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45. The Joys of Conversation
🕑 Added 2025-05-13 22:00:06 +0000 UTCThe pre-dawn cold had a different bite away from the mountain’s shadow. Out here, with only the low stone wall of the trading post to blunt its edge, the wind swept sharp and clean across the courtyard. Jiang pulled his cloak tighter, the thick wool a welcome barrier, though the chill didn’t seep into his bones the way it once might have.
If nothing else, it was easier to enjoy the winter mornings with a cultivator’s resistance to cold.
He was far from the only person awake, even with the early hour. Actually, he was one of the few people not doing something – dozens of figures were moving through the dim light, their breath pluming, voices low but carrying in the crisp air. Lanterns cast shifting pools of yellow, illuminating the harnessing of the massive, shaggy oxen, while the creak of wagon wheels being checked and the rhythmic thump of mallets securing ropes over canvas-covered loads created a sort of pleasant white noise.
“Good morning, my friend! Didn’t freeze solid on us overnight, then?” Han Shu’s cheerful voice cut through the morning bustle. The caravan master strode across the courtyard towards him, already rubbing his gloved hands together, a wide grin splitting his beard.
Jiang pushed away from the wall, tucking his empty mug into his pack. Tea may not be to his usual taste, but it was hot and someone had passed him the mug before he could refuse. “Still here.”
“Good, good!” Han clapped him on the shoulder companionably. “We’re aiming to be moving at first light proper, so any minute now. Longer the daylight, the further we get before we have to worry about finding camp,” Han explained, gesturing towards the lead wagon, a sturdy, high-sided vehicle already hitched to four powerful oxen. “Figured you might appreciate a seat up front with me?”
Jiang glanced at the sturdy wagon seat, padded with what looked like folded blankets. “Sounds good, thanks.”
“Excellent! Hop up, then. We roll out as soon as Old Man Hemu finds his other boot.” Han chuckled, swinging himself up onto the driver’s bench with surprising agility for a man his size.
Jiang tossed his pack onto the floorboards and climbed up beside him. The blankets were rough wool but offered a welcome cushion against the hard wood. From this vantage point, the entire caravan spread out behind them – just over a dozen wagons in total, a mix of large, canvas-covered wagons hauled by up to six oxen and smaller, open carts piled high with supplies.
Of the forty or so travellers, most were climbing into wagons of their own, though a few seemed to be preparing to walk alongside the caravan.
“Do many people walk?” Jiang asked before he could stop himself.
Han followed his gaze. “Sure, for a while at least. Get the blood pumping, wake themselves up.” He shrugged. “Feel free to jump off any time you like, stretch your legs. I’ve been doing this for most of my life, so I can tell you with some authority that my arse will be complaining by midday. It’s why we try to have two drivers per wagon, means one can take a break if needed.”
Jiang nodded absently, observing as the final items were packed up and the other wagons started to pull into a line behind them.
“Good group we’ve got this trip,” Han continued, watching with pride. “Most are regulars; they know the roads between here and Qinghe well enough. The guards are solid lads – most used to work patrolling the southern roads before the magistrate cut funding. Good in a scrape, and most of them have better sense than to pick fights they can’t win.” He chuckled. “We mostly haul textiles, some pottery, cured meats, spices – whatever fetches a good price up north or down south, depending on the season. A couple of passengers as well, for those that prefer to travel as a larger group. A little bit less profitable than some cargo, but it means we’re less likely to be a target for bandits, so I reckon the trade-off is worth it. Quick stops at the bigger villages, maybe a week or two in Qinghe to trade and resupply, then back down again before the spring thaw turns the roads into muck.”
Jiang listened with half an ear. He was starting to get the impression he’d been invited to sit next to the man purely to act as a conversation partner. Hardly ideal, but it beat walking.
Barely.
The caravan lurched forward, the lead wagon rolling through the wide gap in the low stone wall. Han clicked his tongue, urging the oxen into a steady rhythm, the heavy wheels crunching over the packed snow and frozen mud of the track leading away from the post. Jiang settled back against the rough blankets, watching the trading post shrink behind them, the sounds of the bustling courtyard fading into the quiet hush of the winter landscape.
Just as the last wagon cleared the wall, a flicker of black movement drew his eye. Silent as falling snow, the raven wheeled down from the grey sky and landed neatly on the wooden rail of the wagon box, just a foot or so from Jiang’s elbow. It ruffled its feathers once, shook its head, and settled in, dark eyes fixed somewhere on the road ahead, seemingly oblivious to the two humans beside it.
Han glanced over with a raised eyebrow. “Huh. Don’t often see birds get that close. Friend of yours?”
Jiang looked at the raven, which ignored him. “Something like that,” he settled on.
Han looked at him for a long moment before shrugging and turning back to the road ahead of them, reins held in a loose grip. “Fair enough. Say, have I told you about the time we had a runaway ox near Three Rivers Pass? I still can’t believe…”
Jiang resisted the urge to groan as Han launched into his story. Walking was starting to look more attractive by the moment.
— — —
Han had never considered himself to be a particularly lucky person.
More accurately, he didn’t believe luck actually existed – at least, not how everyone else went on about it. He wasn’t stupid enough to voice that opinion, of course, but it was there. In his experience, bad luck was simply a case of people not preparing enough, missing or ignoring obvious warning signs, or just being idiots.
Or, most often, all of the above.
Good luck, on the other hand, was exactly the opposite. Preparing for every situation meant that if or when things went wrong, you were, well… prepared. A fully stocked pantry meant that when the harvest was ruined, you didn’t starve. A hidden stash of coins meant that if you were robbed, you weren’t left destitute.
No luck involved.
And every bad situation could be seen coming. Not necessarily in the moment, of course, but broadly speaking. You couldn’t know when bandits were going to attack, but you could pay attention to the rumours saying bandits were in the area. You could realise that a large caravan full of goods would make for a tempting target.
You could hire extra guards, wait until winter had arrived before setting off so that nobody would expect a caravan to be passing through at that time.
And when you spotted a passing cultivator, you could offer him a ride.
Really, he’d pegged the boy, Jiang, the moment he’d walked into the common hall the day before. You didn’t get many lone travellers heading towards the deep winter wilds at the edges of the province, especially not ones dressed more for a brisk autumn day than a blizzard – and while Qinghe might technically be a city, everyone knew it was so close to the wilds it barely counted as civilisation.
Add in the sword – decent quality by the look of it, which meant expensive, even if the boy wore it like he wasn’t quite sure what to do with it – and the fact he’d come down from the direction of the Sect mountain… well, it didn’t take a genius. Cultivator. Young, maybe green, but still. One of them.
His first thought, always, was danger. What trouble was brewing nearby that might send a cultivator wandering? Had he miscalculated? Was it bandits? Beasts? Some feud spilling over from the Sect itself? Did the cultivator know about his cargo?
The first step to avoiding danger was being aware of its existence.
But the kid hadn’t seemed concerned about anything, hadn’t seemed on guard about anything. It was tricky to tell how old a cultivator was, in general, but they tended to at least roughly look their age. Someone as fresh-faced as Jiang was at least probably young, and thus, not experienced enough to keep his thoughts from his face.
Then again, for all Han knew, the kid was actually centuries old and just playing naive for fun, about to flick his fingers and kill them all.
Unlikely, but not impossible.
Still, Han trusted his gut, honed by decades on the road. The boy didn’t feel dangerous, just… intense. A little weird if he was being critical, a little sheltered if he was being generous.
The second thought, the one that had made his pulse quicken just a bit, was opportunity. When the boy mentioned heading north, towards Qinghe, the same way they were bound? Well. That was too good a chance to pass up. Winter travel was always a gamble. Even without bandits bold enough to hit a large caravan, there were always wolves, bears driven mad by hunger, and the occasional spirit beast wandering too close to the roads. Having a cultivator along, even a young one seemingly barely out of his teens, was like travelling with your own private army.
He’d made the offer to travel together half-expecting a brush-off, maybe even an offended glare. Cultivators didn’t usually mix with merchant caravans unless they had their own reasons, and they certainly didn’t take orders or invitations from jumped-up haulers like him.
Han glanced over to where the kid was poking at his pet raven. Admittedly, as far as cultivators went, this one didn’t look like much. Still, appearances could be deceiving, and even if he’d somehow made a mistake and this actually was just some random strange kid, it wasn’t like it cost him anything to let him tag along. An extra mouth to feed was hardly worth complaining about, particularly considering how much he stood to make off this trip.
If nothing else, it was nice to have a captive audience for all his epic stories. The rest of his ungrateful crew had started making excuses to avoid sharing a wagon with him months ago.
“Hey, kid, have I told you about the time…”
— — —
The rhythmic sway of the wagon and the endless drone of Han’s voice—currently recounting a dubious tale involving a thieving magpie and a magistrate’s toupee—had an almost meditative quality. Jiang, in a valiant effort to preserve his sanity, had long since retreated into actual meditation. He sat cross-legged on the blankets, pack propped behind him for support, and focused on the familiar thrum of his own Qi. Han didn’t seem to mind, or even notice, really. As long as Jiang made an occasional grunt or nod, the caravan master seemed content to narrate his life story to the passing trees.
One thing Jiang hadn’t considered when agreeing to join the caravan was the sheer, mind-numbing boredom of it all. Hours spent watching the same snowy landscape trundle by at an ox’s pace, which was much slower than he’d thought.
Still, he had to admit, it beat trudging through the snow alone, and there was an undeniable efficiency to sitting still while also making tangible progress towards his destination. And, for that matter, making progress in his cultivation. The steady, unchanging rhythm of the wagon wheels was surprisingly conducive to sinking into the flow of Qi, drawing it in, cycling it through his newly cleared pathways.
He was deep in that familiar state, tracing the threads of ambient Qi and coaxing them gently into his dantian, when a discordant note snagged at the edge of his senses. It was faint at first, almost lost in the general hum of life from the caravan and the whisper of the wind through the pines lining the road. But it quickly sharpened into a subtle pressure against his awareness, like the feeling of unseen eyes.
A Spirit Beast.
Not overwhelmingly powerful, not like the spirit stag – thankfully – but this was… hungry. Predatory. And it was getting closer.
Jiang’s eyes snapped open and he pushed himself to his feet, ignoring the raven watching him with beady, expectant eyes. Beside him, Han was mid-sentence, gesturing animatedly with one hand.
“Han,” Jiang cut in, his voice sharper than he intended.
The caravan master blinked, story faltering. “Eh? What’s that, kid?”
“Something’s coming,” Jiang said, hand dropping to the hilt of his sword as he scanned the dense trees crowding the edge of the rough track. He really hoped Han wouldn’t ask too many questions – explaining that he was a cultivator would take too much time, especially if the man didn’t believe him.
To his surprise, Han’s demeanour shifted instantly – the cheerful storyteller vanished, replaced by an experienced caravan master.
“What do you mean, ‘something’? We talking bandits, or beasts?”
Before Jiang could try to explain the prickling sensation against his Qi, a sound ripped through the still winter air. A long, mournful howl, answered by another, and then a chorus.
“Well,” Han said after a moment, reaching under his seat and pulling out a crossbow. “Guess that answers that.”
Comments
Pranshu Dhungana
I feel like this arc needs to be rewritten a bit. It feels like its only been showcasing his naivety for what feels like the past 10 chapters. Could be shortened and maybe a bit more focus on him learning instead of being like whatever. Great work so far tho!
