The convoy left the city.

The sky was overcast, and a cold wind howled through the sparse woods.

Beneath the ashen heavens, a few desolate villages sprawled in the distance, devoid of life.

Outside the city, it was either government troops or bandits. The able-bodied from nearby towns had long fled to Forty-Nine City on the days Marshal Zhang showed mercy.

After crossing a high ridge, Xiangzi moved to the front of the convoy. He saw Wen San, cart handles slack, staring into the distance.

It wasn’t just Wen San—many pullers stood frozen, gazes fixed ahead.

“What’s wrong, Third Brother…?”

Following their line of sight, Xiangzi’s heart jolted, despite Liu Tang’s earlier mention.

At the foot of the slope stretched an endless expanse of barren yellow earth.

Countless tiny, overlapping dots blanketed the ground.

Each dot was a living person.

Men, women, old, young, clothed or bare, they swarmed like desperate ants, covering every inch of foothold.

Yet, despite the crowd, a deathly silence hung over the vast, barren land.

Not a soul spoke, not a sound stirred.

The trees were stripped bare, their bark peeled off, and no birds or beasts remained.

Anything edible had long been devoured.

Xiangzi could even see, on the crowd’s edge, a naked woman clutching a child as frail as a kitten.

Her face was blank as she mechanically broke off chunks of white clay, stuffing them into the child’s mouth.

The child, skin clinging to bones, belly swollen, eyes shut, swallowed unconsciously.

The refugees called it “white charity clay”—in truth, Guanyin soil.

No one knew where these people came from, and from their numb expressions, they didn’t know where they were going.

At the sight, a puller couldn’t help but mutter, “A refugee tide!”

His voice pierced the silence like a needle through paper.

From the ridge, the sound exploded across the yellow earth below.

Countless vacant eyes turned toward them in unison.

“How’d the refugees multiply so fast?” The pullers, startled, exchanged glances.

On the slope, a burly man yanked a short spear from his cart and strode forward.

The spear traced a sharp arc through the air, its shaft quivering with a low hum.

Seeing this, the refugees lowered their heads and shuffled forward, expressionless.

Those who’d survived to reach Forty-Nine City weren’t blind fools—in this world, you don’t cross a martial artist.

Jin Fugui stowed the spear, a half-smile on his face, though his eyes flicked to Xiangzi. “Xiangzi, just a bunch of refugees. Don’t let them scare you.”

The words dripped with mockery, clearly meant to embarrass Xiangzi in front of everyone—the grand lead puller, spooked by refugees?

All eyes turned to Xiangzi. Even Liu Hu reined in his horse, a smirk playing on his lips, showing no intent to intervene.

Xiangzi seemed deaf to the taunt, nodding lightly. “Fugui, well handled. Back at the yard, I’ll request a reward for you!”

Then, frowning slightly, he addressed the group, “Everyone, why’d you stop? If we delay Fourth Master’s business, can we bear the consequences?”

The pullers snapped to attention, hurriedly dragging their carts forward.

Liu Tang, watching coldly from the rear, let a faint smile curl his lips—clever Xiangzi, playing the crowd well.

Jin Fugui’s smile froze.

Xiangzi’s casual mention of a “reward” left him swinging at air, unable to land a blow.

He’d meant to flaunt his martial prowess, but Xiangzi, as lead puller, framed it as a bid for favor.

On the surface, it was praise; beneath, it underscored their difference in rank.

Jin Fugui’s face flushed red, but he could only grab his cart and rejoin the convoy.

Nearby, Skinny Monkey spat on the ground, muttering, “Fox borrowing the tiger’s might.”

He eyed the refugees, a cruel grin spreading across his thin face. “Brother Jin, just watch. I’ll make him stumble! He won’t hold that lead puller seat long!”

Jin Fugui stayed silent, a ruthless glint in his eyes.

Hordes of refugees, like swarms of ants, swept the outskirts of Forty-Nine City.

Along the way, they passed several groups, each numbering thousands.

“Xiangzi, it’s like this every year. They’re waiting for Marshal Zhang’s mercy day,” Wen San explained, sidling up. “Two months from now, it’s his mother’s birthday. By tradition, the city gates stay open.”

Xiangzi nodded.

In the years Marshal Zhang held Forty-Nine City, he’d open the gates on auspicious days to let refugees in—partly to recruit soldiers, partly to earn goodwill.

Xiangzi, once a landless refugee himself, knew this well.

But the next gate-opening was two months away.

How many of these ragged, starving refugees—especially the children—could survive that long?

Xiangzi sighed inwardly, tearing his gaze from their tattered forms.

In this world, being a good person isn’t easy.

And he, Xiangzi, lacked the means to play the hero.

After some time, the convoy rounded a hollow, and a large manor came into view in the valley—the Li Family Mine.

The road was lined with burly men wielding blades and spears, some even carrying forbidden firearms.

Xiangzi froze—those are powder guns, banned by Marshal Zhang!

Wen San leaned in, chuckling. “The Li family’s been mining here for centuries, even back in the emperor’s day, supplying the palace.”

Xiangzi scanned the guards—most had foundation stance training.

By cultivation level, these outer guards were likely martial artists who’d broken the Vitality Barrier.

Xiangzi was quietly shocked—the Li Family Mine’s strength dwarfs the yards in Forty-Nine City!

No wonder even a titan like Fourth Master Liu relied on them.

At a checkpoint, Xiangzi stepped forward, presenting a travel permit.

A guard leader approached, scrutinizing the document and eyeing the young Xiangzi suspiciously.

“Brother Chen, this is our new lead puller at Harmony Rickshaw Yard, and my brother,” Liu Tang said, dismounting and clasping his fists with a smile.

The man’s eyes lit up at Liu Tang’s arrival, returning the gesture. “Well, Brother Liu, what brings you here in person?”