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Insider knowledge to support compelling translations of China's online game revolution.
Account type
Freelance translator and/or interpreter
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Translation - English One day, in a fierce wind, Li’s cap was blown from his head. The four Admantine Guards, normally stuck fast to Li’s side, simultaneously gave chase. Li’s eyes were fixed on his cap, blowing away into the distance.
It was a moment when everyone’s attention was directed elsewhere; a moment so brief that no one could possibly make use of it; a moment of negligence that no one believed should justify any concern.
It was in that moment that Meng Xinghun charged forward with a diagonal thrust of his sword: a single thrust that entered Li’s neck from the left rear, pierced an artery, and exited through the right side of his esophagus.
Meng had the sword free in an instant, spraying a mist of fresh blood in all directions. The gory haze obscured the vision of the guards, while the glint of his blade etched streaks of doubt in their hearts. By the time the blood settled to the ground, Meng Xinghun was already 30 yards away.
It was nearly impossible to describe the speed of his steps, much less the speed of his blade.
It is said that when Li’s body was laid into its coffin, his eyes remained fixed in a stare of denial and disbelief: Denial that he, too, was mortal, and disbelief that there was any man capable of killing him.
News of Li’s death was on the stunned lips of one and all, but the name Meng Xinghun remained unspoken, for no one knew whose sword had dealt the lethal blow. Some swore oaths to find the assassin and avenge Li’s death. Some swore oaths to find their saviour and kneel before him, kiss his feet, and thank him for ridding the Rivers and Lakes of this vile scourge. There were also young swordsmen looking to make their marks, who took up the search, if only to challenge the killer to a duel and prove who had the quicker blade. Meng Xinghun gave none of them any notice.
After the killing he had run back to crouch in the corner of his lonely wooden cabin. He vomited with tears streaming from his eyes.
Now, he no longer cried; he had no tears left. But whenever he saw the fresh blood of his latest kill clinging to his sword, he could not help returning to that corner, guts heaving. Before a kill he was completely calm; the epitome of quiescence. After a kill he lost even the least shred of self-possession.
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Translation education
Master's degree - University of California Santa Barbara
Experience
Years of experience: 16. Registered at ProZ.com: Apr 2010.
My career has careened its way through the disparate spheres of computer game development, language teaching and the intensive study of Chinese culture. I am a former game programmer, an avid gamer in both English and Chinese, and a fan of both popular and classical Chinese literature. My goal is to be a instrumental figure in bringing the best of Chinese pop culture to the western world.
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