Chapter Twenty-Two: Zhao Zilong of Changshan

I am Zhao Zilong of Changshan—seven words, each as mighty as a rainbow. How many heroes of the battlefield have trembled at the sound, rendered deaf by its power?

A silver spear danced through the air, agile and fluid as a butterfly weaving among flowers. Wherever the spearhead, sharp as a serpent’s tongue, struck, bandits met instant death, their lives snuffed out at the slightest touch.

A white horse moved freely amid the throng, evoking the image of one passing through a sea of blossoms, untouched by a single leaf. Yet the flowers here bloomed with the fragrance of blood.

Seeing his brothers suffer heavy casualties, Zhang Thunderbolt, eyes blazing red, charged forward with a roar. But before he could swing his blade, a cold sensation pierced his chest—a powerful force had driven straight through his broad torso.

He tried to look down, only to see a familiar, headless body collapse, blood gushing from the neck. His own vision soared skyward, rising ever farther from the earth.

“I… can fly now?”—this was the last thought Zhang Thunderbolt would ever have.

Zhang Yu and his six companions watched as the commander in white, moving with effortless grace, struck left and right through the enemy ranks. Countless souls fell beneath his spear; the once-disciplined bandit soldiers devolved into a disorderly rabble, and among hundreds of men, not a single one could withstand him for even a round!

“This is just like the hack-and-slash games I play—no less impressive!” Zhang Yu felt as if he were watching a movie that stirred his blood, igniting him with unstoppable energy and resolve. The leading man was none other than the handsome warrior at the heart of the battlefield, astride a white horse with a silver spear.

Yet as he watched and the killing went on, Zhang Yu’s fervor gradually settled. In such moments, he found himself uncommonly calm, his mind expanding in habitual reflection—perhaps the kind of broad thinking found in madmen.

He did not worry about his own safety, the situation between friend and foe, or future plans. Instead, he was inexplicably moved by the cruelty of war.

His past self, Zhang Sifan, a university student in a peaceful age, was spared such sights. Wars then were fought with hot weapons—one nuclear bomb, and thousands perished. Yet despite their terrifying destructive power, modern warfare lacked the visceral brutality and carnage of close combat, of blade meeting flesh.

This, then, was Zhang Yu’s first battlefield across two lifetimes—a stage for cold weapons, where every strike was meant to take a life.

But… why must it be so?

No matter how fierce the battle or how skilled the warrior, it was ultimately a slaughter among kin.

They were all Han, all descendants of Yan and Huang—what was the point of such suffering?

After the brilliance of the Three Kingdoms, what remained was one of the most painful chapters in the history of China.

Why could they not join hands, unite all Han people, and truly open a path for future generations? Surely, many who crossed time would understand this sentiment.

Zhang Yu stepped out from the protective circle of Zhang Biao and the others, walking across the grassy slopes, his shoes growing damp and cold beneath him.

“Ah—”

A single sigh.

Here, every drop of blood was boiling hot.

Here, every life had once been vibrant.

But here, every death was final.

They would not rise again, would not simply pack up and leave, would not even receive a boxed lunch. Perhaps none would ever know their names.

This was no drill, no stage play—this was reality.

“Brother Zhao! Please, halt!” Zhang Yu called out loudly.

“Hm?” Zhao Yun reined in his horse and turned his head. Even in the night, at the sight of Zhang Yu, his eyes could not help but brighten.

“What a handsome young man… Is he the target of these Black Mountain bandits?”

Zhao Yun mused silently, then raised his powerful arm and thrust his spear skyward. “The forces of Changshan have arrived! Bandits, retreat at once!”

At his command, all fighting ceased. Some Black Mountain bandits dropped to their knees, begging for mercy, unable to move.

Leaving behind dozens of corpses and gaining nothing, the remnants of the Black Mountain bandits, led by Yu Du, fled swiftly into the mountains, vanishing without a trace within moments.

Zhao Yun dismounted smartly, handed his spear to a soldier, and walked toward Zhang Yu.

Zhang Yu stared back, stepping forward to meet him. He bowed deeply. “Zhang Yu of Zhongshan, offers his thanks to General Zhao, my benefactor!”

“Zhongshan Zhang Yu!” Zhao Yun paused, for this name had recently spread throughout Changshan City—how could he not know it?

“Are you the gentleman from Zhongshan who wrote of patriotism and compassion for the displaced, the author of ‘The Song of Hao Li’?”

As soon as he spoke, he answered his own question: “Yes, it must be you. With such celestial bearing, who else could match the name Jade Gentleman?”

“You overpraise me, benefactor. I have only done what I can, hardly deserving the world's acclaim.”

While speaking, Zhang Yu carefully observed the man before him. At first glance, he seemed very young, but on closer inspection, his brows were as dark and bold as if carved with a blade, set above deep eyes. His features were sharp and chiseled, radiating courage and resolve.

His presence and appearance were nothing like the fair-faced beauties of modern dramas, nor like Zhang Yu’s own captivating charm. He was strikingly handsome, but his strength and stature—over six feet tall and broad-shouldered—set him apart.

“Yet even such ordinary deeds, how many in this world are willing to undertake them? For this alone, you are a person of deep love and utmost sincerity, a man of extraordinary virtue!

I have long admired you in Changshan. This title of benefactor is far too much. I am a few years your senior; if you do not mind, call me elder brother.”

“What an opportunity!” Zhang Yu unconsciously raised his brows. “Then I shall respectfully accept, and hope my elder brother will trouble himself to escort us into the city.”

A chime sounded, signaling a special bond. Zhang Yu brought up the interface. On the relationship chart, Zhao Yun’s portrait was linked to his own by a thick yellow beam, with a radiant yellow halo above it.

Placing the virtual cursor over Zhao Yun’s portrait, the display read: “Affinity: 77. Status: Favor. [Man of Virtue] bonus.”

“My uncle, it turns out, is all false affection and empty claims of virtue—he hardly has any affinity for his own nephew! I’m almost embarrassed to admit I have such an uncle.

Look at Yun, my dear friend—we truly share a connection of loyalty and affection!”

The next day dawned bright and clear.

The sky was spotless; the air crisp.

Zhang Yu and Zhao Yun sat in the pavilion of Zhao’s residence, enjoying the fruit arranged before them, chatting and laughing.

Outside, Han Long and a maid served them. The two conversed the entire morning. Three maids came and went, but Han Long remained unmoving as a pine.

Having witnessed Zhao Yun’s martial prowess yesterday, Han Long certainly had thoughts, but with his young master present, he could not bring himself to ask the heroic general for guidance, worried it would diminish his master’s dignity.

If Zhang Yu knew this, he would surely laugh and scold—he detested such empty displays of pride.

Like in the time of Emperor Yang of Sui, when envoys and merchants from the Western regions gathered in Luoyang. Not only was food and drink offered free of charge, but trees throughout the city were wrapped in silk to display wealth. The Westerners asked, “Your Sui dynasty has poor people who go naked. Why not use this silk to clothe them, instead of wasting it on trees?” The locals had no answer, and outsiders mocked them.

People should be practical—only real benefits matter!

At this moment, Zhang Yu was delighted.

Even facing Zhao Yun, he had not tried to curry favor or flatter him for affection. However impressive the man, Zhang Yu had come from the modern world, shaped by two thousand years of history. This subtle depth gave him confidence.

Yet through such natural conversation, the two grew increasingly close, feeling as if they had met too late.

From sunrise, when Zhang Yu went out to exercise and met Zhao Yun passing by, until now, after several hours and a heap of fruit nearing noon, their topics of interest never ceased.

“This must be more than the influence of a [Man of Virtue] badge. I think Yun and I are truly kindred spirits—a friendship as harmonious as mountains and flowing water.”

Seeing the affinity soar to 84 in a single morning, Zhang Yu could not help but reflect.