Chapter 63: Confucian Nine Yang Wenyuan

Chapter 63: Yang Wenyuan, Confucian Rank Nine

The entire Yang Clan ancestral manor did not occupy a vast area, nor could its construction be called luxurious; it was merely an ordinary structure of three courtyards and three wings.

Behind the front hall lay the east and west wing rooms, and beyond them stretched a vast, open courtyard. Past the courtyard stood the main hall, the most important building in the entire manor.

High walls stood dense in the center, the layout deep and winding. Without the use of heavy firepower, infiltrating from any other direction was exceedingly difficult.

Therefore, for the Yang Clan's Second Branch, the front hall was the single most critical line of defense against the frontal assault of the Shu Road Logistics.

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!

The wooden doors and window lattices could not withstand the impact of bullets in the slightest; they were instantly riddled with holes.

Wood chips flying in all directions had yet to touch the ground before they were scoured by the subsequent hail of bullets into even finer dust.

Yang Wenyuan, the strapping man who had conversed with Yang Huchou, the master of the Second Branch, in the main hall not long ago, now appeared in the front hall as well.

Yang Wenyuan pressed his back tightly against the wall; the icy sensation spreading across his back made his heart pound faster and faster.

His left and right hands, gripping sword and gun respectively, trembled slightly—a method to prevent his body from stiffening, ensuring he could explode into lethal action at any moment.

As the benchmark figure of the Second Branch's younger generation, Yang Wenyuan wore not the Confucian scholar's robe but tight-fitting martial attire; he could read, but he was even more adept at killing.

His cultivation had long since reached the peak of Confucian Rank Nine; he was only one official rank away from advancing to Confucian Rank Eight, the Gentleman.

Yet this official rank stood before him like a natural moat.

It was not that Yang Wenyuan had never taken the imperial examinations, but his skill with a brush was far inferior to his skill with a spear and sword.

Even though the current imperial examinations no longer clung rigidly to the Eight-Legged Essay, among the Six Arts, 'Archery' and 'Charioteering'—representing martial prowess—still accounted for the lowest weight in the examination.

On this single-plank bridge of the imperial examinations where thousands of soldiers and tens of thousands of horses competed, Yang Wenyuan's aptitude only qualified him as 'able to read,' not 'skilled at reading.'

And there were several other scions in the Second Branch stuck at this same Confucian Rank Nine threshold like him.

The reason the Second Branch's patriarch, Yang Huchou, had steeled his heart to withstand two great aristocratic clans and fight for the brain tissue slices of the Yang Clan's founding ancestor, the Number One Scholar Yang Zhan, was largely for their sake.

As long as they could obtain the ancestor's bequest, their innate talent would be enhanced, and their chances of passing the examinations and winning official rank would greatly increase.

The Second Branch's scions all understood the bitter effort behind Yang Huchou's decision.

So even knowing this would be a nine-deaths-one-life struggle, not a single person chose to retreat.

"A Gentleman does not contend"—this merely advises scholars not to be recklessly brave.

It does not tell them to flee at the first sign of danger.

This chance to enter officialdom, no matter who tries to seize it, Yang Wenyuan will kill them!

.............

The whistling of bullets tearing through the air stabbed painfully at the eardrums; a faint sheen of sweat appeared on Yang Wenyuan's forehead, and the pervasive smell of gunpowder seemed to make the air itself scorching hot.

He narrowed his eyes, listening to the origin of the gunfire outside the door, silently calculating the enemy's position and the remaining rounds in their magazines.

A master of the 'Archery' Art, his attainment in firearms had reached the level of a Grandmaster; he knew the parameters of every firearm produced by the Great Ming Empire's major military-industrial conglomerates like the back of his hand.

As the distinct, crisp report of the Do Yan Guard's light submachine guns grew clearer, Yang Wenyuan could already discern the enemy's increasingly heavy footsteps from within the cacophony.

By now, the entire front hall no longer possessed anything resembling a 'door'; only a few creaking door frames remained to represent the concept of an 'entrance.'

Loss of the position was a foregone conclusion, but Yang Wenyuan would not let the front hall change hands so easily!

The instant a blast shield drew near, Yang Wenyuan's body, pressed against the wall, sprang up violently, his speed in no way inferior to a martial arts thug who had channeled energy into a movement technique.

One of the Six Arts, 'Charioteering,' had long since evolved in the course of history from the ancient meaning of driving a chariot to the current art of bodily control.

The fair-faced Yang Wenyuan struck with utter dominance; he stomped his foot onto the shield, pinning it down. The man whose arms were locked onto the shield's handles stumbled forward, looking up in horror, only to stare straight into a pitch-black muzzle.

Bang!

The explosive report bore some resemblance to that of the Wei Wu Zu, and judging by the degree to which the shield-bearer's skull shattered, the power was scarcely different.

This pistol, a veritable murder weapon, was named the 'Divine Saber,' named after the Divine Saber Army, the elite infantry of the Shu Kingdom during the Three Kingdoms era.

Ironically, the manufacturer of this weapon was none other than Tianfu Heavy Industries, currently attacking the rear gate of the manor.

Shattered skull fragments, wrapped in gore, pierced the eyes of the man behind him; before a scream could escape his throat, a flash of sword light pierced his windpipe.

Facing over a dozen Do Yan Guard submachine guns trained on him, Yang Wenyuan showed no fear. He flicked his sword, propping the corpse up as a shield, and resolutely squeezed the trigger.

Starkly different gunshots rang out almost simultaneously.

The bullet stream was like a blade; in nearly an instant, it flayed the corpse to white bone. But several Security Department employees also had their brows pierced by the 'Divine Saber.'

Clang! The sword's cry was clear as a dragon's chant.

Moving with the sword's cry was a figure startling as a wild goose.

Yang Wenyuan crashed into the crowd; his autumn-water blade swept across an enemy's throat, and before the blood could flow, the next man had already been struck.

The Confucian sword style was not as fierce and overbearing as martial arts swordplay; the flowing sword light appeared more graceful and agile.

In the blink of an eye, nearly an entire squad had been annihilated by Yang Wenyuan's hand.

Even the Second Squad Captain, who had already replaced half his body with mechanical prosthetics, merely endured one extra sword strike before his entire head was severed.

The survivors, terrified out of their wits, squeezed their triggers to the bottom, utterly disregarding the high risk of friendly fire at such close range.

The moment the gunfire flared, Yang Wenyuan's body swayed like willow catkins in the wind, drifting several yards to the side.

Though he had dodged preemptively, a bullet still grazed his waist, tearing a long, narrow wound; the welling blood instantly dyed his white martial attire red.

Yang Wenyuan lowered his head to glance at his blood-soaked upper body, and a sudden surge of heroic passion rose in his heart.

At this moment, he seemed to share a spiritual connection with the ancients, witnessing how the Poet Immortal once wandered the mortal world, sword in hand, upholding justice!

"Ten paces, one kill; a thousand miles without..."

A sudden, violent palpitation seized Yang Wenyuan's heart; his rhythmic chanting came to an abrupt halt.

The 'without' he had just uttered was sharp and hurried, devoid of any heroic spirit, sounding more like a plea for mercy at death's door.

An archaic long saber flashed into his vision; Yang Wenyuan discovered that no matter how he dodged, he could not escape the incoming cold light.

Pfft!

Yang Wenyuan's tightly knit brows suddenly relaxed; his trembling pupils regained their calm.

In his dimming vision, he happened to see a chiseled, angular profile pass before him.

That straight-bladed long saber rested upon the man's shoulder.

"This is... not... staying." (Note: completing the poem "Ten paces, one kill; a thousand miles without leaving a trace/remaining" - "bu liu xing")

Yang Wenyuan's pupils dilated; his lips moved, but his severed trachea could emit not produce a single sound.

"Reciting poetry while fighting, Confucians really are particular."

Li Jun muttered to himself, but upon seeing the text floating on his retina, he shook his head with a bitter smile.

"At least Sequence Nine peak, and only 80 Proficiency Points? Life is getting harder and harder."

Before he could complain further, Gu Jia's solemn voice came through the earpiece.

"Tianfu Heavy Industries has seized the rear gate wing rooms. Li Jun, you go intercept Fei Baiqu. Even if you can't kill him, don't let him rejoin the battle!"