The fat bandit rushed to help his comrade. Swinging his wooden weapon with all his strength, he sliced through the air where Zhang Ming’s neck had been only a moment earlier. Luckily, Zhang Ming dodged, shifting so that the skinny one ended up between him and the bearded brute. There was no time to think, fighting two at once was nearly impossible.

  This is going to hurt, he warned himself.

  Gritting his teeth, Zhang Ming took a hit to the shoulder from the bamboo club while striking the skinny man hard across the leg. The stick he had picked up from the ground cracked in two, but he didn’t stop, taking a wide step forward, he closed the distance. The tall man doubled over in pain, sinking onto one knee, and took a brutal uppercut to the jaw. As his head snapped back, Zhang Ming kicked him in the groin, then grabbed his hair and drove a knee into his face.

  I may not know how to fight with swords, but with my fists I can beat any of these idiots, he thought, panting.

  If they had been armed with real weapons, he would have been killed several times already, but sticks were a different matter. Despite the pain, Zhang Ming could still fight. His left arm had gone numb, yet the fire in his chest burned fiercely. Just as he finished off the second opponent, a heavy blow from the third slammed into his stomach. The force threw him backward, and his breath caught in his throat.

  The fat bandit had hesitated to strike earlier, afraid of hitting his comrades, but once he had the chance, he put everything into his swing, as if trying to split the rookie in half with his wooden club. His friends lay sprawled on the ground, and he didn’t intend to share their fate. Not giving Zhang Ming a chance to recover, he raised his weapon for another blow, but a handful of dirt and sand suddenly hit him in the face.

  “Coward! Filthy bastard!” the bearded man roared.

  While he wiped at his eyes, swinging blindly, Zhang Ming grabbed the fallen bandit’s weapon and leaned on it, gasping for air, still reeling from the hit to his stomach. Eyes red with grit, the bandit charged at him in a rage, but Zhang Ming kept dodging, waiting for the right moment.

  “Cowardly dog!” the fat man bellowed.

  With each wild swing of his club, his shaggy beard quivered. He pressed forward like a battering ram, but despite his experience, he lacked real skill, relying only on brute force. His broad, clumsy attacks missed again and again, while the rookie darted around him like a persistent fly. Soon the bandit began to tire, and after one especially heavy swing, he took too long to recover his stance, as if his weapon had sunk into thick mud.

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  Zhang Ming seized the moment, smashing him over the head with the club. Ducking under the next sluggish swing, he struck upward, the back of the stick slamming into the man’s chin. The bandit staggered, eyes rolling in confusion. Tossing aside his weapon, Zhang Ming punched him square in the face, again and again, until the man stumbled backward and fell. His face a bloodied mess, the bandit threw up a trembling hand.

  “Waait! No need! I— I give up!” he slurred through split lips.

  “Money!” Zhang Ming loomed over him. “Hand over your money!” Streams of dark red blood ran down his face from a cut on his forehead, making him look even more terrifying.

  “I’ll give it! It’s— it’s under my belt!”

  Taking the coins, Zhang Ming checked the other two bandits. The first one had already regained consciousness and sat on the ground, clutching his head. He didn’t resist when Zhang Ming took his money, only cast nervous glances at the bloodied fists of the victor. After shaking down all three of them for their coins, under the wary stares of a few stable workers drawn by the noise, Zhang Ming made his way back to the hayloft, doing his best not to limp or collapse.

  “Only three coins. I’m worth three coins,” Zhang Ming chuckled. “Guess I’ll ask for more healing herbs…”

  Despite the victory, he had taken a terrible beating. Only sheer willpower kept him standing. His swollen left arm hung uselessly at his side; his back, stomach, and head ached with dull pain. There wasn’t a single unbruised spot left on his body. As soon as he reached the hayloft beside the barn, he collapsed, utterly spent.

  By morning, Lin Bo found him completely battered.

  “Hey! Hey! You alive?” came the urgent voice. “Heavens! Were you dragged behind a cart or did you fall off a mountain?”

  “Mm,” Zhang Min groaned, too weak to open his eyes.

  “All right, don’t move. I’ll ask Xiao Bai to look after you.”

  “Water…”

  “Oh, fine,” Lin Bo sighed. “I’ll bring some. Wait here.”

  “Go instead of me,” Zhang Ming said hoarsely after drinking.

  “What?”

  “Go with Lao Yu in my place to get the medicine. Don’t let him drink away the money. It’s important.”

  “You found medicine?”

  “Mm-hm,” Zhang Ming mumbled.

  “All right. I hope it works.”

  “The money’s under my belt. Take five coins. Don’t tell the old drunk about the rest.”

  “Heh. Got it.”

  When the farmer left, Zhang Ming settled more comfortably into the hay and began to meditate using the method from the scroll. Closing his eyes, he calmed his heart with slow, steady breaths, cleared his mind, and then felt the familiar wave move through his body, mending his wounds. After a while, the pain subsided. He drifted back to sleep and didn’t wake until evening, undisturbed.

  “Anyone here?” he called out.

  “Yes, we’re here,” Lin Bo replied. “Xiao Bai, bring him some water. I’ll boil some beans. He’s probably hungry.”