— The Origin of Zhuge Yanwen and Thunderbolt Hall —
In the first year of Hongwu, under the Shuntian Dynasty, in "Spring Rain City" of the Changfeng Republic — the night's rain had just ended.
It was the third watch of the night. A spring rain had washed over the entire town. The ground was soaked and wet, reflecting the few swaying lanterns. The wind blew from the southeast, carrying the salt-and-brine smell unique to the harbor.
"Renyi Avenue" — Benevolence and Righteousness Street — in the south of the city was empty, not a single passerby in sight. The shops on both sides had long closed for the night. Only from one nameless alley came the intermittent sounds of fighting.
"Crack —!"
A pitch-black short blade cut through the night sky, scoring a deep mark into the wall. Sparks scattered, momentarily illuminating the face of a middle-aged man — weary yet resolute. He knelt on one knee, with one blade wound in his right shoulder and another at his left side; blood dripped steadily from his robe onto the ground.
"Shi Yi… Shi Yi, you obstinate fool!"
Opposite him stood more than a dozen men. At their head was a bald, thick-jowled giant in brocade robes, his fists fitted with iron rings — each strike could crush stone and split metal. His name was Jin Quan, the foremost enforcer of Spring Rain City's largest underworld faction, the Fist Gang. He was called "the Thousand-Pound Vajra." He was not yet the gang's leader — but already its most feared killer. Behind him stood two gang members holding hooked chains, and beyond them a dozen more thugs of every description, each radiating murderous intent.
"Jin Quan… you running dog," Shi Yi spat out a mouthful of dark blood and gave a cold smile. "You helped the Fist Gang seize the western fish market, drove out every fisherman there, and now collect a thirty-percent protection fee every month… aren't you afraid…"
"Afraid? Afraid of what?" Jin Quan kicked away a stone at his feet and stepped forward. "The fist is power! Strength is power! Whoever has the hardest fist gets to live well! You people who call yourselves 'chivalrous' — you're nothing but stones in the road."
Before he could finish, Shi Yi suddenly sprang up from the ground and thrust both palms forward! Though gravely wounded, his internal strength was still formidable — the palm-wind howled, plowing a deep furrow into the very ground!
Jin Quan retreated hastily — but Shi Yi's target was not him. It was the two chain-wielding men behind him.
"Bang! Bang!"
The iron chains were blasted away by the palm-wind. The two staggered back several steps. Seizing the moment, Shi Yi charged into the crowd, palms flying, forcing five or six thugs to retreat. But he was too gravely injured — his movement slowed for a single instant — and in that instant, Jin Quan's iron fist came smashing in from behind.
"Smash —!"
Shi Yi was struck hard in the back. He flew several yards through the air and slammed against the wall. As dust scattered, he slowly slid down. Jin Quan strode over with a snarl, crouched down, and patted his face.
"Shi Yi, you have two roads. One — submit to the Fist Gang and work for us. With your skills, the gang will treat you well. The other… today is the day you die."
Shi Yi slowly raised his head. His clouded eyes were still clear, and a faint smile even rose to the corner of his mouth.
"I know I've never done anything earth-shaking in my life." His voice was soft, but firm. "But I will never bow to evil men, and I will never betray those four words my father left me — haoran zhengqi, the Vast Noble Spirit."
Jin Quan's face darkened. He stood up and raised his iron fist high —
"Then die!"
At that very moment, from deep in the alley came a young but startlingly resolute voice:
"Stop!"
Jin Quan turned in surprise.
A ten-year-old boy stood in the night, gripping a small wooden sword. His clothes were soaked through with rain and clung to his body, but his back was straight as a spear, and his wide eyes seemed to burn with fire.
Shi Yi saw the boy and his face changed completely: "Yong'er… why are you here? Run! Go!"
The child was called Yong'er. Shi Yi had taken him in over a year ago — an orphan rescued from a ruined slum. They were not blood kin, but closer than blood.
Yong'er did not obey. He gripped his wooden sword and stepped, one step at a time, toward Jin Quan.
"My father said, 'An official who doesn't serve the people might as well go home and farm sweet potatoes,'" he said, his young voice steady, each word weighted. "If you keep bullying people like this, someday someone will stand up and defeat you!"
Jin Quan threw back his head and laughed: "Hahaha! A little brat with a broken wooden sword — and you dare to threaten me?"
Yong'er clenched his teeth. His wooden sword pointed straight at Jin Quan —
The next moment, Jin Quan kicked the wooden sword out of his hands. His huge palm swept down and seized the boy by the collar like a chick, lifting him into the air.
"Little brat, you've got a sharp tongue," Jin Quan said, narrowing his eyes, voice cold. "Let me tell you — in this world, only the fist is reason. Without the fist, your damned 'benevolence and righteousness' is a joke."
"Let him go!" Shi Yi struggled to his feet, his eyes red. "Jin Quan, let him go! Come at me!"
Jin Quan gave a vicious laugh and flung Yong'er aside as if discarding garbage. The boy's thin body slammed into the wall, gave a muffled cry, and crumpled to the ground. His forehead split open, blood streaming. Tears and blood mingled and blurred his vision, but he bit down on his lip — refusing to cry.
Shi Yi crawled to Yong'er's side and pulled him into his arms, his trembling hand stroking the boy's head. Yong'er looked up and saw his foster father's face — scarred, bloody, and still smiling.
"Yong'er, remember what your father said —" Shi Yi's voice was growing weaker. "There are indeed many evil men in this world. They are strong, they hold power, they trample whoever they please… but justice may arrive late — it never fails to come."
"You… you must live on for me. One day… you must become a true hero. Let those evil men know… what real… haoran zhengqi… looks like…"
His voice faded smaller and smaller. At last, his hand released Yong'er's, and the light went out of his eyes.
Yong'er stared blankly at his foster father's face. For a long moment, he could not even cry. He wanted to shout, but his throat was stopped up. He wanted to weep, but his tears felt as if they had dried out.
Jin Quan shook the blood from his hand in disgust and spat on the corpse: "Old fool — given a chance and didn't take it."
"Boss, what about the kid?" one of the thugs ventured.
Jin Quan glanced at the small body curled in the pool of blood and shrugged contemptuously: "Just a brat. Leave him. Let him live or die on his own."
The Fist Gang men strode off.
The night wind blew through, carrying the harbor's brine smell and taking the last warmth with it. The alley fell silent again, broken only by the sound of raindrops striking the pool of blood on the ground — drip, drip.
Yong'er sat alone beside his foster father's body, gazing quietly at that peaceful face. He did not know how long he sat there. At last he raised his head and looked up at the night sky.
The rain had stopped.
In the east, the first pale light of dawn appeared.
The morning glow fell on the boy's young, but already resolved face, and he murmured: "Father… I will become a true hero. I will make those evil men understand — in this world, righteousness endures in the end."
He stood up, picked up the wooden sword, and walked unsteadily out of the dark alley.
From that day on, "Yong'er" was no longer a nameless nobody. He would walk the world under a new identity — a name his foster father had given him long before, full of hope:
Zhuge Yanwen.
"Zhuge" — for wisdom. "Yanwen" — taken from his foster father's brush strokes. From this moment, a legendary hero destined to shake the Changfeng Republic, to burn with fearless light, was born in the breaking dawn.
After the loss of his foster father, the ten-year-old Zhuge Yanwen drifted like duckweed, with nowhere to call home.
By day, he hauled goods at the docks of Spring Rain City for a few copper coins. By night, he slept in the street, curled up under a bridge or in some abandoned temple, the wooden sword cradled in his arms as he sank into sleep.
But he never forgot to read.
Shi Yi, in life, had been a man of deep learning — not only formidable in martial arts but also versed in the classics, histories, philosophers, and literary collections. He often told Yong'er: "A hero must have courage and learning. Without ink in your belly, you're no different from those brawlers who only know how to swing fists." So from a young age, he had taught Yong'er to read, to recite poetry, and to memorize the classics.
Yong'er was naturally bright — what he saw once, he remembered. By the time Shi Yi was killed, he could already recite the Analects and the Mencius from start to finish, and could even compose a passable doggerel verse on the spot. In those dark days, whenever he missed his foster father, he would sit beneath a bridge and softly recite: "When Heaven is about to confer a great mission upon someone, it first wearies their mind and resolve, exhausts their sinews and bones…" He would recite, and recite, and the tears would come; but he wiped them away and kept on reciting.
Then, at the moment of deepest despair, fortune turned a corner.
One winter evening, outside a tavern called the "Cuiyun Tavern" — the Emerald Cloud — Zhuge Yanwen saw a few Fist Gang thugs tormenting an old white-haired beggar. The old man pleaded pitifully, but they beat him with fists and feet until he was rolling on the ground. Zhuge Yanwen tightened his grip on his wooden sword and was about to charge in when —
"Stop!"
An aged but commanding voice came from behind.
The Fist Gang thugs turned to see an old man in a grey robe, with snow-white hair and a child's complexion, vigorous in spirit. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, his sword-like brows lifted slightly, his eyes sharp.
"Old man, who do you think you are?" One of the thugs charged forward, swinging his fist.
The old man scarcely seemed to move — only flicked his sleeve. The thug staggered back several steps and sat down hard on the ground, his face filled with terror. The others realized at once that this was no ordinary man, helped their companion up, and slunk away.
Zhuge Yanwen stared at the old man, stammering: "Old… old sir, you…"
The old man turned to look at him, his gaze carrying a hint of pity: "Child, were you about to save that old beggar?"
Zhuge Yanwen nodded vigorously.
The old man was silent for a moment, then sighed: "Your courage isn't bad. You're very much like your foster father."
Zhuge Yanwen froze. "You… you knew my father?"
The old man nodded. "Shi Yi and I were old acquaintances. He once told me — he had taken in an orphan, treated him as his own. I never imagined… he would die at the hands of the Fist Gang."
Zhuge Yanwen's eyes grew hot; he nearly wept. He held it in and bowed deeply. "Elder, please teach me martial arts. I will avenge my father — and make those evil men… unable to bully anyone again."
The old man looked at his stubborn young face, and a flicker of approval passed through his eyes. "I can teach you martial arts. But not so that you may take revenge. So that you have the ability to protect yourself, and the skill to save others."
"Are you willing?"
Zhuge Yanwen, without a moment's hesitation, dropped to his knees and kowtowed three times. "Master, your disciple is willing."
The old man was the reclusive grandmaster Lu Youtian — known in the Changfeng Republic's martial world as the "Master of Pure Yang."
It turned out that Lu Youtian and Shi Yi had been friends across the generations. Years before, they had met during a campaign to clear out coastal pirates, recognized each other's character, and become sworn friends. After Shi Yi's death, Lu Youtian had been searching everywhere for Yong'er's whereabouts. Today, at last, he had found him.
Zhuge Yanwen studied under Lu Youtian for eight years.
Lu Youtian taught him not only martial arts but also letters. Master and disciple often sat across from each other under the moon, each holding a scroll — from the Book of Odes to the Verses of Chu, from the Zuo Zhuan to the Records of the Grand Historian. Lu Youtian was astonished and delighted to discover how deep the boy's foundation in learning already was — Shi Yi's earlier effort had not been wasted in the slightest.
"Master," Zhuge Yanwen asked one day, "why must a hero of the rivers and lakes also read books?"
Lu Youtian stroked his beard and smiled. "Didn't your foster father tell you? Courage without learning makes a brute. Learning without courage makes a coward. With both — you also need a benevolent heart. Reading clarifies principle, so you know what to do and what not to do. Those so-called 'heroes' who only know how to kill — how are they different from street ruffians?"
Zhuge Yanwen thought deeply, and from then on, he studied harder than ever.
Over eight years, he mastered not just martial arts but also the philosophical canon. He developed a particular love for composing poetry and parallel couplets, and could not open his mouth without quoting some classical phrase. When in good spirits, he would even toss off a doggerel verse on the spot. Lu Youtian laughed at him: "Boy, you've got so much ink in your belly it's about to spill out of your mouth."
Zhuge Yanwen smiled back: "Master, this is what they call 'with poetry and books in the belly, the spirit radiates of itself.' My foster father said so."
Sword, palm, internal arts, lightness arts — no matter how difficult the technique, in his hands it would be mastered quickly. But what truly set him apart was a heart toward the Way as steady as rock, and a belly full of poetry and allusions that could pour out at any moment.
At eighteen, Zhuge Yanwen completed his training and prepared to leave his master's side.
Before his departure, Lu Youtian called him to the ancestral hall and solemnly handed him a wooden box.
"Your foster father gave this to me some time ago," Lu Youtian said slowly. "He had wanted you to study under me, but before he could bring you to meet me, misfortune struck. Our meeting later was the fate between us, you and me. Now, what he entrusted to me — I give to you."
Zhuge Yanwen received the box with both hands and, trembling, opened it.
Inside were a letter and a smooth, lustrous jade pendant.
The letter was in Shi Yi's own hand. The strokes were a little hurried, but powerful:
"Yong'er, by the time you read this letter, your father may no longer be here. I know you are a boy of resolve, and that one day you will become a hero standing tall between heaven and earth. Your father has nothing to leave you but this 'Jade of Benevolent Heart' — passed down through generations of the Shi family. It stands for what our family has always believed: Benevolence as the heart, righteousness as the courage, the Confucian way as the bone, the knightly way as the sword. Wherever you go, never forget these sixteen characters."
Zhuge Yanwen read the letter again and again, until at last the tears burst from his eyes.
He tucked the jade against his chest, took up his wooden sword and his foster father's last instructions, and set out alone on the long road of the jianghu — the rivers and lakes.
In his early days, he wandered everywhere, taking "chivalry and justice" as his calling.
His name began to spread — not because his martial arts were so high, but because every time he acted, he would quote the classics and leave the evildoer speechless. Once, in the street, he was reining in a young thug who was harassing a woman. The thug shouted: "Do you know who my father is?" Zhuge Yanwen replied calmly: "Though you and your name shall perish together, the rivers and mountains flow on for ten thousand ages." Who your father is doesn't matter — what matters is what you have done." The crowd roared with laughter, and the thug slunk away.
From Spring Rain City to Zhaoyang City, from Qingfeng Crossing to Luoxia Town — in just two years, the name "Zhuge Yanwen" rang ever louder. People said this young hero not only had high martial arts but was full of learning — when he spoke, he spoke in a literary way, always with a verse on his lips, and somehow what he said made people feel at ease.
At Qingfeng Crossing, he heard that the Fist Gang had joined hands with a corrupt local magistrate to confiscate every fishing boat near the dock, leaving dozens of fishing families ruined. Zhuge Yanwen slipped into the harbor by night, wounded the guards the gang had set, returned the boats to their rightful owners, and incidentally exposed the bribed magistrate. By the next morning, the news of the magistrate's dismissal had spread through the streets, and the townspeople banged gongs and drums in celebration, cheering "Hero Zhuge!"
Standing on the dock, watching the rejoicing villagers, Zhuge Yanwen suddenly recited: "Where might I find a vast mansion of ten thousand rooms, to shelter all the cold scholars of the world in joy?" A pity that I have only one pair of fists — what I can do is still too little."
At Luoxia Town, Fist Gang members under the guise of collecting protection money seized the last of an old woman's grain and set fire to her thatched hut. Zhuge Yanwen rescued her from the flames, his palms sweeping left and right, beating the villains until they scattered. The old woman tried to kowtow to him; he hurried to lift her up. "Madam, you do me too much honor. 'Treat your own elders as elders, and extend that respect to others' elders; treat your own young as young, and extend that care to others' young.' This is only what I owe."
One righteous deed after another spread by word of mouth, and the title "First Hero of the Western Sea" began to travel ahead of him. More and more long-suffering people sought him out, asking him to protect them, to help them seek justice.
Zhuge Yanwen gradually realized that one man's strength has its limits. He could save one, ten — but he could not save thousands.
To truly uproot the Fist Gang's power, it would take more people working together.
One day, while passing through "Pine Town" north of Spring Rain City, Zhuge Yanwen found a large crowd gathered at the town gate.
He pushed his way in to see a man in his early thirties tied to a wooden post, his body covered in wounds, his head still defiantly raised, glaring at the Fist Gang enforcers before him. A pinched-faced clerk-type was reading out his "crimes":
"Chen Lingyun, head of the West Town Escort Bureau, has dared to collude with pirates and smuggle contraband — a crime beyond pardon! By the joint decision of the Fist Gang and the town office, this man is hereby sentenced to have his martial arts crippled and to be exiled from Changfeng!"
"Nonsense!" the man Chen Lingyun roared. "Your Fist Gang wanted to swallow my escort bureau — I refused, so you framed me! Is there any law left?"
"Law?" The clerk laughed loud. "Here, the Fist Gang is the law!"
A fire kindled in Zhuge Yanwen's chest, and he was about to step in — when, suddenly, a young man burst out of the crowd. Short, plump, and quick-witted, perhaps in his early twenties, he came running breathlessly, sweat pouring down his face.
"B-big brother!" The young man rushed up to Zhuge Yanwen, gasping for breath. "I've… I've finally found you! My — my name is Liu San. I've heard so many stories about you, I admire you most of all! I came all this way today just to follow you!"
Zhuge Yanwen blinked, half laughing, half exasperated: "Now is not the time for this."
He turned to face the Fist Gang enforcers, his voice low and firm: "Release him."
The enforcers stared, then recognized him — wasn't this the "First Hero of the Western Sea"? They looked at each other; the leader steeled himself and spoke. "Hero… Hero Zhuge, this is Fist Gang business. You'd best not get involved."
Zhuge Yanwen wasted no more words. His figure flickered — he was at the wooden post in an instant, a single palm shattering the ropes. The enforcers had not yet reacted when he swept them all to the ground with a flick of his sleeve.
"See injustice on the road — give a roar; when it's time to act, act." Zhuge Yanwen patted his robe lightly. "Quick — let's go!"
Chen Lingyun struggled to his feet, gave him a grateful look, and followed him out of the town.
The three of them came to a quiet hillside, and Chen Lingyun clasped his hands in salute. "Chen Lingyun, at your service. I thank Hero Zhuge for saving my life! Those bastards framed me for piracy — but the truth is, they wanted my escort bureau and I refused, so they made up the charge to cripple me and seize my property!"
Zhuge Yanwen sighed. "The Fist Gang trample everywhere, commit every evil, and the common people suffer. One man's strength is limited. I have been looking for like-minded people to stand with me against them."
Chen Lingyun's eyes lit up. "If Hero Zhuge does not despise me, I would follow you! My martial arts are below yours, but I've trained over a decade in fist and foot, and I have a few loyal brothers under me. Better to follow you and do something worthwhile than be ground down by the Fist Gang!"
Zhuge Yanwen was delighted. "Excellent! 'Two minds united — their sharpness can cut metal.' From this day on, we are brothers!"
To the side, Liu San was hopping with impatience. "Big brother, big brother! What about me? I want to follow you too!"
Zhuge Yanwen looked at the round, earnest young man and could not help laughing. "All right — count you in too. But think carefully: walking this road with me means risking your life."
Liu San thumped his chest. "My martial arts aren't much, but at running errands and gathering news — I'm the best! Don't worry about me!"
The three looked at one another and laughed. In that moment, the heart of chivalry bound them tight.
From that day forward, Chen Lingyun became Thunderbolt Hall's deputy master — high in martial skill, upright in character, Zhuge Yanwen's right arm. And Liu San, with his quick mind and broad web of acquaintances, became Thunderbolt Hall's finest information scout.
The Changfeng Republic was, in name, a democracy — with a parliament, elections, an entire seemingly proper judicial system. But the Fist Gang secretly controlled every layer of local power. Corrupt officials needed votes, so the gang delivered them. Investigations had to happen, so the gang silenced the witnesses. More often, they simply went around the law entirely, using violence to monopolize nearly every underground industry — from gambling to drugs, from protection money to the black-fight markets — leaving nothing untouched.
The people suffered bitterly, but dared not speak their anger.
Zhuge Yanwen and his companions held their first meeting in an abandoned mountain shrine on the outskirts of Spring Rain City.
That night, the rain came down in torrents. Thunder rolled and lightning flashed — peal after peal of thunderbolts.
Outside the shrine, the wind howled; inside, a single oil lamp flickered and lit each face. Chen Lingyun, full of spirit, proposed: "Our organization should have a name worthy of it, don't you think?"
Liu San clapped his hands. "Big brother Zhuge takes chivalry as his calling, and his hand falls like a thunderbolt — why not call it Thunderbolt Hall?"
Zhuge Yanwen was silent for a moment, then smiled. "'Thunder startles heaven and earth — dragons and serpents rise from their hibernation.' Good — Thunderbolt Hall it is. May we be like this thunderbolt — striking open this dark, muddled age!"
Thunderbolt Hall was thus born.
Zhuge Yanwen stood at the shrine's door, gazing out at the pouring rain and the unbroken thunderbolts, and silently vowed —
From this day forward, may my brothers and I be like this thunderbolt —
illuminating the darkness, splitting the chaos!
Thunderbolt Hall's headquarters was set in an unremarkable side alley of Spring Rain City — outwardly an ordinary bookshop named the "Hidden Sword Pavilion." The back courtyard held a practice ground and hidden chambers, and below ground was a broad council hall: the "Hall of Noble Spirit."
In the Hall of Noble Spirit hung a great plaque, bearing four characters in bold, sweeping calligraphy: Haoran Zhengqi — "Vast Noble Spirit." That plaque had been written in the hand of Zhuge Yanwen's father Shi Yi, and had always hung in his study. After Shi Yi was killed, Zhuge Yanwen had returned in secret, slipping into Fist Gang territory at great risk, and carried the plaque away. He had kept it close ever since, his most precious possession.
Now the plaque hung in the most prominent place in the Hall of Noble Spirit, the spiritual emblem of Thunderbolt Hall. At every major undertaking, Zhuge Yanwen would gather his people beneath that plaque and weigh the decisions that would shake the Changfeng Republic's order.
Thunderbolt Hall was not a traditional sect. There was no strict master-disciple lineage, no requirement to formally take a master to enter. Zhuge Yanwen believed: "A person of noble spirit is worthy of being entrusted with the secret arts." Anyone of right heart, with ambition and courage, no matter their origin or background, could join Thunderbolt Hall — and he would teach them everything he knew, holding nothing back.
And so Thunderbolt Hall grew swiftly — from a few dozen at first, to a few hundred, then a few thousand.
Thunderbolt Hall's rise inevitably drew the Fist Gang's full attention.
By now, Jin Quan was no longer the simple killing enforcer of his early days. Through years of ruthlessness and overwhelming strength, he had climbed step by step to the top of the Fist Gang. The previous gang leader had perished in an "accident," and Jin Quan had naturally taken the leader's seat — becoming the most feared underworld lord in Spring Rain City, and indeed in the whole Changfeng Republic.
He sent men to test the waters more than once, looking for a deal with Thunderbolt Hall — at first, he tried to buy Zhuge Yanwen off with money.
"Old Zhuge," Jin Quan's man delivered the message through an intermediary, "our gang leader says — so long as Thunderbolt Hall is willing to cooperate with us, hand over thirty percent of your annual profits to the gang, and the Fist Gang will turn a blind eye. We could even cede some territory to you. It's a guaranteed deal, no risk."
Zhuge Yanwen refused on the spot. "'Wealth and rank cannot corrupt me; poverty and humility cannot move me; might and force cannot bend me.' My brothers do not oppress the people, and we will never join hands with evildoers."
Jin Quan, humiliated and furious, decided to meet this brash young man himself.
Their first true confrontation came at an underground fighting pit called the "Azure Dragon Arena."
That night, the Fist Gang had organized a black-fight contest, forcing more than a dozen captured young men from out of town to fight for their lives on the stage for the entertainment and betting of wealthy patrons. Zhuge Yanwen slipped into the audience, watching one bloody bout after another, and grew unbearably angry.
When a thin youth was beaten half to death and still the referee did not call a halt, Zhuge Yanwen could bear it no longer.
He leaped onto the stage and drove the fighter back with a single palm.
"You — !" Jin Quan stood up sharply below the stage, his face turning iron-grey.
Zhuge Yanwen looked around and called out clearly: "Zhuge Yanwen stands here today! Today, I will see this inhuman contest ended for good!"
Jin Quan gave a cold laugh, shed his outer robe to reveal a scarred torso, and strode onto the stage.
"Zhuge Yanwen, you and I were always going to have this fight!"
"So be it — let's have it now!"
Their first exchange shook the very air.
Jin Quan's attacks were ferocious beyond compare — every swing of his fist raised a gust of wind that lifted dust several feet from the ground. Zhuge Yanwen moved with the Moon-Stepping technique, palm-wind sharp as ice, white robes flying. He flickered across the stage like a startled bird.
Fifty exchanges, a hundred, two hundred…
The two went back and forth, neither able to take the other. Jin Quan's fist was heavy as a mountain, but he could not strike Zhuge Yanwen. Zhuge Yanwen's palm techniques were exquisite, but they could not breach Jin Quan's hardened iron-cloth body.
By the three-hundredth exchange, both retreated, panting hard.
Jin Quan wiped a thread of blood from his mouth and gave a savage grin. "Zhuge Yanwen — you really do have some skill!"
Zhuge Yanwen too was breathing hard, but stayed composed. "'A chess player has met his match; a general has encountered a worthy talent.' Jin Quan, you are not my equal, and I am not yours. But remember — evil shall not prevail over the upright."
Jin Quan snorted, and suddenly kicked the post at the edge of the stage. The whole structure collapsed with a roar! In the confusion, Fist Gang thugs seized the chance to spirit away the captured youths, and the enforcers closed in around Zhuge Yanwen.
Zhuge Yanwen saw there would be no clear victor that night. He leaped up and landed on a nearby rooftop.
"Jin Quan — today you got lucky! Another day, we fight again!"
Jin Quan watched him go. For the first time, a flicker of unease rose in his heart — this young man's martial arts were no less than his own, and he was more than ten years younger. Given time, he would only grow harder to handle.
In the years that followed, they crossed swords several more times.
The second meeting was on a barren mountain outside Spring Rain City. They fought from foothill to summit, from dusk to dawn — still no clear victor. Jin Quan's iron fists left deep craters in the rock; Zhuge Yanwen's palm-wind sheared half the mountain's trees. At last both ran out of strength and parted.
The third time, it was at the warehouses near the dock. They fought as they moved, smashing through three warehouses and rousing the constables. Neither wanted to bring trouble down on themselves, and both withdrew.
The fourth time, the fifth…
Every encounter was a fierce battle, and never once did either prevail. Jin Quan's fists grew heavier; Zhuge Yanwen's palm techniques grew finer — but they remained like weights on opposite ends of a scale, holding a delicate balance.
The townspeople grew used to it — whenever fighting was heard beyond the city walls, they knew that Hero Zhuge and Jin Quan were at it again. Over tea, people would gossip eagerly: "Who won this time?" The answer was always the same: "No one — they tied again."
Jin Quan ground his teeth with hate but could do nothing. He began to change his strategy — if he could not win head-on, he would resort to deceit.
Jin Quan began to leverage the Fist Gang's wealth and connections to crush Thunderbolt Hall from every direction.
He bribed officials to close down shops registered to Thunderbolt Hall. He sent men to spread rumors that Thunderbolt Hall was secretly just another criminal gang, that Zhuge Yanwen's righteousness was a sham. He even colluded with pirates, trying to intercept Thunderbolt Hall's supplies at sea.
Over a few years, Thunderbolt Hall lost many brothers, and the Fist Gang too took heavy losses. Liu San was once betrayed and beaten in the street, nearly crippled. Chen Lingyun, covering the withdrawal of several civilians fleeing Fist Gang harassment, was cornered, took seven blade wounds, and spent three months in recovery before barely returning to himself.
The deepest grief of all came when Chen Lingyun's wife was kidnapped by the Fist Gang to force him to give up Thunderbolt Hall's intelligence. Chen Lingyun would rather die than yield. His wife was cruelly killed. After that, the iron-spined man fell silent, often sitting alone on the roof, gazing into the distance.
Zhuge Yanwen sat with him without speaking — just sat quietly at his side.
A long time later, Chen Lingyun said softly: "Big brother, I want to go to sea for a while."
Zhuge Yanwen understood — he needed time to heal.
"Go," he said, clapping Chen Lingyun on the shoulder. "'The sea is wide — let the fish leap; the sky is high — let the birds fly.' I'll keep things here. When you come back, we'll stand together again."
The day Chen Lingyun left, Zhuge Yanwen stood on the dock and watched his ship until it slipped over the horizon into the open sea.
But he did not let his brother's departure dampen him; if anything, his resolve hardened.
He realized that taking blow after blow on the defensive was no way to win — he needed to strike first.
Zhuge Yanwen made inquiries everywhere, and at last found the Fist Gang's softest spot — a place called the "Tianle Gambling Hall."
The Tianle Gambling Hall was Jin Quan's most prized operation. It brought in a fortune every day and was the Fist Gang's largest source of income. Zhuge Yanwen made a plan overnight, led his men into the hall, and put its vault to the torch. The fire burned through the night, leaving the gambling hall unrecognizable, and dealing a heavy blow to the Fist Gang's economic foundation.
Jin Quan exploded in rage, but could only grind his teeth.
From then on, the hatred between the Fist Gang and Thunderbolt Hall ran deeper than ever, and the contest between the two forces heated up.
Time slipped by. The year Zhuge Yanwen turned thirty, Thunderbolt Hall's name was known throughout the Changfeng Republic.
The people of Spring Rain City spoke the words "Thunderbolt Hall" with a thumbs-up. They had grown used to it — when troubled, find Thunderbolt Hall. When wronged, find Thunderbolt Hall.
One day, while Zhuge Yanwen was practicing in the bookshop's back courtyard, Liu San came running in.
"Big brother! Big brother! The Fist Gang is making trouble at the docks again!"
Zhuge Yanwen wasted no words. He picked up his wooden sword and headed straight out, reciting as he went: "'Why does a young man not buckle on a Wu hook and reclaim the fifty provinces beyond the passes?' Come — let's go take a look!"
When he reached the dock with Liu San and a few brothers, he saw Fist Gang enforcers forcing the fishermen to sign an agreement — selling all the land beside the dock to a developer controlled by the Fist Gang, at an outrageously low price.
"This is robbery!" a fisherman shouted.
"Robbery?" The lead enforcer laughed. "This is called legitimate commerce! If you have a problem, you can take us to court — oh, I forgot, the judge is one of ours too. Sueing won't help you."
Zhuge Yanwen strode forward.
The lead enforcer saw him and his face changed. He instinctively stepped back, then collected himself. Relying on Jin Quan's backing, he even dared to shout: "Zhuge Yanwen! This is none of your business! Stay out!"
Zhuge Yanwen ignored him. He walked to the fishermen, exchanged a few quiet words, and understood the situation.
Then he turned to the lead enforcer, his voice level but commanding: "You have the time it takes to drink a cup of tea. Cancel that agreement. Then get out. From this day on, none of you set foot on this dock again."
"In your dreams!" the enforcer barked.
Zhuge Yanwen's face darkened. His sleeve stirred though there was no wind. A surge of vast noble spirit rose from within him — he seemed wrapped in sacred light.
"'Treat a man with the very method he uses on others.' Zhuge Yanwen apologizes in advance!"
Before the words faded, he flickered forward, appearing before the enforcer in an eyeblink. His palm struck the man's shoulder! With a sharp crack, the enforcer screamed, flew backward, and smashed a head-high hole in the wall behind him.
The other enforcers rushed in. Zhuge Yanwen's palms and fists moved with unstoppable rhythm — in a few moves, every one of them lay on the ground.
"Out!"
That single word rang through the whole dock like a thunderclap.
The Fist Gang's enforcers did not dare linger. They scrambled and tumbled away.
The fishermen cheered and crowded around Zhuge Yanwen, voices full of thanks. An old fisherman took his hand with shaking fingers, tears streaming down his face. "Hero Zhuge — you are our blue-sky lord! We poor folk have only you to speak for us!"
Zhuge Yanwen patted the old man's shoulder gently and answered with warmth: "Sir, you flatter me. 'Refuse not to do good simply because it seems small.' This is only what Thunderbolt Hall is for."
He was that kind of man — before his enemies, a god of judgment who showed no mercy; before the common people, a gentleman as smooth as polished jade. He couldn't open his mouth without quoting some classic, his speech was a touch literary — and somehow, that made him only more dear to them.
Jin Quan could endure it no longer.
He led the Fist Gang's sixty-four most elite fighters in person and surrounded the Hidden Sword Pavilion — Thunderbolt Hall's headquarters.
"Zhuge Yanwen! Get out here!" Jin Quan stood in the street, his voice like rolling thunder.
The bookshop's door opened slowly. Zhuge Yanwen, in white robes, wooden sword in hand, walked out alone.
"Jin Quan — 'Better to resolve enmities than to deepen them.' The score between us should be settled today."
"Exactly!" Jin Quan drew the heavy iron blade slung across his back. "Today, either you die, or I do!"
They each stepped back several paces and faced each other.
On both sides of the street, the two factions' men stood ready, weapons at the brink.
This was their seventh meeting.
Jin Quan swung his blade down! That single strike carried the force of ten thousand pounds — before the edge arrived, the howling wind of it had ripped the banners along the road. Zhuge Yanwen turned with the motion. His wooden sword tapped the blade lightly, deflecting the strike with skill.
Back and forth they went. In an instant, dozens of exchanges flew between them.
Every blow of Jin Quan's blade was thunderous; the buildings on either side took crater after crater. Zhuge Yanwen wove through with the Moon-Stepping technique, his form light as smoke, white robes like snow — moving as calmly through the ruins as if strolling a garden.
A hundred, two hundred, three hundred exchanges…
They fought to a draw — neither could gain the upper hand. Jin Quan's iron blade severed three pillars. Zhuge Yanwen's wooden sword left over a dozen shallow blood marks on Jin Quan — none deep enough to settle the matter.
By the five-hundredth exchange, they both retreated, panting hard.
Jin Quan gasped, his voice full of hate: "Zhuge Yanwen — you… you damned scholar!"
Zhuge Yanwen too breathed hard, but his manner stayed composed. "'Since ancient times, all must die; but no state can stand without the people's trust.' Jin Quan, your fists may be heavy — they cannot crush the people's hearts. Today, you cannot defeat me, and I cannot defeat you. Shall we both withdraw a step?"
Jin Quan ground his teeth, but in the end sheathed his iron blade.
"Zhuge Yanwen — today you got lucky! But don't get cocky. One day, I'll kill you with my own hands."
"'The green mountains never change; the clear waters flow forever.' Leader Jin — until we meet again."
Jin Quan waved his hand and led his people away.
Zhuge Yanwen watched his retreating back and gave a soft sigh. He knew this battle was far from finished. Jin Quan's ambition, the Fist Gang's power — these could not be uprooted in a day, or a year.
But he did not despair.
For he believed: justice may arrive late — it never fails to come.
In the years that followed, Zhuge Yanwen's name traveled across the whole Western Sea.
From the Changfeng Republic to Qingzhou, from Qingzhou to waters farther still, the oppressed — common people, sea merchants, fishermen — came in search of Thunderbolt Hall's protection. But though he had founded the hall, he never made himself out as its lord. He continued to walk the rivers and lakes as he had as a young wanderer, righting wrongs.
He was always dressed in snow-white silk, his hair bound by a silver-white circlet — gentle, refined, graceful in bearing. Every appearance was accompanied by a chant clear as the moon, leisurely as poetry —
"Blue sea, wild waves, a lone boat sailing far —
Sword shadows and long songs breaking through the surf!"
"When life goes well, one must drink one's fill of joy —
Why cling to the line between living and dying?"
His verse-mottos traveled across the Western Sea and became fireside talk for the common folk. In teahouses, old men sipped their wine and waved their fans and told their grandchildren the tales of Hero Zhuge. The stories grew more wondrous in the telling — and rooted themselves all the deeper in the people's hearts.
Chen Lingyun returned later from the sea, his grief eased, and rejoined Thunderbolt Hall as Zhuge Yanwen's most trusted right hand. Liu San, once a green young man, grew into Thunderbolt Hall's indispensable intelligence chief.
And those he had helped — they carried his story quietly with them.
For instance, a young woman of Qingzhou named Lin Wanying — who would later set out on her own road to seek the truth — was given by her master, Elder Zhou Tianhuan, the name of someone she could turn to: Liu Wenzhou. And the reason Liu Wenzhou himself had landed at the Scholar Academy was tied to Zhuge Yanwen as well. In his early years, Liu Wenzhou had traveled the Changfeng Republic, and in a fierce storm had nearly died — only to be rescued by Zhuge Yanwen. The two found common spirit at once. They talked of classics and histories, of astronomy and geography, and from that meeting forged a deep friendship that would last their lives.
And the same stories were quietly being lived in many other places. Thunderbolt Hall's banner was lifted high above the Western Sea, snapping in the wind.
Many years later, in the light of a setting sun, Zhuge Yanwen sat alone in the back courtyard of the Hidden Sword Pavilion, quietly stroking the Jade of Benevolent Heart.
The sunset glow had dyed Spring Rain City red. From the docks came the noise of fishermen returning home; from a distance came the laughter of children at play.
Liu San came over, saw him lost in thought, and could not help asking: "Big brother, what are you thinking about?"
"Nothing," Zhuge Yanwen said with a small smile. "Just remembering what my foster father said the night he died — 'Justice may arrive late — it never fails to come.'"
He paused, looking into the distance. "Maybe Thunderbolt Hall is that justice — late, but arrived."
Liu San laughed out loud. "Big brother, you're not 'late' justice. You're —"
"What am I?" Zhuge Yanwen raised an eyebrow.
"You are the thunderbolt itself — the first light that splits open the dark!"
Zhuge Yanwen blinked, then burst out laughing. His laughter was clear and bright, and startled several egrets from the trees of the back courtyard.
He stood up and looked at the evening clouds on the horizon, then quietly recited:
"Ten years polishing a single sword,
The frost-cold edge never tried.
Today I show it to you —
Who carries injustice unaddressed?"
Yes.
He was the Lord of Thunderbolt Hall, the First Hero of the Western Sea, the guardian in countless people's hearts.
But more than any of that, he was an orphan from a dark alley, a child who had lost his foster father, an ordinary man sworn to bring light to this land.
He had never forgotten —
"Benevolence as my heart, righteousness as my courage,
the Confucian way as my bone, the knightly way as my sword."
No matter how the world turned, these sixteen characters — he carried with him, unmoved, to the end.
(End)