The rest of the route, Zhang Ming looked for ways to stand out from the gray mass of mercenaries, to win the favor of the clan’s people, but flattering warriors or merchants felt too obvious, and likely to produce the opposite effect. Instead, he tried making connections among the servants, offering help with simple chores. Sooner or later, he'd have reason to appear in the Tsanyan Clan's camp, and find a sociable martial arts practitioner.

  On the long, exhausting march, an extra pair of hands was always needed, and soon enough he got his chance to prove himself. One of the wagon’s axles cracked under heavy load. While the wheelwrights repaired the wheel, the crates had to be redistributed among porters and mercenaries. Zhang Min volunteered. For the next two days, stooped under a heavy crate, he trudged under the burning sun, the ropes biting into his shoulders.

  Dust rose in clouds under hundreds of feet, mingling with sweat that stuck to his face. The air above the road shimmered with heat, blurring the distance like a mirage. His back felt ready to break, his legs burned, salty streams of sweat blinded his eyes, but he clenched his teeth and kept going, hearing from behind the encouraging shouts of the driver.

  “Hang in there! Don’t lag behind! You look like a durable man, even if you’re thin in appearance! Ha!”

  Temporarily returned to porter work, he earned the prized entry into the Tsanyan Clan camp, but he didn’t rush in with questions like an annoying fly. Instead, Zhang Ming calmly did his work, watched people, listened to conversations around him. Thanks to his natural friendliness, he quickly struck up a rapport with an ever‐busy groom, and through him the plump assistant to the chief merchant.

  Their talk spun around grain prices, the endurance of fine steeds, and the virtues of certain smiths whose blades “don’t bend or chip even in the hottest clash.” When, in a village, the damaged wagon was finally replaced, and the crate lifted off his shoulders, the formal reason to help was gone, but the useful connections remained, like invisible threads.

  After nine long, excruciating days, the caravan finally reached its destination. Two days were granted for unloading goods, caring for exhausted horses, and brief rest. The clan’s warriors were settled in the cool tavern; mercenaries, as expected, were assigned to the stable’s hayloft, no one protested. Most of them came from the lowest rungs of society and were used to that kind of treatment. Despite savage fatigue and eyes sticking shut, Zhang Ming helped with horses and merchandise, eager to appear again before the Clan folk.

  A bit humiliating, but pride won’t fill your belly. Gotta endure, he sighed, returning to his sleeping spot in the stable, where the sharp smell of straw, horses, and manure clung to everything. Made links with the clan. Half the job done.

  Only when he, groaning, collapsed face–first into fragrant hay did his body realize how much fatigue had piled up over those days. Every muscle, every bone throbbed with its own pain. His legs were swollen and pulsing; his back refused to straighten. He was sick to death of tramping along dusty roads under a relentless sun with nothing but one short break; the thought of the return trip brought almost physical agony. Though the local scenery was lovely, a dog-tired man had no heart for beauty.

  He fell asleep almost immediately and slept like the dead until late morning.

  “Phew… it stinks like manure,” Zhang Ming snorted, sitting on his straw bed, stretching until his joints cracked. “Two days rest ahead and a pile of chores. At least I slept!”

  After a modest breakfast of rice and a boiled egg, he made his way back to the stable. Hands were still short, so Zhang Ming’s help came in handy. He lugged buckets of water, tended the horses, brushed them until they shone, or raked hay. The grooms thanked him sincerely for help, and the Clan warriors who dropped by to inspect mounts looked at him with a bit less contempt than before. One gray-bearded veteran even shared a story from his past: how he, too, once worked in the stable.

  "Haha! ...and then she kicked me! Can you imagine? Haha!" he laughed, stroking his beard. "But my skull's tough. Didn't even leave a scar."

  “That’s good!” Zhang Ming nodded politely. “And thanks for the tip about holding the sword.”

  “Oh, this and that,” the warrior waved him off, starting to turn away. “Ah! By the way! You’ll get paid more… for helping out. Elder Wei Fan ordered to add extra for your extra work. Keep it up!”

  “Thank you!” Zhang Ming bowed respectfully.

  Towards evening, when the day’s heat softened, the mercenaries gathered in the spacious courtyard of the tavern, drinking wine, playing mahjong, talking, and those wanting to sharpen their skills set up bouts to exchange techniques. One could hear dull thuds of wooden training swords, cheers from onlookers.

  “Watch your distance!”

  “Don’t just swing with your arm! Put your weight into it!”

  Zhang Ming couldn’t pass up the chance to test himself, and joined in the fun. Wanting to gauge how far his strength could go, he entered several unarmed fights, “unarmed” in name, but brutal all the same. Former dock porter, he fought fiercely and mercilessly against himself; when one fight ended, without hesitation he stepped into the next, until he was spent and blood from a smashed nose soaked his tunic.

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  After a short break, he wanted to try a duel with wooden swords and finally see what it meant to face someone with a weapon. Dust kicked up in the air, gilded by the setting sun, mixed with the stink of cheap wine, dirty clothes, fried mutton. With the wooden sword in his hand, Zhang Min stepped into the center of the courtyard, where tramped-down earth served well for duels.

  “Hey, Xinjue! Give this scrawny guy a lesson?” someone from the crowd shouted, and everyone burst laughing.

  “Nah, let the Big Guy Liu try. He needs the experience!”

  His opponent was another novice, a big burly fellow, face freckled, greasy hair tied sloppily. The wooden sword in his hands looked less like a weapon than a heavy stick.

  About twenty mercenaries surrounded them. Some sat on barrels, letting the last rays of sun warm their faces; others leaned against walls. Most clustered around the makeshift arena, eyes keen. Two among them gathered bets, knocking coins against rough palms.

  “Three copper on Freckled! He looks more solid!”

  “Ha! I’ll take odds that Big Guy Liu tires fast!”

  Zhang Ming barely heard them. He focused on the fight ahead. First time with a sword, or any weapon really. After a few fights, he’d gotten used to it and almost didn’t tremble, even looked forward to the clash. He wiped his sweaty palms on his tattered clothes so the hastily carved wooden blade wouldn’t slip at the worst moment.

  “Come on already, enough standing around!” someone yelled, which served as a signal to begin.

  Big Guy Liu roared and charged, swinging his wooden sword like a club. The blow was heavy but awkward. The weapon whistled as Zhang Ming stepped back, just barely avoiding the slash. He immediately countered. His first ever sword strike was quick, but predictable. Liu blocked with his stick, and wood met wood with a dull thud. The vibration shot up into Zhang Ming’s fingers painfully, but he gripped tighter.

  Several monotonous clashes showed the inexperience and over-caution of both fighters. Before long the fight turned into a grinding, primitive brawl. No elegance. No technique. Just raw force versus fragile endurance. Wooden weapons crashed, recoiled, then smashed again.

  Dust swirled up from under feet, settling thickly on their sweating faces, mingling with sweat streaming in dirty rivulets. Liu’s long, greasy hair swung like a broom, whipping his face and slinging sweat around.

  Zhang Ming breathed through his mouth like a fish on shore. The muscles in his arms and back ached with fatigue, begging for mercy. He no longer thought of victory, only of staying upright and not taking a heavy stick to the face. But from one heavy, clumsy lunge by Liu, his tired legs buckled, and his body collapsed to the earth, sending up a cloud of dust. Copper and dirt filled his mouth.

  “Get up, mercenary! The fight isn’t over!” shouted a wheezy voice. “Someone bet on you.”

  Gasping, Zhang Ming rolled to one side and hauled himself up from the ground. His arms trembled. His pitiful attempt at a battle stance nearly fell apart. Liu, worn out and caked in dust too, looked at him not with rage, but with some dull surprise.

  They clashed again, then again. In the final, desperate attempt to finish the fight, Zhang Ming lunged forward. His strike, at last, landed, smacked Liu on the neck. Liu gasped in pain, but didn’t recover in time before Zhang Ming, carried by his own momentum, crashed into him, and they both fell to the ground. For a second there was silence, then the courtyard exploded with laughter and approving shouts.

  “A draw! Both good!”

  “What stiff-necked stubbornness! This is just warm-up, you fools! You take it too seriously!”

  “What about bets?”

  Zhang Min lay on his back, unable to move, staring up at the slowly darkening sky. His whole body throbbed; every muscle cried in silent protest. But somewhere deep down, under layers of pain and fatigue, a spark of satisfaction burned. Zhang Ming returned to the stable beaten, but content with the training.

  Six fights, once with wooden swords. Took as many hits… ahem, he summed up through drowsy haze, But I know now how to survive. I need a shield! Why does nobody here use shields? Pride won’t let them? And it’d help against arrows too… hrr…

  In the morning, his whole body ached, creaked like an old cart, but he didn’t regret a thing. Just one night, and his weapon skill and sense of battle rose to a new level. After a light warm-up that made him crack his teeth, and a hearty breakfast, his strength came back, and despite all the bruises, he carried on with caring for the horses.

  “Ha-ha-ha! What a mug you’ve got!” the bearded warrior exclaimed, peering into the stable again. “Mercenaries never change! Always fighting. Ha-ha! Next time … use your fists, not your face … Ha-ha-ha!”

  “You just didn’t see my opponents. They got worse off!” Zhang Ming retorted proudly.

  “Ha-ha! I believe it, I believe.”

  “I’ve still got a lot to learn, but I’m not hopeless. It’s just hard for people like me to learn martial arts.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “For example, if I got a training method in my hands, I can’t even tell whether it's good or just trash.”

  “You found something?”

  “Kind of. An old scroll. Looks like martial art, but who knows.”

  “Oh! Show it, then. I’ve seen many methods and schools.”

  “Sure,” Zhang Min pulled the scroll from beneath his rough tunic.

  “Hm. This isn’t martial art per se—it’s a body-tempering and breathing method,” the warrior said, inspecting the drawings. “Nothing special.”

  “Seriously? It looks like some weird dance.”

  “Ha-ha-ha! Where’d you see dances like that?” the bearded man roared with laughter. “All the same, you got yourself a fine thing. Lucky you. These exercises will harden your muscles, bones, increase inner Qi energy. You’ll grow stronger than an average man even without martial techniques.”

  “Lucky? Nothing here makes sense! How do I train?”

  “Ha-ha-ha! Did you fall off a mountain? Not knowing anything. Though maybe an ordinary man wouldn’t feel it? ” the warrior stroked his beard. “This scroll has a secret.”

  “What secret?” Zhang Ming’s eyes shone; the value of the apparently worthless “woodchip” climbed before him.

  “The scroll is wrapped around a wooden core two fingers thick. The real art lies in it, and the pictures are just so you don’t forget what’s inside.”

  Zhang Ming stared at the warrior, blinking in confusion. The spoken phrase made no sense to him. A vessel for information like an old chunk of wood didn't exist. Risky speculations raced through his mind about where exactly to insert the scroll to learn its contents.