After fully recovering, Zhang Ming stopped avoiding the other fortress residents. He ate breakfast and dinner with everyone else, but almost every day ended up fighting one bandit or another. Tu Hama kept sending new opponents his way, and Zhang Ming never refused a challenge. When his injuries became too serious, he would lie low in the old shed behind the pigsties. Even battered and bruised, he continued cleaning the stables and pens, unwilling to lose such a good place to heal wounds.

  Time had ceased to exist for him, his days blurred into an endless stream of pain, blood, and hatred. Anywhere in the fort, someone would loudly, so all could hear, ask Zhang Ming to “exchange pointers like real warriors,” and then immediately attack without waiting for an answer. The fights broke out right on the road, beside the stables where he worked with the former peasants, or in front of the barracks for the bandits’ amusement. Only rarely did they happen on the training grounds.

  He fought one to three duels a day. Zhang Ming battled again and again, like a machine, until his hands could no longer grip a weapon, until his legs trembled from exhaustion. In time, his clothes turned to rags; he was always covered in bruises and scrapes, his hair a tangled mess. He looked like a beggar beaten for stealing. He didn’t know how much time had passed, but he could feel himself growing stronger with every fight and richer too, stripping each defeated opponent of everything they had.

  At night and early morning, he meditated. When his injuries were bad, he soaked in a healing bath, then stretched to restore his body as much as possible and prepared for new battles. Sometimes, at dawn, while the air was still cool, the shaggy bandit would teach him sword techniques, not for free, of course. He kept a running tab, measured in jars of wine. Within days, the debt had grown to a whole barrel, but Zhang Ming considered it a worthwhile investment.

  “Don’t you dare cheat me!” the shaggy drunk warned. “You’ll pay back every last drop!”

  “I won’t cheat you,” Zhang Ming said firmly. “It’s like running a shop, if you cheat a man, he never comes back. But deal honestly, and you’ll have loyal customers. You’ll earn more in the end.”

  “Heh-heh-heh!” Lao Yu laughed. “Smart. So you’re a merchant, huh?”

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  “Not yet. But one day I’ll be.”

  “Not afraid of being robbed?” The shaggy drunk gestured around the fort. “Trading’s dangerous business. Better to be a bandit.”

  “Ha. Live in a barrack with a bunch of men?” Zhang Min shook his head. “No way. Merchants have wives, big houses, and servants. The risk is worth it.”

  “Ha-ha-ha! True enough. So why’d you come here then?”

  “My legs brought me. What about you?”

  “I’m a homeless drunk. Where else would I go?” Lao Yu smirked, scratching his beard.

  “Just apologize to Tu Hama,” Lin Bo advised, overhearing their talk. “Why suffer like this? You barely look human anymore.”

  “Kneel before them? I’d rather die!” Zhang Ming said through clenched teeth. “It’s too late to turn back now.”

  “Foolish pride,” the peasant sighed, waving his hand.

  “It’s not pride,” the shaggy drunk defended. “Right? Besides, he’s not the only one suffering. Ha-ha-ha! My training’s paying off too.”

  “Nonsense,” Lin Bo muttered. “One day they’ll use real weapons, and then it’ll all be over.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong! Tu Hama doesn’t want him dead, there’s no fun in that. The newcomer’s a living example for the rest. And if he kneels, even better.” The shaggy bandit clapped Zhang Ming on the shoulder. “But our guy won’t break! Heh.”

  “Mm-hm. Just don’t clap me again, or I’ll break right here,” Zhang Min grimaced.

  “Ha-ha-ha! See what I mean? His spirit’s strong! A shame he’s too old, he could’ve been a fine warrior. Tsk.”

  Zhang Min never asked his new acquaintances for help or hid behind their backs, and they had no desire to babysit a grown man, or become Tu Hama’s enemies. They helped in small ways when they could, but the rest of the time Zhang Min fought his battles alone, giving everything he had.

  Despite his wounds and the look of a beggar on the brink of death, he struck with powerful, punishing blows and endured even worse pain himself. Even from afar, he seemed a formidable opponent. His focused gaze beneath the tangled hair, like that of a predator before it leaps, made the faint-hearted keep their distance. The number of those willing to cross swords with him, even with wooden blades, dwindled noticeably.

  Over time, he saved about ten silver coins from his winnings and used them to buy more medicinal herbs for his baths, along with a bundle of cleansing plants meant to be taken internally. In the city, they would have cost a fortune, but on the mountain in the middle of the forest, they were dirt cheap. Life in the bandit fortress, instead of a curse, had become a rare opportunity.

  After taking the cleansing herbs and training hard, the impurities built up in his body over years of drunken living were expelled, turning into sticky grime on his skin with a foul smell. A few bones cracked back into place, his muscles filled with energy, and his mind became astonishingly clear.

  “The former Zhang Min had ruined his body to pieces,” Zhang Ming thought aloud as he washed in the barrel. “How could he have driven himself to such a state?”