A multitude of loaded carts had gathered in front of the Tsanyan Clan's residence. Merchants bustled from one to another, diligently inspecting the bundles of goods. Nearby, porters, grooms, and other servants scurried about. Warriors stood in two neat rows, holding horses by the reins, with banners emblazoned with the clan's symbols fluttering overhead. A short distance away, plainly dressed men armed with weapons clustered together, while a man in a long robe recorded their names.

  "All mercenaries heading with us, gather here!" he shouted. "Anyone whose name isn't on the list won't get paid."

  Pushing through the crowd, Zhang Min signed up as a caravan guard and then mingled with the other mercenaries to listen to the rumors. From the chatter, most of the assembled men, like himself, lacked combat experience and would flee at the first sign of danger, running so fast their heels would spark. They'd been hired purely for numbers. Zhang Min didn't care about the reasons, the pay was decent, especially compared to his meager earnings as a harbor porter.

  Who doesn't risk doesn't get rich, he consoled himself. I'll take a stroll, check out the surroundings, gain some experience and coin. Perfect!

  Once everyone who'd volunteered was signed up, the mercenaries were issued sleeveless cloaks with the Tsanyan Clan's emblems and colors, turning the motley bunch into something resembling an army of soldiers, at least from afar. The sheer number of guards served as a deterrence for most bandits, though no one would dare tackle truly dangerous routes with such a force. The Tsanyan Clan had assembled this throng merely to display their enduring might, choosing a safe road.

  Banners rose into the sky, and the trade caravan set off. The clan's mounted warriors split into two detachments, advancing ahead and behind the wagons, while mercenaries like Zhang Min marched on foot beside the carts. Donning the cloaks of a powerful clan, the paupers and old veterans puffed out their chests, looking overly pleased to be part of the Tsanyans, even if just temporarily.

  "Fools," Zhang Min muttered under his breath. "Hope everything goes smoothly."

  The first day on the road passed on foot. Around midday, the caravan halted to endure the heat, then pressed on. As darkness fell, they set up camp. Completely exhausted, Zhang Min crumpled against a wagon wheel and fell asleep instantly. His new job was testing his body to its limits, but he endured the hardships stoically without complaint.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  Up until now, the mercenary profession had existed only in his imagination, but after a full day among warriors, his perceptions shifted. The atmosphere strongly resembled an army on campaign, not a merchant caravan. The stench of horse sweat assaulted his nostrils, sharpened spear tips gleamed in the sun, weapons clanked at warriors' belts, and armored riders with stern faces rocked in their saddles, vigilantly scanning the surroundings.

  It's all become so real, he thought, surveying the bustling camp reeking of campfire smoke, sweat, and steel. Was I too naive? Did I rush into this profession?

  He didn't feel prepared for a real fight to the death. At that point, his experience with bladed weapons was limited to swinging a sword in the backyard and sparring with a log sunk into the earth. Such training was unlikely to save his life in a clash with enemies.

  Anyone bold enough to attack a guarded caravan knew how to wield weapons and killed without hesitation. Bandits slashed, hacked, and tore apart without doubts or regrets, so Zhang Min's inexperience could cost him his life. Involuntarily, a vision of a bloody skirmish flashed in his mind: cold steel piercing flesh, people screaming and writhing in agony, arrows whistling through the air, bandits grinning as they reveled in the slaughter.

  This won't do. I need to learn how to fight, Zhang Min decided, wiping his sweaty brow. Everyone here is obsessed with martial arts. If I don't take it seriously, I'll die fast. And I want to live...

  The next few days passed identically. Zhang Min marched, then marched again along the endless road under the blistering sun. He awoke at dawn, retired at dusk, sometimes stood watch. His clothes were coated in dust and soaked in sweat, but the former porter's body gradually adapted to the strain, and soon he had energy for conversations with the other mercenaries.

  Though he got along with everyone, he preferred talking to the real veterans, those with battle-hardened backs. They even gave him swordsmanship tips and sparred a couple of times with bamboo sticks. Martial arts were revered here, and sharing knowledge among warriors was commonplace.

  Gotta make the most of this, Zhang Min smiled as he began a new bout with a burly mercenary. Besides, I need to find out what that thing's worth.

  Tucked in his robes was the scroll he'd stolen from a bandit, scribbled by an unskilled artist with ink, a training manual on martial arts. The drawings were pitiful, the explanations written in crooked, unpolished script. No matter how hard Zhang Min tried to decipher it, he understood nothing, but he wasn't eager to discard it, still hoping to sell it profitably. He wanted to find someone knowledgeable and ask for advice.

  Without risking showing the scroll to the mercenaries, Zhang Min pried out everything he wanted through casual conversation. Unfortunately, none of them had expertise in such matters—only the Tsanyan Clan's true warriors could offer real, useful advice. Sadly, they kept to themselves and didn't rush to mingle with the motley rabble hired just for numbers.

  Too proud? Whatever. The road's long yet. No need to hurry, he thought, glancing at the Tsanyan riders. I'll find the right person for sure.