Not wanting to appear strange in the eyes of his employers and fellow mercenaries, he had given up his usual morning runs, replacing them with other endurance exercises. Zhang Min performed jumps that flowed smoothly into push-ups. First, he dropped into a push-up position, did one rep, then sprang back onto his feet and jumped upward, only to repeat it all again. Even in the shade the heat was oppressive, sweat poured down his body in streams, and his skin turned red from the effort.

  A mercenary passing by shook his head disapprovingly.

  “Why torment yourself like this? Take a rest, have a drink. All this nonsense is for the young. No need to work so hard. The pay’s the same either way.”

  “Hmph,” Zhang Min grunted, not breaking his rhythm.

  “Tch. Stubborn man. I’m telling you, it’s pointless. You should’ve started earlier. You’re already too old, and no matter how hard you try, it won’t matter. You missed your chance.”

  “We’ll… see about that! Huff… puff…” Zhang Min turned toward him, eyes flashing.

  The strain left him slightly unsteady, and his lungs struggled for air, yet everything about him radiated a refusal to accept his fate. An invisible aura of iron will seemed to surround this unremarkable man.

  “Ho,” the mercenary recoiled slightly. “Well, suit yourself…” He was about to leave, but then paused, adding another piece of advice:

  “You should get some medicinal herbs or elixirs. Expensive, yes, but they’d definitely help.”

  “Mm,” Zhang Min muttered, already tuning him out as he launched into another set.

  The rest of his stay in Cloud City passed in the same rhythm: grueling morning training sessions, followed by awkward attempts to coax the meaning of a few characters out of the literate mercenaries.

  After four days, the merchants of the Zhao household set out on the return journey to Baohe. They seized every opportunity for profit and would never have gone back empty-handed. The horses plodded steadily, pulling the heavy carts laden with goods, while the guards kept a vigilant watch on their surroundings. Among them walked Zhang Min, glad to be returning home, though he did not yet realize that the shabby hut and the two little girls had become his home.

  They followed the same route across the river ferry, but this time traveled alongside another merchant caravan belonging to the Fire Tiger escort agency. To everyone’s surprise, not a single bandit from the Earth Dragon fortress appeared at the old spot. Only rickety huts on the edge of the forest stood abandoned, the wind whistling through them, and the ragged men with weapons had vanished without a trace.

  “Cowardly beasts,” one of the stablehands snorted.

  After another seven days they safely passed through Baohe’s city gates. Upon arrival at the Zhao estate, the steward paid off the mercenaries. To their delight, the sum slightly exceeded what was promised. Everyone was satisfied, even the merchants beamed with wide smiles.

  With his pay in hand, Zhang Min left his battle-companions and headed straight home. For slum standards, the earnings were extraordinary, tugging at his pocket and filling his heart with warmth. After the bloody clash during the campaign, he no longer feared thieves or robbers. Unlike last time, he didn’t sprint down the street hiding his purse, but walked calmly, one hand resting on his sword hilt.

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  Familiar shops, houses, and fences of his district appeared. Merchants greeted him, offered wares. He smiled politely, waved back, and promised to stop by another day. In Baohe, people placed great value on personal ties and connections, so he often had to spend a little time on greetings. Then, with unease, he turned onto his street, his heartbeat quickening. Before his eyes rose the image of two mud-streaked girls waiting for him outside the house, but no one was there.

  “Again? Are you kidding me?” Zhang Min quickened his pace, brows drawing together.

  Reaching the door, he flung it open and stepped inside. Empty. The hearth was cold, and in the corner lay an empty rice sack. The old floorboards creaked underfoot as he picked it up, then scanned the room carefully. No signs of intrusion or disorder. The rice had simply been eaten by the children, which meant nothing bad had happened.

  Throwing the sack over his shoulder, he decided to visit the shops to restock and buy some meat. He wanted to celebrate his return with a special dish. But just as he reached the door, it swung open on its own and there stood two little girls, eyes brimming with tears. Seeing Xue and Mingzhu safe and sound lifted a stone from his chest.

  “Hello,” he said with a smile. “How have you been?”

  Zhang Min slowly raised his hands and placed his calloused palms on the girls’ heads. This time they did not flinch or draw back, but suddenly burst into tears. Streams rolled down their dirty cheeks. Mingzhu clutched his sleeve just as he was about to pull his hands away, startled by their reaction.

  “Eh? What’s wrong with you?” Zhang Min stammered. “Um… Shall we eat? Do we have any rice left?”

  Sniffling, the elder Xue ran past him across the room, overturned a basket by the wall, and nimbly climbed onto it. From a beam under the ceiling she pulled down a thin little pouch of rice. With it in her hands she came to her father and stared up at him expectantly, as if awaiting instructions.

  “Too little,” he said. “Let’s go to the shops. We’ll buy food. We’ll feast! Celebrate my return! Damn it!”

  “Mm-hmm,” Xue nodded briskly, putting the pouch back in place.

  They look like they’re smiling. Oh. I don’t understand children, Zhang Min eyed them warily. They seem happy to see me… so why were they crying?

  Together with his daughters he visited the butcher and bought a fine cut of pork ribs, then stopped at a vegetable seller for carrots, onions, and more. He added a whole catty of raw rice, and, for the special occasion, fresh dried tea leaves. That evening, instead of plain water, he planned to treat the girls to tea. To bring out the drink’s rich flavor, he even splurged on a tiny jar of honey that shimmered like amber.

  On the way back from the market, a new metal cooking pot with handles caught his eye, the one he’d long dreamed of, and he bought it at once, along with a set of tea cups. Back home, Zhang Min prepared a fragrant curry, and the three of them ate their fill. After supper the girls sipped honeyed tea, eyes squinting with delight.

  “I have a gift for you,” he said mysteriously, reaching into his travel bag. He pulled out two daggers in beautiful sheaths and a book with pictures. The children’s eyes sparkled like gems as they held presents for the first time in their lives. Tears welled up again.

  “Ahem. The daggers are sharp, don’t cut yourselves. And take care of the book,” Zhang Min warned. “No getting it wet or dirty. Wash your hands and dry them before looking through it.”

  “Mm-hmm!” the sisters nodded in unison.

  The rest of the evening, Zhang Min taught them how to safely draw the daggers from the sheath, return them, maintain, and clean them. To a modern person, the idea of giving children weapons might seem insane, but in his eyes, it was better they grew familiar from an early age. This world was harsh to the defenseless and weak, yet kind to the strong and ruthless. If he knew how to wield such a weapon himself, he would, without doubt, train his daughters to use it for defense.