Midsummer, before noon, on the official road.
A convoy approached from afar, neither hurried nor slow.
It was a huge convoy: there were at least five or six large covered wagons, each pulled by three horses, and countless smaller carts.
Not hurried, because there was simply no way to go fast. Last night's heavy rain had turned the official road to mud, and today the scorching sun baked that mud into hard, lumpy ridges, like a stone forest. The ground was so hot it could double as a grill—anyone barefoot would be hopping and hollering in pain. Those cartoon scenes where smoke rises from your feet? Not impossible here. In weather like this, nobody's moving quickly.
Not slow, because there was a strict order from above: no matter what it took, they had to reach the next town before noon. And "no matter what it took" meant fifty people up front flattening the muddy road, fifty more helping the horses push the wagons, and ten folks at the back waiting to collect tolls.
Tolls for what, you ask?
Naturally, tolls for passing through.
A group of more than thirty riders came rushing up from behind, only to be stopped by the toll collectors at the rear.
"Toll?" The leader of the riders was a burly man. He was momentarily stunned, then burst out laughing: "Did you build this road? You're not the government! What gives you the right to collect tolls? Even if you were the government, have you never heard of the 'Thirty-six Grass Bandits of Arakawa'?" Shing! The riders drew their blades, looking fierce and ready to kill at the drop of a hat.
But just then, the largest wagon pulled back its curtain. What appeared wasn't a face, but a smoking pipe—a very special one. It was huge, with a stem as thick as a child's arm and a bowl the size of a pot. This was the legendary Smoke Pot. Made of brass, it gleamed in the sunlight, instantly grabbing everyone's attention.
Whether it was the size or the weight, that Smoke Pot looked like something no human could possibly use. But the person inside the wagon did use it—naturally, effortlessly, the heavy pipe steady as a rock. The Wilderness Thirty-Six Road Bandits' faces all changed at once, falling silent.
Hiss—A long, deep inhale, and everyone could almost hear the sizzle of tobacco burning. That breath was so deep and so long, it sounded less like a person smoking and more like a giant bellows at work.
The bandits' faces changed again: What kind of person could have such lung power? And if someone had that kind of lung power, what other freakish abilities might they have?
Whoosh—A long exhale, and a thick column of smoke shot out from behind the curtain, hanging in the air like a sideways chimney, stretching a full ten feet before finally dispersing. The sound of that exhale was so loud it was like a dragon, not a human, breathing out.
The bandits' faces changed yet again: What kind of person could have such powerful inner strength? And if someone had that kind of strength, how fierce must their martial skills be?
A voice came from inside the wagon, low and raspy, like two pieces of sandpaper grinding together. Normally, a voice like that would make your teeth hurt, but this one didn't. Its echo was so heavy, it was like a drum booming in a sealed room: "Heaven turned the road to mud, and I flattened it out again. So anyone passing over this smooth road owes me money—no exceptions, no matter who you are. Any objections?"
The lead rider stared at the Smoke Pot for a long time before finally nodding in defeat: "No objections. Wouldn't dare..." The Wilderness Thirty-Six Road Bandits might rule the wilds, but here, they could only bow their heads. That Smoke Pot was out of their league.
"Ten taels per person."
"Ten taels?" All the riders' faces twitched. Ten taels of silver could feed an ordinary family for three months. "Fine, ten taels." They handed over the silver and prepared to ride off.
"Hold up," came the voice from inside the wagon. "Ten taels is just the toll. But you made me waste all that energy talking, so there's an extra charge. But this time, no need for money. Since you all look strong, go clear the road for the next ten miles."
"You!" The leader wanted to get angry, but it felt like a pair of sharp, cloudy eyes were watching him from behind the curtain. He glanced between the curtain and the Smoke Pot, then finally slumped and muttered, "Fine, I'll clear the road."
The thirty-six riders moved to the front of the convoy. Glancing around, they saw men and women, young and old, all kinds of people from all over the land paving the road. Some were obviously martial artists, wielding swords that gleamed like autumn water, making even the lead rider nervous. There were plenty of experts here, but now they were all sweating away, shoveling dirt. The whole scene made the riders dizzy.
"Leon Liu, you've cleared twenty miles. You can go now." A supervisor said with a grin, scaring the bandits half to death. Leon Liu, the famous young hero of Sanhe, was here paving the road too?
The next second, a dirt-covered figure jumped up, cheering wildly, and dashed off. He looked nothing like the legendary dashing young hero—more like a convict escaping a labor camp.
"Hey, buddy," the lead rider whispered to another man shoveling dirt. "You look like you know your martial arts. Why put up with this crap? Why don't we team up and take them down?"
The man didn't even look up. He just snorted, "If you want to go, go by yourself. Leave me out of it—I want to live a few more years. Do you even know who this group is? This is the Smoke Pot Mercenary Corps! If you want to stay a normal person, don't go looking for trouble here!"
"Smoke Pot Mercenary Corps?" The riders didn't really get it, but it sounded impressive, so they obediently kept paving the road.
By noon, the convoy reached its destination—Jiyang City.
After crossing the harsh southern wastelands, the first major city in the Central Plains was Jiyang City. It was a bustling trade hub and a huge population center. Whether you were coming from or going to the Southern Wasteland, you had to pass through Jiyang City. This was a place for treasures, beauties, adventures—and plenty of trouble.
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A voice came from the big wagon: "Raise the flag."
"Raise the flag!" The order rippled down the convoy, front to back, perfectly coordinated. Every wagon hung up a flag in an instant—each one bearing nothing but a huge Smoke Pot. As the convoy rolled into the city, crowds had already gathered along the road to watch.
Despite the heat, the crowd was buzzing with excitement, shouting, "Mercenary Corps! Mercenary Corps!" like modern-day fans greeting a superstar. Someone yelled, "Master Smoke Pot, did you find any new exotics in the Southern Wasteland this time?"
The person in the big wagon didn't answer, but a servant came over with a grin: "Our Smoke Pot Mercenary Corps had a great haul in the Southern Wasteland this time. You're all in for a treat at sunset!"
As the convoy entered Jiyang City, the whole place seemed to go wild. The Wilderness Thirty-Six Road Bandits might not get it, but the locals sure did—Jiyang folks were savvy. The Smoke Pot Mercenary Corps was the top exotic mercenary group between the Southern Wasteland and the Jiangnan lands. Here, you’d find crowds of oddballs and piles of rare treasures. Every covered wagon hid something so bizarre, ordinary folks couldn’t even imagine it.
Even if you didn’t plan to buy anything at the Mercenary Corps auction, you had to show up for the spectacle. It was a status thing—miss it, and you’d be out of the loop.
The crowd craned their necks to peer into the wagons, hoping for a sneak peek. But what they didn’t know was that, in one of those wagons, inside a wooden cage, a man sat calmly.
Though locked up, the man showed no discomfort or displeasure. His wild hair hid his face, but his eyes were unforgettable—totally empty, as if he had no thoughts of his own. But suddenly, he shuddered, as if something had changed. He turned, peering through a gap in the curtain at the crowd outside, a faint curiosity flickering in his eyes.
It was like a newborn seeing the world for the first time—pure, genuine, and thoughtless.
But after that brief curiosity, he lowered his eyes and returned to his empty state. If you looked closely, you'd see he was wearing a kung fu outfit—a traditional martial arts uniform from the Republic era.