In the swirling yellow sand, the convoy trudged on.

Spring was nearly over, yet the north wind showed no sign of relenting, growing fiercer.

The tiger demon’s delay had pushed their return late.

Normally, a round trip took half a day.

Now, with the sun overhead, they were only halfway back. At this pace, they’d reach Yongchang Gate by late afternoon.

Xiangzi wanted to speed up, but after the long standoff with the tiger demon, the pullers were panting like bellows, unable to hasten.

“Rest a bit.”

At a high slope, Xiangzi set down his cart handle and called out.

The pullers, as if pardoned, scattered far from the carts—the five-color ore drained vitality the most.

By contrast, Xiangzi stood calm, his lower body rooted in a stance.

The pullers, seeing this, were quietly amazed. Such diligence in a young man is rare.

After the tiger demon incident, even the most defiant held only respect.

[Four-Square Horse Stance +2]

[Progress: 625/1500 (Great Mastery)]

With vitality soup’s aid and months of grueling work on the mining route, his stance had reached great mastery over a month ago.

By martial hall terms, this was “breaking the vitality gate.”

In under three months, a commoner achieving this was astonishing.

Now, Xiangzi was just a bone-strengthening tonic away from the ninth-rank Bone Forging Realm.

The vitality in his dantian, thick as a child’s arm, was double that of an average vitality-gate martial man. Even Uncle Jie, with nearly twenty years of training, might not compare.

Lately, Xiangzi could spar a few moves with Master Tang—using only sixty percent of his strength.

This robust vitality let him wield his short spear under the tiger demon’s pressure.

But today’s young martial hall disciples had shocked him deeply.

Especially that robust youth—wounding a peak ninth-rank tiger demon with a single arrow?

Xiangzi was a step from ninth rank, yet before that Baolin inner disciple, he felt like a clumsy oaf.

Was this the eighth-rank Muscle-Strengthening Realm?

Truly, each rank was a new heaven, the gap like cloud and mud.

He needed to find a way into a martial hall. He couldn’t stay in this little rickshaw yard forever.

Xiangzi chuckled wryly.

With this mess still unresolved, he was already dreaming of martial halls?

Besides, a puller like him—where would he find a chance to join one?

Sighing, he pushed aside his tangled thoughts and gazed into the distance.

The world seemed cloaked in a thick yellow curtain of sand, dimming even the sunlight.

For some reason, unease stirred faintly in Xiangzi’s heart.

During the break, Wen San approached, rubbing his hands. “Xiangzi, the brothers are beat. How about a fire and some hot food before we move?”

Thanks to Xiangzi, Wen San was now called “Master Wen” in the second-class courtyard.

After all, Xiangzi called him “Third Brother”!

Some whispered he’d lucked into Xiangzi’s favor, but he just grinned, retorting, “Why didn’t you see Xiangzi’s worth back then?” and they’d hang their heads.

Who else but Wen San and Old Ma had helped Xiangzi when he was shunned in the second-class courtyard?

Taking a flatbread from Wen San, Xiangzi bit into it, his gaze sweeping the dense refugees below the slope.

“Third Brother, a fire’s too much trouble. Make do with the flatbread. We move in the time it takes an incense stick to burn.”

Xiangzi spoke firmly. “Tell the brothers to grit their teeth. Once we’re in the city, I’ll treat everyone to drinks!”

Wen San grinned and relayed the message.

Cheers erupted, all praising “Master Xiang’s generosity.”

Uncle Jie watched Xiangzi, smiling warmly. In just over a month, Xiangzi had solidified his role as yard leader, his knack for winning hearts seeming innate.

Hard to believe he was only eighteen.

Jin Fu Gui, also chewing a flatbread, looked sour, with only Skinny Monkey by his side.

These days, though no one dared say it, he’d lost all favor.

Skinny Monkey bit his flatbread viciously, his gaze darting to the ant-like refugee crowd below, whispering, “Brother Jin, don’t worry. That guy’s in for it soon!”

Jin Fu Gui said nothing, touching the dagger at his waist and nodding lightly.

After enduring so long, today was finally the day.

A ruthless glint flashed in his eyes.

Finishing his second flatbread, Xiangzi stood, gripping the cart handle, ready to call out. But his gaze swept the slope below and froze.

Uncle Jie followed his look, his face paling.

In their brief delay, a large group of refugees had gathered at the slope’s base.

Unlike the usual frail elderly and children, these were mostly young men.

Uncle Jie raised an arm, and with a clang, his two short spears snapped out. A flick of his wrist formed a four-foot spear.

The spearhead traced a round arc, sending a low hum through the swirling sand.

A black triangular flag, edged with gold thread, fluttered in the wind.

In Great Shun days, this flag was a token of “imperial passage.”

But it didn’t deter the refugees. Instead, like a flickering candle, it drew their gazes.

Like wind over grass, it sparked envy and suspicion. The desperate urge to survive and greed built, igniting a wildfire.

The young refugees’ eyes gleamed—someone had said that morning, rush the slope, and there’d be food!

They saw clearly—the pullers on the slope held yellow cornbread!

The refugee crowd stirred.

The young men shouted something and charged up.

Then, the usually numb elderly and children followed, surging forward.

Their eyes burned with a strange flame—the will to live born of despair!

“Enemy attack!”

“Everyone, grab your weapons!”

Xiangzi gripped his short spear, standing abruptly, roaring into the gale.

His heart pounded wildly.

The worst fear had come true.

The dense mass of heads surged like a tidal wave toward the hill.

In the chaos, some refugees fell, trampled into silence, leaving only bloodstains.

The refugee tide had come.