Chapter 9: A Boy Named Ma Liang

“Spare me, noble hero! I was forced into becoming a bandit and have never killed anyone…”
“Kill!”
…
“If you want money, take it all. Consider it a gesture of friendship from me. Let’s mind our own business and avoid conflict. Otherwise, we both suffer, and you won’t fare any better.”
“Kill!”
…
“I have an eighty-year-old mother and a three-year-old child. Please spare me—I swear I’ll mend my ways, honor my parents, and raise my child properly…”
“Kill!”
…
Thus began the path of slaughtering bandits.
No matter how the bandits pleaded or threatened, Yang Tian’s orders were always the same: kill.
There was no room for hesitation or pity.
Most bandits, perhaps driven by desperation and circumstances, may never have killed before.
But by becoming bandits, they chose evil; sooner or later, they would kill.
If you have loved ones to care for, don’t those you rob and murder have loved ones as well?
Every choice comes with its consequences.
Yang Tian was no saint. He chose to kill bandits and amass wealth, fully prepared to bear the aftermath.
His goal was fortune and destiny.
He never bothered to distinguish which bandits could be spared and which deserved death…
Perhaps Wang Fu and the others had their doubts, but Yang Tian never cared to explain or change their minds.
As long as they followed his orders, that was enough.
He once heard a saying that was both bitter and true:
A villain spends his life doing evil, but if he does a single good deed in the end, he’s called a prodigal returned.
A righteous person spends his life doing good, but if he commits a single evil deed, his true nature is revealed.
Yang Tian would rather be criticized, for then he could act as he pleased, free from overthinking.
Stay true to oneself, let others speak as they will.
After Yang Tian set his course, Wang Fu and the others devised a new route: first, retrieve their families from Wuyang City, then avoid towns and take the roads frequented by merchants, where imperial troops were less likely to patrol.
Their families traveled openly, while Yang Tian and his men moved in the shadows.
If bandits attacked, they killed them outright, leaving a few alive to lead them to the bandits’ lairs.
If there were no attacks but bandits were known to operate nearby, they would enter the forests and search—if found, they’d wipe them out.

Wealth accumulated rapidly; the rise of capital was indeed drenched in blood.
Yang Tian’s conscience was clear.
Finding the bandits’ hideouts was never easy; otherwise, the authorities would have eradicated them long ago.
The weaker bandit groups usually had little wealth.
It was common for Yang Tian’s group to return empty-handed.
Wang Fu and the others gained a deeper understanding of Yang Tian:
Ruthless and cold, leaving no survivors.
Greedy to the extreme, stripping corpses of every coin.
Yet gentle and refined, kindly interacting with the families, playing with the children.
So many conflicting traits left them perplexed.
Yang Tian was unaware of their doubts and simply content.
In his mind, his fortune grew steadily.
Two distinct types of fortune:
Golden fortune, likely the fortune of the nation, had been depleted after using the first page of the Chinese Treasure Book, and hadn’t been replenished, lingering faintly.
Green fortune emerged after suppressing bandits, increasing with each bandit slain, gathering in wisps as fine as strands of hair.
Yang Tian sensed that, with the current amount of green fortune, he could unlock the second page.
But he wasn’t in a hurry; he could open it at any time.
He continued accumulating, knowing he could activate it whenever he wished.
He expected to have enough to unlock the third page by the time he reached the Desolate City.
…
There were no bandits on today’s route, and after a day’s journey, they stopped to rest in a small town.
“Young master, we’ve finished today’s lessons. Can we hear another story?”
A dozen children among the families crowded around Yang Tian, gazing up at him with eager eyes.
Ever since Yang Tian had taught them to read and told a few short stories, the children had grown fond of him, though they dared not be too unruly.
“Very well, I’ll tell you another story in a few days,” Yang Tian replied with a gentle smile, far removed from the cold ruthlessness he showed to bandits.
He couldn’t tell tales like Journey to the West or The Calabash Brothers—those stories seemed restricted by the laws of this world.
Instead, he shared brief, simple stories.
He pondered for a moment, and a whimsical idea for a connected story flashed through his mind.
It seemed he could tell it aloud.
The children quieted down, squatting before Yang Tian with eyes full of curiosity, wondering what story they’d hear today.

“There was once a boy named Ma Liang who lived by the Eastern Sea. He loved painting, and whatever he drew looked lifelike, but his family was so poor they couldn’t afford a brush. One day, a deity gave him a magical pen, and whatever he painted became real. He refused to paint for the rich and wicked, only for the good and poor.
One year, the winter was bitterly cold, and a single sun was not enough. Ma Liang used his magic pen to draw nine more suns to warm the world. When the climate returned to normal, to remove the extra suns, he drew a divine bow and summoned the legendary archer Hou Yi, who shot down the nine suns. However, by accident, he pierced the sky, and the remaining sun, frightened, tried to escape through the hole.
Ma Liang quickly drew a magic stone to patch the sky, which the mighty goddess Nuwa used to restore the heavens. The sun kept running, so the swift Kua Fu chased it day and night. Eventually, he caught up, secured the sun, but died of exhaustion, becoming two mountains blocking the entrance to Yu Gong’s house.
Ordinary man Yu Gong and his descendants started moving the mountains, carrying stones to the Eastern Sea. The rising water drowned Yan Emperor Shennong’s youngest daughter, Nu Wa, who, unwilling to accept her fate, transformed into a divine bird with a floral head, white beak, and red claws. Every day, she carried stones and plants from the mountains and dropped them into the Eastern Sea, determined to fill it completely.
During the process of filling the sea, catastrophic floods often erupted. The great water master Yu tried to control the floods, but they only grew worse, submerging all the villages near the Eastern Sea. Ma Liang, asleep, was unable to use his magic pen and was drowned.”
Yang Tian narrated with dramatic cadence, and the children listened, utterly enthralled.
“What? Ma Liang was drowned?”
“I wish I had Ma Liang’s magic pen. It must be a treasure of the literary path, able to make anything real.”
“Hou Yi is amazing—he could shoot the sun! And Nuwa could mend the heavens…”
…
The children burst into excited chatter.
“You must study and train hard. One day, you’ll be as strong as them,” Yang Tian encouraged.
“Yes, young master! If we become strong, we can protect you. We’re off to study now,” they replied in unison, solemn and earnest.
Even the toddlers, three or four years old and still sniffly, spoke with conviction.
From a young age, their families taught them to be loyal to the Yang family.
Now, of course, their loyalty was to young master Yang Tian.
Yang Tian smiled—such sensible children.
For the next half month,
They continued their journey, searching for bandits and accumulating wealth.
Thanks to Wang Fu’s eighth rank in the literary path, they encountered no danger.
They avoided mature, organized bandit factions, so their path was relatively safe.
Starting from Qin Capital,
They spent twenty-eight days in all, finally arriving at the Desolate City.
The Desolate City—
A solitary fortress in the desert.
Even the nearest town was a three-day ride away.