As darkness fell the caravan reached a small village, where they stopped for the night. The surviving carriers, grooms and other servants turned to routine and prepared supper. Villagers summoned a healer from the neighboring settlement, helped tend the wounded, gathered many medicinal herbs—of course, not for free. The dead mercenaries were buried in the nearest graveyard; the trader of House Zhao solemnly promised to return the belongings and wages to their families, then with his aides went to dinner, to drink some wine as well.

  “Half the road still ahead. Will we have enough people, sir?” asked the servant.

  “Plenty. Nobody robs the same caravan twice,” the trader answered. “You forgot? We’re one wagon short now!” he added with irritation.

  “Won’t we have to pay the mercenaries extra? Well… for the bandit attack?”

  “Why the hell would we?” the trader shot back nastily. “We hired them for that! What extra pay? It’s not my fault they’re useless. We lost good goods, and you’re talking nonsense!”

  “Forgive me, sir!”

  “Even the deaths of those scum won’t cover our losses!”

  “So, you’re not going to hand money to their families?”

  “If you keep spouting rubbish, I’ll beat you with a stick! Don’t you dare blurt that out in front of the mercenaries, or then we really will have to pay,” the trader threatened. “Did you ever think about my losses? We’ll pay only those who survived.”

  “Sir, but you yourself said courage should be rewarded,” the servant reminded him. “Then next time they’ll try harder…”

  “Why are you defending them?” the trader narrowed his eyes. “You should care only about my profit. Understood?”

  “Forgive me, sir.”

  “If anyone comes looking for trouble, we’ll quietly pay them off so they don’t raise a fuss, and the rest can do without.”

  “Very wise, sir.”

  If I had died there, they'd have tossed me into a ditch and forgotten me. The girls wouldn't have seen a single coin. Zhang Min shook his head, overhearing them without meaning to. Feels nasty inside.

  The trader and his personal guard were lodged in a separate house, while the mercenaries got an empty barn and stable for lodging. When the fuss quieted and most people went to sleep, Zhang Min walked into the yard by the fire, emptied the bag of all the trophies taken from the bandits’ bodies. Right after battle his mind was chaotic, so he hadn’t yet sussed out the loot. A few men sat by the fire, ones who hadn’t joined in scavenging the dead, watching him with scorn.

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  Spreading the things on the ground, he surveyed the trophies with satisfaction. He’d gotten leather bracers, three axes, a short spear, a pair of daggers with sheaths, a thin little book with pictures, and a handful of metal trinkets of unclear worth. The bandits had come with empty pockets, so in eyes of coins he got only twenty coppers.

  “This should be worth something,” Zhang Min thought out loud.

  “Pff. Don’t take items from the dead. Their vengeful spirits will haunt you,” said one mercenary, preachy.

  “If ghosts do exist, they probably have better things to do than chase the living.”

  “You don’t believe in ghosts?”

  “I’ve never seen one,” replied Zhang Min.

  “Ha. That’s why you’re so brave. Don’t complain later.”

  I don’t give a damn about you, he thought. Money matters more!

  Zhang Min immediately strapped on the leather bracers—scratched and worn, but sturdy. Remembering his daughters, he set aside the daggers and the picture-book specially for them, and decided to sell the rest in the City of Clouds, which the caravan was heading to. He didn’t know much about raising children, so thought it a great idea to give the girls sharp weapons for self-defense.

  The battered thin little book of ten pages told of medicinal herbs growing in the province. The pictures had clearly been done by someone knowing their craft, and beside them were detailed notes of the properties and uses of the plants. Only one species per page, but very thorough. Knowledge about healing herbs struck Zhang Min as extremely useful, and the book itself the best of the trophies.

  Before sleep he carefully cleaned the weapons, including those taken from dead bandits, rubbed in grease to drive off rust, inspected the shield—which had survived despite many deep axe marks. Having prepared for the new day, Zhang Min went to sleep, but tossed and turned all night.

  Scenes of the recent battle whirled in his head: faces of living bandits twisted in fury; then a line of dead ones lying on the ground in grotesque positions. In dream they suddenly opened their eyes and stared at him, as if judging that he survived. Slowly they began to rise from the earth, then reached bloody hands toward him.

  “A-a-a! Go away!” Zhang Min woke up in cold sweat, “Huff-huff-huff. Could ghosts be real?” he panicked, wiping his brow. “They’re after me …”

  “What are you screaming for? You scared me!” growled a mercenary sleeping nearby. “Let me sleep!”

  “Oh! Already morning!”

  Bright sunlight was breaking in through the window. Outside the house came the chirps of birds, a dog barking at the presence of strangers. The air smelled of smoke and a little manure. Peaceful village morning, as if no battle had happened yesterday or it felt like a dream. Stretching, Zhang Min stepped into the yard, washed himself, and while the other mercenaries slowly awoke, he did some warm-ups.

  Zhang Min mixed methods from the scroll with exercises from his native world. For example, he found a sturdy beam above the gate, did pull-ups on it a few times; then got a wide bamboo pole, hung a bucket of water on each end and did squats. Since a full day’s march lay ahead, he didn’t push too hard.

  “Very interesting training technique!” praised one of the mercenaries observing him from the side. “Mind if we adopt it?”

  “Of course,” Zhang Min agreed. “Just don’t forget to treat me with wine when we get back home.”

  “Ha-ha! Deal!”

  After breakfast the trading caravan left the village, leaving the severely wounded in care of locals. The mercenaries again faced a long walk along a dusty road. On Zhang Min’s back rattled the bag of weapons, bumping against his shield; at his belt, on the other side from his sword, hung an axe; in his purse jingled the cheap trinkets of bandits. The dead men’s goods were not allowed in the wagon, so he dragged everything himself.