Escort

With nothing to do, Qigang took out the rusted shortsword he had gotten earlier from his robe. It sat on his hands, appearing unremarkable, dull. Neither moonlight nor torchlight reflected on it; it did not make it sheen, at all. Instead, it remained brown, rough, unsharp, unintimidating.

He wandered the lively streets of nighttime Huo, seeming to contemplate, his eyes plastered onto the rusted shortsword in his right. He ignored all else but his blade, whether it be the shouting of vendors, or the other ten thousand sounds which filled his ears.

"Selling whetstones!" Within the endless shoutings, Qigang's ears picked up an elder's shout. "Only seven taels!"

He turned his head, and his eyes landed on a shabby-looking cart leaned onto an alleyway. It was filled with hard, gray slabs—whetstones, just as advertised. A bald elder in clothes which bordered rags stood beside it, shouting.

He noticed Qigang's gaze and waved, beckoning him to come over, smiling. "Come here, young man. That blade of yours looks like it needs some sharpening."

Qigang approached and neared the cart. He picked up a whetstone and winced. "7 taels?" he asked.

"We can negotiate," said the vendor. "It seems like a high price, but it's worth it for what it is. These are from Silverblade mountain!"

Qigang's heart stirred, but he quickly calmed down and smiled. "Silverblade mountain?"

The vendor nodded. "Yes. Silverblade mountain. The one in the north where the Martial King Tempest Blade resides. It is said that it is blessed, and the rocks and stones there are holy. These whetstones are those. Just for 4 taels."

"I thought it was seven?" asked Qigang. But before the old vendor could answer, he took out the small bag of taels and took out eight silver trinkets, throwing them on the cart before taking two whetstones, leaving right after.

If it was Silverblade mountain, then there was no doubt that these whetstones were special in some way or another.

"Four left," said Qigang as he peeked into the bag, much smaller and lighter than it was a moment ago.

He found some stairs by the road to sit on and pulled out his shortsword once again, as rusty as ever. He put down the whetstone on the ground, then put his palms onto both sides of the shortsword, the tip and hilt, putting it at an angle before rubbing it on the whetstone. Sparks flew off, attracting the brief gazes of curious passersby.

A few minutes passed, and the rust was visibly disappearing. An extravagant gleam revealed itself under the layer of brown, reflecting lantern lights. "It's special," said Qigang.

He continued sharpening, and a minute later, all the rust disappeared. The blade now gleamed in yellow light, a proud sheen, a sharp contrast to the previous image of a rusted blade which would have made one laugh if it was pointed at them.

It was probably sharper than it was before it was rusty, thought Qigang. He looked towards the whetstone, and it looked as though it had not been used, as though it was brand new.

"Good sword," said a familiar, old voice. "That slab too." Qigang turned around to find Old Xian, sitting down, smiling, with a cup of tea in his hand as though he had been there since long ago. The old man smiled.

Qigang grunted. "When?"

"A minute or two ago," replied the old man. He sipped his tea and smiled once again. "I found an inn. Free, too."

"An inn! It's Huo's teahouse, isn't it?" said Qigang with a grin.

Old Xian snorted and stood up, and Qigang followed behind. They quickly headed towards the teahouse, ignoring the calls of the night vendors as they walked.

Around a minute passed, and they finally reached the teahouse. Shopkeeper Huo was still sitting inside, reading a poem while drinking tea just as before. He greeted the two with a smile, especially Old Xian. "Welcome back."

Old Xian nodded and walked behind the counter, through a door. Inside was a tight hallway, old paintings of mountains and rivers covering the wooden walls left and right. The path eventually opened up into a square room, one not much smaller than the tea room out front, small but homely.

One bed and two low mattresses sat on the ground. A small shrine sat on the right, a painting of shopkeeper Huo and a woman who seemed to be his wife sitting on it, besides an incense stick that had just worn off. A dusty yet nostalgic smell lingered in the air.

Old Xian dropped onto one of the mattresses and closed his eyes, snoring just a few seconds after. Qigang did the same, though he did not have such an easy time sleeping.

His life had flipped in a single day, and no longer did he have to play the role of a mad beggar, he thought. Perhaps, if it's like this, he might have a chance for revenge.

******

The night went by without interruptions. Shafts of light shone in through a high window Qigang had failed to see last night.

And at some point, shopkeeper Huo entered the room and laid down on the bed, letting out snores louder than Old Xian's, as well as mumbling something about tea leaves.

Old Xian was no longer there. Qigang assumed that he had gone out earlier. He tidied up his hair before going out, through the hallway with old paintings, then out front to the teashop.

Old Xian sat by a table with a cup of hot tea, looking outside while occasionally taking a sip. He turned his head as Qigang came out. "You're up," he said. "Some guys came and told us to go to the headquarters. That manor from yesterday."

Qigang nodded and headed out. It was still early, and the sun had just risen a few moments ago. The sky was still a dark blue, with some tinges of orange from the rising sun. Vendors had just begun to set up shop, and, compared to last night, the streets were much emptier. Only a few early birds walked around here and there.

Old Xian followed behind, muttering something about having to drink hot tea quickly being bad for his old gums. The old man followed Qigang as he walked to the

Blacksword headquarters.

A little less than an hour passed. The Blacksword manor appeared in the distance, just as grand as Qigang had remembered. Two guards stood outside, and they looked towards the two with slight disdain.

There were already people inside, though much less than yesterday; only a little more than a hundred people, Qigang supposed, and they were all uniformed. Someone stood on the platform, though this time it was not the black-robed earlier from yesterday, but the scar-faced middle-aged man who recruited them.

"They're all beggars," said Old Xian. "Posture."

Qigang nodded. He also saw some faces he remembered from yesterday, faces of beggars. Only a few men who looked trained stood in the crowd of newly recruited beggars, much less in numbers.

"That's enough of you," said the scar-faced man. "We're going to do an escort mission. The other members are away, and the ones who are close not in best condition."

The crowd started to whisper before the man continued. "Hurry up and get ready, go to the Western Gate when you are. Four hours. We depart in four hours."

"Doing a mission with untrained beggars?" whispered Old Xian, lifting a brow.

"You said we would be paper tigers," said Qigang, "but it looks like we might become cannon fodder instead."

Old Xian smiled. "You look calm, boy."

Qigang smiled back as though to say 'you too.'

Amidst their conversation, the members inside the courtyard began to whisper, venting their uncertainty. Old Xian walked away towards the western gate without saying anything. Qigang followed.

The sun continued to rise, and more and more people appeared, walking the streets, running errands, setting up shop. Much fewer yellow and orange lanterns remained shining, most of them having gone out. Birds chirped, calling.

Since the Blacksword Gang's headquarters was already in the western part of the city, the journey to the Western Gate did not take very long. Old Xian took a lot of shortcuts, too, shortcuts Qigang did not know about until now, winding alleyways and all.

Around two hours passed, and a large wall revealed itself in the distance, thick, as tall as a hundred men piled up. A large, wooden gate stood on the center of the wall, gigantic red pillars guarding both sides along with armored guardsmen.

Qigang and Old Xian noticed carriages and carts parked on the right side by the gate, carried by horses and oxen. A good number of Blacksword members stood and sat around it, members who looked well-trained, different from the newly recruited beggars from earlier.

Another thing of note was a certain carriage, wooden yet ornate with gold engravings, carried by a black horse larger than the others. A silhouette sat inside through the window.

"Guess we have to escort that," said Qigang.

Old Xian smiled and approached one of the carts. It was carried by a smaller mare, appearing older than the others, worn-out in some places. Some wooden crates were piled up on the cart, along with barrels. There was no roof.

"Looks like this is a dangerous mission," he said. He took out his knife and pointed it towards the Blacksword members sitting around. "Posture."

Qigang nodded. "They're all experts." He glanced at Old Xian and smiled. To be able to know amateurs from posture made sense, but to know

As more time passed, more carriages arrived from the main road, carrying goods blanketed by white cloth, followed by Blackswords members. More and more arrived, and at some point, the scar-faced man arrived on a brown mare, tall and muscular.

The Western gate was eventually filled with Blacksword members, hundreds—more than twice the amount of beggars that met up in headquarters—such that there were more men in dark-blue uniforms than citizens, merchants, and coachmen combined.

Some of them rode horses, some on foot, while some sat on the carriages that came—but regardless of how they came, they all carried blades, some hanging on their waists, some being held in their heads, sheathed.

"That person must be royalty?" remarked Old Xian. He turned his head and glanced towards the figure inside the ornate carriage, rubbing his chin. Qigang, too, turned his head. "Must be someone important."

But before he could make any remark, a whistle echoed, and everyone turned their heads towards the scar-faced man. A burly red-haired man sat next to him, incredibly tall, on a black horse, his outfit black, and the only thing indicating his belonging to the Blacksword Gang being a badge hanging on his waist.

The scar-faced whistled once again. "Get ready, we are departing in ten minutes!"

The members scrambled towards the carriages and carts, sticking to their sides as they all moved towards the middle of the road, facing the Western gate. The neighing of horses filled the air along with shouts, both endless.

The cart Old Xian and Qigang were sitting on also moved, the coachman turning the horse towards the road, facing the Western gate, joining the long file of carriages and carts. It was somewhere in the middle, neither too far back nor too far to the front.

Eventually, a neat, long line of carts and carriages was formed, sided by sword-carrying men in dark-blue uniforms, filling the entire street.

"Isn't this exciting?" remarked Old Xian. "With this many men, it looks like we're about to invade a country."

Qigang smiled. He took out the whetstone he had bought yesterday and began sharpening his sword as though it gave him ease. "I have a bad feeling about this," he said in a tone far from that of worry.

Then, with the neighing of horses, the clattering of wheels, and a whistle, the journey began.