In the slums of Baohe city a tired, exhausted thief was catching his breath. All day he’d chased two little girls who had shiny coins in their hands, but drained of his already scant strength, gained nothing, spat, and staggered off to the tavern. His attempts to catch the two sisters had failed for days now.

  “Daddy clearly left them money, since they have enough energy to run so spryly,” he complained to a friend. “You little bitches! Why not share the coins with Uncle? I need them more!”

  “Didn’t you hear? The last ones who tried to mess with the girls almost went to meet their ancestors,” his companion shook his head. “Aren’t you afraid of being beaten when daddy returns?”

  “Ah! That idiot! He’s become a mercenary. So he’ll die soon anyway,” the thief shrugged, “Besides, I’ve known that useless weakling a long time. Beat his face once myself. So all those rumors are just rumor. He probably spreads them himself.”

  “Rumor or not, I’m not getting involved. If he doesn’t come back, then we’ll talk. Otherwise I won’t agree. He definitely has a sword, I saw it myself.”

  “Money walks the streets, but we can’t take it? And those two little girls must be worth something. Don’t you feel sorry for them? In a brothel they’ll be better off. They’ll feed them well. Think of us helping them.”

  Meanwhile the Zhao household’s trader caravan arrived safely at the City of Clouds; the goods remained intact, and the merchants were unharmed. Everything else didn’t matter much. Because they’d lost part of their guard, the caravan leader decided to stay a while longer and strengthen forces; he wasn’t sure another attack might not happen. Warriors belonging to House Zhao lodged at an inn by tradition, while the mercenaries were left in the stables. Those who could pay extra were also given rooms.

  Since Zhang Min was used to unadorned life and even the smell of manure, he decided not to spend money and sleep on hay for several days. Left to himself, he visited several shopkeepers and sold all the bandits’ jewelry and weapons, keeping only the leather bracers, the herbalist’s little book, and the two daggers with sheaths as gifts for the children.

  “Probably the little ones don’t know how to read. That little book would be very useful to them,” Zhang Min mused.

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Thanks to inherited memories from the previous body’s owner, he recognized some characters, but that knowledge was only enough to read the tavern signs. Zhang Min wanted to learn literacy and teach his girls. In his view education opened doors into a huge world, much bigger than a person could see with their own eyes in a lifetime.

  “Maybe there’s a bookstore or something here?”

  Compared to his native Baohe, the City of Clouds looked more prosperous. On both sides of wide streets—wide enough for four wagons to pass side by side—luxurious shops with varied goods glimmered in display windows. Crowds bustled around: some hurried on their way, others strolling slowly; voices rose from everywhere, the clatter of wheels on cobblestones or the clop of horse hooves. Everything merged into the unique hum of a lively city. Bright colors of clothing, wagons, signs filled him with energy and made his head turn involuntarily.

  After long searches and questioning locals, Zhang Min found a shop selling books and scrolls, but they were expensive, and from them he could not understand even one-tenth of what was written. Locals didn’t use a familiar convenient alphabet, but mechanically memorized thousands of characters. To him, a person of another culture, such a system seemed far too complex, especially for self-learning.

  Without a teacher it’s impossible to figure this out! sighed Zhang Min. I hope in Baohe there’s a poor ruined scholar who’ll teach me and the girls for a modest fee.

  “Oh! Honored one, do you have books on martial arts?” he asked the shopkeeper before leaving.

  “What exactly are you interested in?”

  “Martial art of swordsmanship, for instance, or fist-fight. I need a practical guide.”

  “We don’t sell techniques. However! We have many biographies of great warriors, also stories of their adventures. Some romantic in nature, if you know what I mean.”

  “Do you by chance know where to get them?” Zhang Min pressed.

  “Well…not sure…", the shopkeeper looked away thoughtfully. “I’ll have to think about it.”

  “Eh,” he laid ten bronze coins on the counter. “Remembered?”

  “Ahem.”

  “Another ten! Speak up already!” Zhang Min began to get angry.

  “Black market,” the shopkeeper conceded, “I’ll show you how to find it.”

  “Some great secret, huh!” muttered Zhang Min, heading toward the so-called black market. “What makes that place different from any other cluster of traders, that they call it ‘black’? Just a smoke screen.”

  After two hours he returned to the stable completely disappointed. Indeed, scrolls on martial arts were sold at the market, but their price far exceeded his means. Of course, the idea occurred to him to save up and later buy one, but after examining a number of scrolls and little books he could not determine their authenticity. The sets of movements in the pictures looked realistic, yet they might be a waste of money.

  “Curse it! I need to learn to read! I didn’t understand a damn thing from those stupid illustrations!” Zhang Min complained, stretching before training.