Zhao Ming sat inside the carriage near the coach, listening to the rhythmic creak of wooden wheels against the dirt road. The caravan was well-guarded—hired mercenaries rode alongside them, their hands never far from their weapons. Among them was a group of martial artists, easily identified by their matching purple robes and swords strapped to their waists.
The coach, a middle-aged man with sunburned skin and sharp eyes, struck up a conversation.
"Haven't seen you around before, scholar. Heading to Zhou County for the exams?"
Zhao Ming gave a vague nod. "Something like that. What about you? How’s trade these days?"
The man let out a sigh. "Not great. Grain prices keep rising. The Yellow Turbans are stirring trouble, and the local warlords are hoarding supplies. War is coming, no doubt about it. Ordinary folks are suffering the most—food is getting scarce."
Zhao Ming absorbed the information. He had heard of the Yellow Turban Rebellion, but hearing about it firsthand made it feel much more real.
The coach lowered his voice and nodded toward the leading carriages. "See those young ones in purple? They’re from the Azure Cloud Sword Sect. The sect is near Zhou County, and their disciples take on tasks like guarding caravans."
Zhao Ming narrowed his eyes. The world was not just about officials and warlords—sects, martial arts, and the jianghu also played a role in shaping history. If he wanted to survive, he needed to understand it all.
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After nearly four hours of travel, Murong De called for a stop. The caravan pulled off the road, setting up camp in a small clearing. Some men busied themselves gathering firewood, while others tended to the horses or prepared dinner. The aroma of cooked rice and roasted meat soon filled the air.
Zhao Ming was invited to dine with Murong De, Murong Xue, and the sect disciples.
There were four disciples in total—Murong Xue, a composed senior sister, a broad-shouldered senior brother, and a hot-blooded junior brother named Chen.
As they ate, Chen turned to Zhao Ming with a smirk. "So, scholar, what are you doing traveling to Zhou County?"
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Zhao Ming took a sip of his tea before answering. "I am to meet my teacher there. He has recommended me for an official position."
Chen snorted. "Another scholar trying to squeeze into the imperial courts."
Before Zhao Ming could reply, Senior Sister Liu added thoughtfully, "Politics and governance are important, but you must understand that martial arts hold great influence over war and power struggles as well."
Zhao Ming nodded. "I agree. Martial arts shape the battlefield, but war is not fought by generals and soldiers alone. The common people determine the rise and fall of empires. The Yellow Turban Rebellion did not start because of a great warrior, but because commoners were starving, oppressed, and had no hope."
Murong Xue, who had been quietly listening, lowered her chopsticks, deep in thought.
Chen scoffed. "And what does a scholar like you know about war? Even if you become an official, can you really solve these problems?"
Zhao Ming chuckled lightly. "Who knows? Perhaps I will become a wise minister… or maybe a corrupt one."
Chen’s expression darkened, and he opened his mouth to retort, but before he could, Senior Brother Fang cut in, his voice calm but firm. "Enough, Chen. Every man walks his own path. It is not for us to judge."
Chen clicked his tongue but said nothing more.
Dinner continued in relative peace, with Zhao Ming occasionally glancing at Murong Xue, who seemed unusually pensive.
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Later that night, as Zhao Ming took a walk around the camp, he noticed Murong Xue standing near the main campfire, gazing into the flickering flames.
He approached with a polite nod. "Miss Murong, is something troubling you?"
Murong Xue turned to him, her eyes sharp. “What do you think of the Yellow Turbans and the state of the common people?”
Zhao Ming took a moment before replying. “The problem is simple, yet complicated. It all stems from the low status of commoners. Most people only need the basics to live happily—food, clothing, shelter. But when the government is corrupt, taxes are high, and officials abuse their power, those basic needs become luxuries.”
Murong Xue frowned. “But commoners can report corrupt officials to a magistrate. A good official would protect them.”
Zhao Ming chuckled, though there was no humor in his voice. “Trust in the government is already broken. When the system fails, people turn to whatever hope they can find—even if it is false. The Yellow Turbans are not just rebels; they are desperate people grasping at a promise, even if it's a lie. To them, false hope is better than dying in despair.”
Murong Xue remained silent, lost in thought. The firelight flickered in her eyes, casting long shadows across her face.
For the first time, Zhao Ming felt that she was truly considering his words.
Sensing that she needed time to reflect, Zhao Ming took a step back and offered a slight bow. "It’s been a long day. I shall take my leave and rest for the night. Good evening, Miss Murong."
Murong Xue gave a small nod but said nothing as Zhao Ming turned away. After a brief pause, she let out a quiet sigh and made her way back to Murong De’s tent to rest.