In the moonlight, William could be seen holding a pot lid in his left hand and a spatula in his right, practicing his knife techniques with careful, measured movements. As he moved, he chanted softly, “A cut to the left, a cut to the right, a cut above, a cut below…”

Volume One: A Son Grows Up in the Yang Family

Chapter Seven: An Honored Guest at the Yang Residence

A year and a half passed. William was now five years old. It was the fourteenth year of the Kaihuang era, just after the New Year, and the air was still filled with a festive atmosphere.

William and Daisy had already finished studying the Analects and were preparing to start on the Mencius. Both of them had memorized thousands of characters, and with their current knowledge, even the older children in the clan school couldn’t compare to them.

On the morning of the seventh day of the first lunar month, Evelyn Brooks had gone to the market to buy groceries. Daisy had run off to play shuttlecock with the kitchen steward Aunt Miller’s youngest daughter, while William was alone in the courtyard chopping firewood. He had turned four years old on the first day of the New Year, making him five by traditional reckoning, but he was as tall and sturdy as a seven- or eight-year-old.

In fact, their family didn’t need to chop firewood—there was always plenty in the Yang family’s main kitchen. But William simply enjoyed chopping wood; it was part of his martial training. Ever since he started learning the “single-blade technique” a year and a half ago, he had chopped at trees five hundred times a day with a small, blunt knife. Dozens of trees around his home had been battered to the brink of death by him.

Although he hadn’t yet learned how to build a foundation for his martial arts, his knife practice was already showing results. He was extremely quick, his little arms were strong, and he was notorious for his ferocity in fights. None of the children his age in the Yang residence dared to cross him.

Evelyn Brooks had thought at first that he was just playing around, but she hadn’t expected him to persist for a year and a half. She couldn’t help but admire his determination. Although she wanted to guide William, her martial arts weren’t suitable for boys, and she could see that William had a certain commanding presence—he should be taught by a true master.

William found chopping wood great fun. He liked to surround himself with dozens of logs, pretending they were a group of Turkic cavalry encircling him. Then, with a loud shout, he would become Zhao Yun reborn—pot lid in one hand, wood-chopping knife in the other—slashing left and right, unstoppable in his charge. In moments, all the firewood would be split in two.

He would then admire his handiwork with pride. The logs he kicked over were the “cavalrymen” not yet dead from his blade, and he would give them another chop for good measure.

Just as he was searching for any “survivors,” he suddenly heard crying. Daisy came running into the courtyard in tears, her braids undone, her rosy cheeks showing signs of having been hit, and her shuttlecock left with only a single feather.

“Daisy, what happened? Who bullied you?”

William asked angrily. Daisy looked as if she’d been punched, her left eye a bit bruised. William felt both heartache and fury.

Daisy sobbed, “It was Billy and the others. They hit me and took our shuttlecock… There were six of them against me alone. They wanted to make me their ‘mountain wife’ and called me a bastard’s child.”

William clenched his fists, his eyes blazing with anger. Billy was that chubby kid, Andrew Harris, now seven years old and tall for his age. His mother was a shrew and foul-mouthed, and he had learned from her.

“Go wash your face. I’ll go teach them a lesson.”

William and Andrew Harris had fought just on New Year’s Eve over lucky money. The Yang family boys were no match for him, so they picked on Daisy instead. Worse, they had insulted his aunt. That was clearly something they’d learned from their parents. William had long regarded Evelyn Brooks as his mother and would never tolerate anyone insulting her.

William ran off at once. He knew exactly where to find them. In the central courtyard stood an ancient apricot tree, over a hundred years old, surrounded by a three-foot-high stone planter about a yard across. Andrew Harris had claimed it as his “mountain stronghold,” planted a flag reading “Yang Family Fort,” and declared himself the “Northern Mighty King.” He was tall and fat, and had five or six other Yang family bastards as his followers, bullying the children of servants and slaves throughout the residence.

William had long disliked them, but hadn’t wanted to cause trouble. Today, though, these brats had dared to bully Daisy and insult his aunt. If he didn’t give them a good beating, he wouldn’t be able to let it go.

The Sui dynasty was different from later times. Martial spirit was strong, the people were tough, and it was an era where only the strong were respected. Those who swallowed their anger were always bullied. Especially in Thomas Harris’s household, only strength was respected. William’s status was low, and almost everyone in the Yang family looked down on him.

If he swallowed his anger this time and acted timid, the bullies would only swarm him, even the stewards’ children would beat him without hesitation. No one would pity him, and no one would reason with him. If he didn’t fight back, he deserved what he got.

This wasn’t about causing trouble—it was about his very place in the world. Even if the adults punished him afterward, as long as the other children were afraid of him, they wouldn’t dare bully him or Daisy again, nor insult his aunt.

William had come to understand the law of the jungle in this era: if he didn’t want to be bullied, he had to be fiercer and tougher than anyone else. There was no other way.

He charged into the central courtyard through the side gate and immediately spotted Andrew Harris and the other boys. Each wore a bright brocade robe and a small golden crown, while William was dressed in plain cloth. His father, Philip Harris, had long forgotten him, and his grandfather, Thomas Harris, hadn’t seen him in two years. They lived in poverty, and it was his aunt who bought cloth to make his clothes.

Five or six boys stood atop the planter, wooden swords and spears in hand, their faces fierce, looking every bit like a band of little bandits.

“He’s coming!”