Warlords of the Five Dynasties

During the rainy season, torrents of rain fell without end, the river ran muddy, and all the fishing villages near the shores of Tai Lake suffered calamity. Houses collapsed, and the villagers fled in droves to higher ground for safety.

Dusk had already settled. Around a rising campfire, a handful of broad-shouldered men busied themselves. In this wretched weather, luggage was soaked, clothes were soaked, their very bodies were soaked through, and even the air in their lungs felt thick with dampness, carrying a musty scent that made one uncomfortable.

After striking flint for quite some time, they finally sparked a flame, but the firewood was damp as well. It took great effort to catch the tinder, and the slender tongue of flame was so frail it seemed it might die at any moment.

At last, the fire took hold, though it sent up thick, choking smoke that made the men cough incessantly. Still, at least it gave them warmth against the chill, and as the flames grew, so did their sense of comfort.

“Take some of this firewood over to him,” said a young man in his twenties.

A boy, perhaps fifteen by appearance, frowned and protested, “Why should I take firewood to that bastard? We barely have enough for ourselves! I won’t do it!” He turned his head away, stubborn as a mule.

The young man sighed. “Ah, I don’t like him either. But he paid us to keep him safe. Before his servant died, he gave me so much silver—I have to take good care of him until someone comes to fetch him. Besides, he’s unconscious now—saving a life is a virtue. It brings good fo