With great effort restoring his breath and not spotting anyone suspicious around, he emerged from his hideout, just in case crawling noiselessly on all fours along the narrow lane along a ditch of waste to his home. Entering inside, he firmly closed the door, glanced out the window several times, surveying the vicinity, and only then calmed down. By the light of the hearth, he laid out all his trophies before him: five silver coins, an earring of unknown metal, an old sword, and a scroll.
Not a lot. Doubt anyone will even miss this stuff. A pretty lousy first robbery, if you ask me, disappointed, he clicked his tongue. I doubt they're worth much.
The scroll, a palm's length and two fingers thick, looked pitiful, like an ordinary roll of paper wrapped around a battered wooden stick. Unrolling it, Zhang Ming saw many pictures drawn by a very inept artist. They showed crooked figures of people performing martial arts moves or some very peculiar dance. The inscriptions under them and other explanations were made by someone obviously incapable of expressing thoughts properly. The only line that made even a little sense stood instead of a title and read—"Diligent Effort Is Rewarded."
Hm. Looks like a fake. For all my wishing, I can't learn anything from it. I hope not all manuals are this pitiful, Zhang Ming shook his head. Still, it might be worth something. First, I'll find out its exact price.
The most valuable trophy appeared to be the sword with its sheath. Despite the worn wooden hilt, the blade had not a single chip or deep scratch. A simple-looking weapon, crafted conscientiously by a smith and well-maintained by its owner. Judging by the tattered sheath, the sword had a long, hard history. A dock porter would save for years for such a weapon, and here it fell right into his hand.
Maybe the universe itself is hinting at a career change. I'm sick of hauling others' goods for pennies. Fed up with it. A bit more of this life, and I'll climb the walls, he thought, pulling the blade from its sheath. Selling stolen goods right away is dangerous. Pawn shops are run by bandits too. They might recognize their own stuff.
Every day, dragging his weary body home, he pondered various ways to earn money, but this new world offered meager choices for a commoner with a bad reputation. A farmer's labor here resembled lifelong grim drudgery, with low income. Meticulous artisan work didn't suit his nature. Zhang Ming couldn't picture himself as a carpenter, mason, or blacksmith. Moreover, learning a trade took too long, and apprentices got paid peanuts.
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
Ordinary city residents barely made ends meet. Their lives were worth nothing; for every worker who died, another replaced him, so no one planned to pay honestly for their labor. Many commoners lived in an endless attempt to save money and died penniless. For the same reason, Zhang Ming wasn't rushing to introduce inventions from his old world. Leaving aside material costs, his labor could simply be stolen, and himself killed.
Trade seemed the most appealing, but a serious business required investing decent funds, knowing the market, routes, and at least some grasp of the world. Zhang Ming couldn't boast of any of that, as he still only vaguely understood where he'd ended up. Petty trading allowed survival but not wealth. Stall owners or peddlers often suffered from unfair extortions by guards or officials.
War brings the most money. Accumulate startup capital by wading through rivers of blood and risking your life, he mused, running his fingers along the cold blade's surface. Terrifying to take it on, but better than working as a porter till the end of my days. Better to die... Bandits, mercenaries, soldiers... Who else?
A robber's career didn't appeal to him. Mingling with the scum, thieves, and other trash held no desire for him. The thought of calling some idiot and sadist boss made Zhang Ming nauseous. In these parts, he hadn't met a single noble or even decent bandit who knew basic hygiene rules. Many were missing most of their teeth, and others had no decent pants.
Mercenaries were different. They weren't elite, of course, but earned more, and no rewards were posted for their heads. Merchants often hired guards for caravans and paid well, and clans engaged in escorting constantly needed new people. Although warriors often died in skirmishes, survivors got substantial rewards.
I'm sick of eating just rice. I want meat! I want to eat three times a day! he thought, swinging the sword in the air. They pay well for risk, and you can die here just walking the streets on some random whim. Mercenaries travel a lot. I'll see the world, learn something. Maybe I'll think up my own lucrative venture. Decided!
After he acquired the weapon, the girls, who had somewhat grown bolder recently, began avoiding their father again, but judging by the dwindling rice sack, the disappearing dried fruits and vegetables, they ate regularly and were home often. He even thought the kids had gained a bit of weight, otherwise, they bore too strong a resemblance to tiny skeletons.
He still hadn't decided what to do with them; deep down, the prospect of constantly caring for two children while he could barely care for himself frightened him. However, his conscience wouldn't let him just get rid of them. Fortunately, the girls grew on their own, appeared rarely, and even sometimes washed clothes, which greatly eased his life. Zhang Ming decided to leave things as they were for now.
A more immediate problem arose. He wasn't fit for mercenary work, or rather, his body’s condition left much to be desired. From old Zhang Ming's memories, soldiers were mostly recruited for cargo escort, but they weren't given horses, of course. Mercenaries had to cover long distances on foot, and he currently wouldn't have the strength to walk from home to the dock without gasping. For future work, he decided to get himself in shape.
