushuang's eyes had been extinguished, and the sharp edge to his character had dispersed, appearing even more desolate than the traces left in Yang Quji's eyes today.
And so, the name Yang Mingfeng became a thing of the past.
From that day on, he was Yang Chang'an.
Chang'an, Chang'an-may peace endure, may safety last.
This was Yang Wushuang's expectation for him, as well as the most humble prayer of this guilt-ridden second master of the Breaking Clan.