Panlong's Worton

Chapter 12 Departure

Ciri got up before dawn on the day they set off.

Wharton was awakened by the sounds coming from the kitchen—the clinking of pots and pans, the crackling of firewood, and the bubbling of boiling water. He lay still, listening for a while, then got up and dressed. He wore dark gray linen clothes, thick-soled boots, and a hooded travel cloak over them. Everything was packed in his baggage beside the bed: two changes of clothes, a copy of the Dragonblood Codex, Linley's letter, the thirty gold coins Hogg had given him as pocket money, and a small packet of dried meat made by Ciri.

When I came downstairs, Hogg was already sitting at the dining table. He had a map spread out in front of him, and his finger moved slowly across it, from Wushan Town all the way north, across the border of the Kingdom of Fenlai, into the O'Brien Empire, and finally stopped at the marker next to the imperial capital "Crimson Flame City"—O'Brien Warrior Academy.

"Sit down." Hogg didn't look up.

Wharton sat down. Ciri brought breakfast: porridge, fried eggs, and bacon, a larger portion than usual. The old butler didn't eat himself, but stood by the table watching Wharton, rubbing his hands on his apron.

"Stay with the caravans on the road, don't go alone." Hogg finally looked up from the map. "I've found you a northbound caravan from the Greyhoof Trading Company. The leader is called Buck, I've known him for years, he's trustworthy. Go with them, and he'll take you to the academy to register when you get to Crimson City."

"it is good."

"Keep your money separate. Thirty gold coins: ten in a hidden compartment of your bag, ten sewn into the lining of your clothes, and the remaining ten for personal expenses. Keep your magic crystal card close to your body and don't flaunt your wealth."

"it is good."

"Observe more and talk less in the academy. O'Brien is a martial arts school; people there are straightforward, but they also value ability. You're young, so you might be looked down upon. Don't rush to argue; let your results speak for themselves."

"it is good."

Hogg stared at him for a moment, as if he wanted to say something more, but in the end he just nodded: "Let's eat."

After the meal, the sky began to lighten with the first hint of dawn. Hogg checked Wharton's baggage, tightened the straps, and handed him a short knife. The scabbard was made of ordinary leather, and the blade was less than thirty centimeters long, suitable for a child.

"For self-defense," Hogg said. "Hopefully I won't need it."

Walton took it and tucked it into his waistband. The knife was a bit heavy, but he got used to it.

The sound of horses' hooves and wheels rolling over gravel came from outside. Ciri went out first and soon led in a tall man. He was in his forties, with a square face, dark skin, and a scar on his left eyebrow, but his eyes were gentle.

"Master Hogg," the man nodded in greeting, his gaze falling on Wharton, "This is the young master?"

"Walton Baruch," Hogg introduced. "This is Baruch, the captain of the Greyhoof Trading Company's guards."

Buck crouched down, his gaze level with Walton's: "It'll be over a month on the road; it'll be tough. The convoy won't wait; they'll set off at dawn and camp at dusk, exposed to wind, sun, and rain. Can you manage?"

"Yes," Walton said.

Buck smiled and stood up. "Alright then. The car is waiting at the town entrance; we'll leave in fifteen minutes."

The final moment has arrived.

Hogg escorted Wharton to the door. The morning light had already spread over the eastern hills, turning the stone walls of the manor a warm yellow.

Hogg reached out and placed a firm hand on Wharton's shoulder. He paused for a few seconds, then withdrew his hand: "Let's go."

That's all.

Walton slung his bag over his shoulder and followed Buck out of the manor gates. As he turned the corner, he glanced back—Hogg was still standing at the door, his posture straight, like a stone statue.

Then they were blocked by the wall.

Five horse-drawn carts were parked at the entrance of town. The first four were loaded with goods and covered tightly with tarpaulins, secured with ropes. The last one was a covered wagon for people, with a wooden plank roof and open sides. Seven or eight people, men, women, and children, were already sitting inside, probably traveling merchants.

Buck led Walton to the car and called to a woman inside, "Martha, you can look after this child."

The woman was in her forties, slightly plump, with freckles on her face. She smiled warmly and said, "Oh, such a young child is already running trade routes? Come, come, sit next to your auntie."

Walton climbed into the car and sat in the empty seat the woman had made. His bag was placed at his feet, his hand resting on it.

The other passengers in the car sized him up—it was indeed rare to see a six-year-old traveling alone. But no one asked any questions; everyone has their own story when they're out and about, and it's the rule not to pry.

Buck mounted his horse and shouted from the front, "Let's go!"

The driver cracked his whip, and the wheels creaked as they turned.

Wushan Town receded. The familiar stone-paved road, the low houses, the wooden fence of the training ground, the woods outside the town... gradually shrank, finally disappearing into the morning mist.

Walton kept looking until he could see nothing at all, then he looked away.

Aunt Martha handed me a biscuit: "Haven't had breakfast yet, have you? Here, have something to eat."

"I've already eaten, thank you."

"Take it anyway, you'll get hungry on the road." The woman insisted on giving it to him, then asked, "Are you going to Crimson Flame City to visit relatives?"

"go to school."

"Going to school?" an old man interjected. "O'Brien Academy?"

Walton nodded.

A few low gasps of amazement rose from inside the car. Aunt Martha's eyes lit up: "Wow, that's impressive! I've heard that big shots come out of there, some will become generals!"

"It's still early," Walton said.

"It's good that you have ambition." The old man nodded. "My grandson also wanted to apply to the Warrior Academy, but unfortunately he didn't have the talent, so he can only stay at home and farm."

The conversation flowed smoothly. The people in the car began to talk about their destinations, the business they were going to do, and what they had seen and heard along the way. Wharton listened quietly, occasionally responding. This was an opportunity to understand the outside world—the Magnolia Continent from the perspective of ordinary people, which was different from what was written in books or what Hogg had told them.

At noon, the convoy stopped by the roadside for a rest. Buck arranged for a fire to start a meal: a simple large pot of stew with hard bread. Walton received a portion and squatted by the car to eat.

Buck brought over a bowl and squatted down next to him: "Are you getting used to it?"

"Habit."

"Your dad says you're not very talkative, and I think so too." Buck took a bite of bread. "But it's good this way; less talk means fewer mistakes on the road."

Walton looked at him.

"Heading north from here, once we cross the border of the Kingdom of Fenlai, the road becomes treacherous," Buck said in a low voice. "Although our trading company has been running this route for years and has maintained good relationships, unexpected things can still happen. If you encounter any trouble, remember three things: First, stay in the carriage and don't come out; second, if your goods are stolen, just accept them and don't fight; third, if you get separated from your group, head north along the main road and when you come across a post station, announce the name of Greyhoof Trading Company."

"Will we encounter bandits?"

"It's hard to say," Buck said vaguely. "It depends on luck."

After finishing their meal, they continued their journey. The afternoon sun was blazing, and the covered wagon offered no shade, making everyone feel dizzy from the heat. Aunt Martha gave Walton a damp cloth to wipe his face and handed him a water bag: "Drink plenty of water, don't get heatstroke."

Walton thanked him, took the water pouch, and took a small sip. The coolness of the peppermint water slid down his throat, slightly dispelling the summer heat.

As evening fell, the caravan arrived at its first post station. Calling it a post station was a bit of a stretch; it was really just a courtyard surrounded by several wooden cabins, with a stable, a well, and shared sleeping quarters. Buck was familiar with the post station staff, helping with unloading the cargo, feeding the horses, and arranging lodging.

"Men sleep in the east room, women and children in the west room," Buck assigned. "Walton, you come with me."

The east room was a large, open space with two rows of wooden plank beds covered with hay and coarse cloth mattresses. Several people were already living there, and the smells of sweat and foot odor mingled together. Wharton chose a bed against the wall and put down his luggage.

Dinner was eaten in the courtyard, still the same big pot of stew, but with a little more minced meat. While eating, Walton noticed several other groups of people in the post station—one group looked like mercenaries, well-equipped; another group seemed to be noblemen's servants, guarding several magnificent carriages; and there were a few lone travelers, sitting silently in a corner.

Buck whispered, "Those noble families are going to the O'Brien Empire to do business. The mercenary team took on the escort mission. Lone travelers... don't ask."

Walton nodded.

After the meal, it was completely dark. An oil lamp was lit at the inn, but the light was dim. Buck told Walton to rest early: "We have to leave before dawn tomorrow, so let's make the most of the cool weather."

Walton returned to the dormitory and lay down fully clothed. Snoring soon filled the room, and he opened his eyes to look at the ceiling, where slivers of starlight peeked through the cracks in the wooden planks.

The panel unfolded in my mind, displaying a few simple lines of text:

【Itinerary: Wushan Town → Beijing Inn (Day 1)】

[Physical condition: Mild fatigue, adequately hydrated]

[Recommendation: Ensure adequate sleep; basic guided exercises can be performed tomorrow to maintain activity]

He closed the panel and shut his eyes.

Unfamiliar surroundings, unfamiliar people, yet a surprising calm within. Perhaps it's because I was prepared—I knew from the day I crossed over that I would leave Wushan Town and take this route. Now I'm simply proceeding according to plan.

Fell asleep.

The next few days followed the same rhythm: setting off before dawn, resting at noon, and arriving at the post station in the evening. The road conditions were inconsistent, sometimes smooth official roads, sometimes bumpy dirt roads. The weather also changed several times—we encountered sunshine, overcast skies, and rain.

On the fourth day, it rained. The covered wagon couldn't keep out the rain, and everyone inside was soaked to the bone. Aunt Martha pulled Walton over to her and used a piece of oilcloth to barely cover him: "This child is frail; don't let him catch a cold."

Wharton thanked him and kept the favor in mind.

On the seventh day, the convoy entered the mountains. The road narrowed, with a mountain wall on one side and a cliff on the other. The convoy slowed down, and Buck rode ahead on horseback to scout the way, his expression visibly tense.

Unable to find a suitable place to rest at noon, they ate a simple meal of dry rations by the roadside. Buck ordered his guards to draw their swords and surround the convoy.

"There are wolf packs in this area, and occasionally even ground dragons," he explained briefly. "Be vigilant."

Walton's hand rested on the hilt of his short knife. He had never killed anyone, but three years of training had given his body an instinctive reaction—his breathing slowed, his muscles tensed slightly, and his gaze swept across the forest on either side.

Fortunately, nothing bad happened. They arrived safely at the mountain inn in the evening, and Buck breathed a sigh of relief before going for a drink with the innkeeper.

On the thirteenth day, the caravan left the border of the Kingdom of Fenlai. The checkpoint was simple: soldiers inspected the goods and documents, collected taxes, and waved them through. But once they crossed the border, the scene changed.

The roads are wider and better maintained. The village houses along the way also have different structures—in Finley, they are mostly made of wood and stone, while here they are more often made entirely of stone, with weapons or animal head decorations on the walls. Pedestrians also dress more simply and neatly, and the elaborate robes of Finley nobles are rarely seen.

"O'Brien people are martial and look down on showy people," Buck said. "Here, ability speaks for itself. If you're capable, you'll be respected even in burlap; if you're not, you'll be laughed at even in gold and silver."

After a few more days of travel, Walton gradually grew accustomed to the journey. Every morning and evening, he secretly practiced his guiding exercises—getting up early at the inn, or after everyone had gone to sleep at night, finding a corner to do a set. He dared not make the movements too large, only maintaining the activity of his blood vessels. His progress was recorded on the panel:

[Dragonblood Warrior Basic Guidance Technique]

[Proficiency: 2.1%]

[Blood vessel activity maintained: stable]

[Physical Foundation: Continuously Strengthening]

Nutrition was a problem. The food on the road was rough and not enough energy. Wharton could feel that his progress was slower than in Wushan Town, but he wasn't in a hurry—in the foundational stage, stability was more important than speed.

On the twenty-second day, the first accident occurred.

They're not bandits, they're monsters.

The convoy was passing through a dense forest when suddenly the horses carrying the goods became startled and began to whinny, trying to break free of their reins. Buck immediately shouted for a halt, and the guards formed a circle around them.

A low growl came from the woods, the bushes rustled, and three gray hyenas emerged. They were a size larger than ordinary dogs, with red eyes and drool at the corners of their mouths, clearly starving.

"Level 1 magical beasts, not difficult to deal with, but there are many of them." Buck quickly ordered, "The guards advance, everyone else retreat!"

Walton was pulled to the back of the car by Aunt Martha. He crouched down and peered through the gap in the dashboard.

The guard consisted of eight men, plus Buck, making nine in total. They approached the hyenas in pairs. The air was thick with the clatter of blades, the roars, the dull thuds of knives cutting into flesh, and the hyenas' howls.

The battle ended quickly. Three hyenas fell, and two members of the guard sustained minor injuries. Buck had the cargo inspected to ensure the horses were unharmed, then they dealt with the hyena carcasses—the magic cores were dug out, the hides were removed, and the edible parts of the meat were cut off for dinner.

"Do you encounter this often?" Walton asked Buck, who had returned to the car.

"It depends on the location." Buck wiped the blood off his knife. "There are a lot of monsters on this road, but they're not high level. The real danger is over at 'Black Wind Canyon,' but we'll take a detour."

He glanced at Wharton: "Are you scared?"

"I'm not afraid."

Buck laughed: "Like your father's son."

They continued on their journey. That night, they ate hyena meat—rough and with a strong fishy smell, but it was meat nonetheless. Walton silently finished it, thinking that the Dragonblood Warrior's diet should include monster meat—higher energy and beneficial to the bloodline.

That evening at the inn, he approached Buck for the first time.

"Uncle Buck, what do you usually do with the monster materials you encounter on the road?"

"We'll see." Buck was maintaining his bow and arrows. "The valuable ones, like magic cores and complete pelts, I'll bring back to town and sell. The rest I'll keep for myself, or just dispose of them here. Interested?"

"I'd like to know."

Buck sized him up: "That's true. You're going to be a warrior someday, so you'll have to deal with magical beasts sooner or later." He put down his bow and began to explain in detail, "Level one magical beast materials aren't worth much. Magical cores are around ten gold coins, and the pelts depend on their condition. Level two and above are valuable, and materials from level three and above are highly sought after. However, hunting magical beasts is risky, and often the losses outweigh the gains."

"Do caravans specifically hunt them?"

"No. We're in business, not taking risks. Unless we run into something like today, or happen to encounter an injured low-level magical beast along the way, we won't provoke them." Buck paused. "You want to make money off this?"

Walton did not deny it.

"It's still early." Buck patted him on the shoulder. "Learn your skills first. Think about these things when you've reached the strength of a level three warrior."

After that day, Walton observed even more closely. He memorized every mercenary group he encountered on the road, every lone traveler, and every conversation about monsters he overheard at inns. This was real, living knowledge that couldn't be found in books.

On the thirty-first day, the convoy arrived at Ironrock, a major city in the central part of the O'Brien Empire. Buck announced a two-day rest period.

"Horses need changing horseshoes, goods need replenishing, and people need a break," he said. "You can wander around the city, but don't cause trouble. Iron Rock City has strict laws; anyone caught fighting in the street will be arrested regardless of who's right or wrong."

Walton followed Aunt Martha into the city. The streets were wider than those of Finlay, and the buildings were square and tall, with little decoration but exuding a sense of power. Pedestrians walked quickly and spoke loudly, and it was common to see people carrying weapons on the streets—not just warriors, but also merchants and commoners, most of whom wore short knives or daggers at their waists.

"A martial spirit," Aunt Martha whispered. "Here, children start practicing the basics as early as five or six years old."

They bought some supplies at the market. Walton noticed the prices—weapons and armor were cheaper than in Fenrir, but food and cloth were slightly more expensive. There were many stalls selling Warcraft materials, and business was booming.

Back at the inn that evening, Walton perused the "Dragon's Blood Codex" by the light of an oil lamp. He had seen several of the unfamiliar herbs in the bath recipes at the market in Ironrock City, and they were indeed quite expensive.

The money is still not enough. The nine thousand gold coins Lin Lei gave us are enough to cover two years' tuition and living expenses, so we can't afford to spend them recklessly. We need to find another way to get the medicinal herbs.

After resting, we continued north.