Liberation from the Porter's Burden
Morning mist shattered under the resounding clang of the blacksmith's hammer, but it didn't last long.
With the cart axles crudely patched and the horses' cracked hooves roughly bandaged, the caravan set off again toward Xu Province before the sun had fully risen, fleeing into the treacherous mountain paths like fugitives. Lingering in these hills, thick with the stench of blood from yesterday's ambush, would be nothing short of suicide.
I slung the heavy cart ropes over my shoulders alongside the other laborers, climbing the steep dirt path. What surprised me was the change in my body. A slope that would have left me gasping, vision yellowing at the edges yesterday, now felt manageable. With my stamina up by 1, my flesh hummed with a strange vitality, enduring silently.
The cart's weight still crushed my shoulders, but it wasn't the spine-shattering agony of despair. Even as I huffed, my nerves fixated on the cold lump hidden inside my trouser hem—the crude iron awl I'd forged myself.
Mana's at 1. I checked the status window with every step, but the mana bar scraped the bottom. It would take time to fully recover to 5. Meaning, if shit hit the fan right now, I couldn't bolt to my perfect hideout, the Subspace Forge, like last night. Why did my gut feelings never miss?
"Enemy ambush!! Yellow Turban remnants!!"
A desperate scream from the lead escort tore through the air as the caravan crested the ridge.
"Son of a bitch!"
The curse ripped from my mouth. It was the Yellow Turban stragglers, smashed yesterday by the caravan's guard captain. Venomous rats. They hadn't retreated in defeat—they'd lain in wait all night for revenge, betting on the caravan's exhaustion in this narrow gorge.
Shiiik—! Thunk! An arrow sliced the wind, embedding in the neck of the laborer pulling the cart ahead of me. "Guhk...!" He didn't even scream, just spewed blood foam and toppled.
"Raaargh! Kill 'em all! Loot the caravan's goods!!"
Dozens of bandits in yellow turbans burst from the dense underbrush on both hillsides, howling like starved wolves. Far more than yesterday.
Clang! Crunch! In an instant, the mountain path turned into a hellish slaughterhouse. The escorts drew swords to fight back, but the terrain's disadvantage and ambush shock pushed their line crumbling rearward.
Fuck, goddamn it! I flung off the ropes, rolled to the ground, and crawled beast-like under the largest cargo cart.
"Subspace Opening! Subspace Opening!!"
Face smashed into the mud under the cart, I screamed the skill like grasping at straws.
(Current Mana: 1/5)
The crimson warnings floating in my vision brutally sealed my last escape. Breath caught in my throat. No place to run. Right in the heart of this blood-soaked massacre, I had to survive bare-handed.
"Spare me! Uwaaagh!"
Then, a gut-wrenching scream from just a dozen paces from my hiding cart. I twisted my head and gaped. It was the caravan blacksmith master's cart. Lagging behind with heavy iron ingots and a forge, it was perfectly surrounded by five bandits who'd flanked from the hillside.
"You damn bandit scum! Stay back!"
The burly blacksmith master, flaunting sharp hammer strikes that morning, swung his thick iron hammer desperately. But a craftsman wasn't a warrior. His overwhelming strength for handling metal couldn't match the bandits' agile footwork and swordplay honed in real combat.
The two young apprentices who'd stoked his forge met grim fates. One, terror-stricken, screamed and fled into the woods abandoning the cart. The other, grabbing a broken iron rod to guard his master, was cleaved shoulder to chest by a bandit's gleaming ring-pommel sword and died instantly.
"Aigoo, you bastard!!"
Tears of blood streaming at his apprentice's death—like a son—he smashed down his hammer. Splutch! One bandit's skull shattered, brains spraying as he fell. But another slipped in, stabbing deep into the master's thigh.
"Grahhh!"
The blacksmith master crashed to his knees like a felled tree. The scar-faced bandit targeting him grinned wickedly, raising his sword high. A clear killing blow for the neck, claiming the cart.
If that old man dies... my blacksmith skill training material vanishes! Not mere pity. Pure survival math. In this caravan, he was the only path to learning proper weapon forging and scrap handling. If he lost his head to bandits here, my 'experience farming' future went with him.
I burst from under the cart like a beast. My right hand clenched the cold iron awl from my trouser hem till it hurt. Stamina up by 1 fueled my legs' contraction and explosion, launching me at the bandit's back.
"Die, old man!"
As scar-face swung for the master's neck—
"Hraaagh!"
I roared beast-like, clinging to his back like a leech. My left arm locked his neck, toppling his sword balance. Simultaneously, I drove the black awl with my full weight into the soft throat under his jaw, where the carotid pulsed.
Squelch—! The crudely hammered awl tore through tough skin and muscle with horrific sensation, burrowing deep into his throat.
"Gurk...! Guh!"
His sword arm went limp. Blood droplets sprayed from his mouth with a deflating wheeze, and hot, fishy arterial blood fountained from the awl's entry, drenching my face and hands red. I'd killed a man.
First time in this hellish era, severing another's breath with my own hand. Nausea surged from the chilling crunch of bone and cartilage through my fingers, but I glared wide-eyed, twisting and yanking the awl free. The bandit convulsed, eyes rolling back, collapsing in a heap.
"Y-you... bastard...!"
The blacksmith master, slumped clutching his gushing thigh, stared up at me blood-soaked in horrified awe.
"No time for feels! Get up now!"
I shoved the bloody awl back in my trousers, snatching the bandit's gleaming dagger from his belt and stuffing it inside my robe.
Even in this razor-edge of life and death, instinct noted that dagger would be prime 'material' in my Subspace Forge tonight.
"Ngh...!"
I slung the master's thick arm over my shoulder, gnashing teeth like a beast, kicking off the dirt. Stamina 51. A normal porter would've buckled under the bear-like old man's weight, but last night's growth let me barely endure, running.
"That way! Toward the hillside brush!"
We escaped the arrow-riddled, scream-filled battlefield, tumbling into nearby dense reed thickets. Flat on the grass, I clamped the master's mouth with my rough hand.
"Shh. Stay quiet."
Bandit boots rustled past the swaying reeds. Heart pounding out my mouth, I froze ice-cold under their blood, controlling breath. The master, pain-wracked, yielded to my murderous glare, silent. After a blood-curdling dozen minutes—
"You filthy vermin! Leave none alive!"
Thunderous hooves shook the gorge's rear. Dozens of the caravan's elite escorts arrived in a dust cloud. Silver-armored warriors thrust long spears, mercilessly shredding the bandits' flank. The tide turned. Surrounded sans ambush advantage, the Yellow Turbans screamed, scattering into the hills.
"Hoo... "
Only then did I release the master's mouth, sprawling starfish on the dirt, gasping raggedly.
"We lived."
My voice trembled. The master, gripping his thigh wound, sweat beading thick, stared down at my face.
"You... one o' them porters, eh? What's yer name."
"Aman, sir. Orphan, no real name. Caravan folk call me that."
"Aman, huh... Thought ya were just some cart-draggin' wretch. Piercin' a man's throat in one go with a homemade scrap awl, not even a proper weapon. Balls o' steel, kid."
His sharp craftsman's eyes scanned the crude, bloody awl in my trousers. To a weapon master, its shoddy form screamed optimized for killing.
"Won't forget the life debt ya saved."
His heavy words hit. Lying dirt-bound, I curled my bloody lips in a grin. My first plan clicked perfectly.
By the time the battle fully cleared and the caravan pitched camp in a safe flat clearing, the sun passed noon.
The mood hung heavy. Bandits repelled, but two carts burned, over a dozen laborers and low guards dead. Groans echoed as wounds stitched, bloody bandages wrapped everywhere.
"Follow me, lad."
The master, thigh bound white-tight, limped calling me. Not to the laborers' edge, but the grandest silk tent where the caravan's core gathered.
Elite guards in full armor eyed surroundings fiercely before the flap.
"Wait here."
The master nodded to them, entering alone.
Moments later, the flap parted with faint orchid scent. A woman emerged. My eyes widened slightly. Amid this rough, blood-reeking caravan, she exuded mismatched grace and poise. Flawless jade skin, sharp upturned eyes holding keen intellect. Clad primly in costly purple silk, Mi So-jeo—sister of the caravan lord, blood of Xu Province's top merchant clan, the Mi family.
"I hear Master Yeom requests changing this boy's status."
Her clear, cool voice rang across the clearing. The blacksmith master bowed deeply.
"Aye, miss. In this morn's bandit raid, this lad saved my neck. One apprentice died under my bellows, t'other fled—short-handed now. I'd take him from porter to my exclusive apprentice. Grant it, if ya please."
Mi So-jeo's gaze slid past him to me. I played the groveling porter Aman, head bowed low, but felt her razor scan over my dirt- and blood-caked form.
History's Mi Chuk and Mi So-jeo weren't mere traders. Masters at spotting human value, later bankrolling Liu Bei massively.
"Master Yeom, you saved me from kidnappers with your hammer when I was a child. Leading this caravan in my brother's stead, how could I refuse your request."
She nodded with a faint smile.
"And saving your life merits the caravan. Very well. From today, promote this one's status from laborer to forge apprentice, with fitting rations and treatment."
"Thank ya, miss!"
The master laughed heartily, bowing low.