The Martial Saint Started from Scavenging

Before dawn, Ye Sheng went out.

He carried with him the last nine copper coins and a section of "Fengwu Zhi" (a local chronicle) that he had meticulously copied from the back of an old piece of paper with charcoal the night before. This was his proof of copying the text for his examination at the garrison headquarters.

Old Liu lived in a slightly better wooden house at the east end of the ferry crossing. He used to be a small leader in the boat gang, but he retired after injuring his leg and made a living by connecting boats and pumping water.

The migrants both resented his exploitation and had no choice but to rely on his connections.

When Ye Sheng knocked on the door, Master Liu was drinking porridge with pickled vegetables. He glanced at him and said, "Kid, you've figured it out? I'll still keep that job at the pharmacy for you for half a day."

Ye Sheng didn't stand on ceremony and went straight to the point: "Master Liu, I want to go to Blackstone Town to copy some documents."

Master Liu sneered, put down his bowl, and said, "You? You think you can take on literary work just because you know a few broken characters? The threshold of the garrison is much higher than the door frame of your shack."

Ye Sheng didn't speak, but handed over the sheet of paper in his hand. The paper was the back of an account book he had picked up by the river, but the charcoal characters were clear and neat, with paragraphs aligned.

Master Liu squinted at Ye Sheng for a while, then looked him up and down. He saw that although the young man's clothes were tattered, his eyes were calm and his back was straight, unlike the timid and cowering common vagrants.

"Hmm, the handwriting is not bad."

Master Liu said slowly, "I can get temporary travel permits. I'll take 50%, you know the rules. But let me make this clear beforehand: the garrison commander's steward is surnamed Zhao. That guy has a very sharp eye and hates being deceived. If you slip up or your status as a migrant worker is exposed, don't drag me into it."

"Understood." Ye Sheng nodded.

"A deposit of ten copper coins, and after the travel permit is issued, I will receive a cut."

Ye Sheng silently counted out eight copper coins, then placed the half of the rusty woodcutter's knife he had picked up on the table: "Uncle Liu, this is all I have left. This half of the woodcutter's knife is still usable, so it'll be worth two coins."

Master Liu weighed his wood-chopping knife in his hand and waved his hand: "Alright, you seem to be a tough guy. Come back this afternoon to pick up your travel permit."

The travel permit was a thin wooden plaque with the words "temporary service" and the date written on it in cinnabar, and a blurry stamp on the back.

Ye Sheng held it in his hand, feeling it was light as a feather, yet as heavy as a thousand pounds.

Don't underestimate this travel permit. In this world, as a homeless person, if you leave the land without a travel permit and are caught by the patrolmen, you will be punished with a beating or even lose your life.

From Shuilongdu to Heishi Town, a distance of fifty li (approximately 25 kilometers), Ye Sheng walked for a full four hours. He developed blisters on his feet, popped them, tore off pieces of his clothing to wrap around them, and continued walking.

He passed through two small villages along the way, where stray dogs chased after him, barking, and farmers in the fields cast wary glances his way. He also encountered patrolmen, who, upon seeing Ye Sheng's makeshift travel permit, did not make things difficult for him, but their attitude was indifferent.

A wanderer is unwelcome everywhere.

By the time the rammed earth walls of Blackstone Town came into view, the sun was already setting.

The wall wasn't high, but it separated the inside from the outside into two worlds. There were lazy local soldiers guarding the city gate, checking the registration cards or travel permits of people entering the town.

Ye Sheng took a deep breath, stepped forward, and handed over the guide.

The local militiaman glanced at him, then looked at his tattered clothes, and snorted, "A temporary officer? Go find Steward Zhao at the back gate of the garrison headquarters."

After saying that, he waved his hand and let them pass.

Stepping onto the cobblestone street, Ye Sheng felt a sense of disorientation.

Although it is just a small border town, there are shops on both sides with signs, and although the pedestrians are not dressed smartly, most of them are neat.

The aroma of steamed buns and cooked food wafted in the air, causing Ye Sheng's empty stomach to convulse.

He suppressed the urge to look around and eat, swallowed hard, lowered his head and walked quickly, following the direction he had inquired about, until he found the dusty back alley of the garrison.

Arriving at a small courtyard, the door was open, and the sounds of an abacus and faint shouts could be heard from inside.

Ye Sheng stopped at the door, steadied his breathing, and then raised his hand to knock.

Who is it?

A thin, middle-aged man wearing a gray cloth long gown and sporting a mustache poked his head out, his eyes sharp and discerning.

"Greetings, Steward Zhao. This is Ye Sheng, here to perform the temporary task of copying documents." Ye Sheng bowed and handed over the travel permit and the copying paper with both hands.

Manager Zhao didn't take it. He only glanced at the wooden sign before turning his attention to the copy paper and reading a few lines.

"Did you write these words?"

"Yes."

"Come in."

Then, Ye Sheng walked into the courtyard and looked around.

The courtyard was cluttered with miscellaneous items, and two large vats sat in the corner. The main room served as a study, with account books and files piled on the table and floor, exuding the smell of old paper, ink, and dust.

At that moment, a young shop assistant was checking the accounts with a bitter face. He shrank back when Manager Zhao glared at him.

Manager Zhao pulled an old booklet from the pile of papers, flipped to the middle, and pointed to a page: "Copy this section, use the paper and ink over there, I'll give you fifteen minutes."

Those were records of local land taxes, written in illegible handwriting and with many corrections.

Ye Sheng stared intently, and the rudimentary talent brought by his [literacy] skills allowed him to barely make out the contents.

He laid out the paper, dipped his brush in ink, and began to copy the text, stroke by stroke, with a calm and focused mind.

Manager Zhao initially watched casually. But gradually, his expression changed.

He walked up behind Ye Sheng with his hands behind his back, his gaze falling on the paper. The handwriting was even and neat, the structure upright, though it lacked any particular style, the horizontal and vertical strokes were straight and clearly legible.

What is most commendable is that the young man was able to fill in the scribbled and blurred parts of the accounts with great accuracy, based on the context, and his writing was steady and without the slightest sign of panic.

Fifteen minutes later, Ye Sheng put down his pen and stood with his hands hanging down.

Manager Zhao picked up the paper and examined it again closely in the window light, pointing to several key areas: "Here, the original record says seven and three-tenths mu, why did you write seven and three-tenths mu?"

"Reporting to the steward, I noticed that similar items on the previous page were all marked as 'again,' but there was ink smudge here, so I guessed it was a missing word and added it as usual."

"Hmm." Manager Zhao remained noncommittal, put down the paper, and looked Ye Sheng over again. "Have you been to school?"

My late father taught me some basic literacy.

"Migrant household?"

Ye Sheng's heart tightened. After a moment of silence, he whispered, "Yes."

Manager Zhao showed no surprise. Most migrant workers who wanted temporary jobs would follow Liu the Cripple's route; he had seen it many times.

He tapped the sheet of paper: "The writing is sufficient, and the person is fairly reliable, but..."

He drew out the word, his whiskers twitched slightly, and his eyes revealed his usual calculating nature.

"The documents of the garrison headquarters, even if they are just temporary copies, are a matter of appearance. Your attire is really indecent. Besides, there are always risks involved in employing migrant workers."

"I need to smooth things over with everyone, to silence any gossip."

Ye Sheng understood, and his heart sank: "I wonder... how much do you need?"

Steward Zhao held up three fingers: "Three hundred coins, not for me, but for the tea money of the gentlemen in the manor. Once you pay, you can start work tomorrow, paid thirty coins a day, for ten days to start."

"Three hundred coins!"

Ye Sheng was shocked. He only had one copper coin left in his pocket, which he had saved to buy half a steamed bun on the way back. The half rusty woodcutter's knife and the eight copper coins that Master Liu had taken earlier were all he had.

He opened his mouth, his throat dry: "Manager, the boy is in dire need right now, could you deduct it from his wages, or give me a few days to raise the money?"

Upon hearing this, Manager Zhao's expression turned cold, and the admiration he had shown earlier vanished like a receding tide, leaving only a cold, businesslike indifference.

"Rules are rules."

He picked up the old booklet and put it back in the pile of papers, as if nothing had happened.

"If you don't have money to bribe anyone, it's no use talking to them. The garrison headquarters isn't a charity. You should go back."

His tone was calm, yet it struck Ye Sheng's heart like a cold stone.

Ye Sheng stood there, watching Manager Zhao turn around and reprimand the accountant, his back view exuding a cold indifference.

At that moment, he felt that the neat handwriting on the piece of paper in his arms seemed utterly ridiculous.

He thought that with his fairly neat handwriting, he could make a living. But he forgot that in this world, especially between the migrants and the registered, what stands between them is never just the quality of their handwriting, but also many other things that he is powerless to overcome.

Rights, nationality, identity.

If you lack all three of these qualities, you'll have to resort to bribery. What good is good handwriting then?

Suddenly, a surge of powerlessness, resentment, and self-mockery welled up inside him, but Ye Sheng suppressed it.

He silently put away the scrap of paper that no one would look at anymore, and said in a very low voice to Manager Zhao's back, "Thank you for your guidance, Manager."

Then he turned, walked out of the courtyard, and stepped into the deepening twilight. The faint hope he had brought with him had now completely vanished.

The road back seemed longer and colder than the way there.

Ye Sheng didn't leave the town immediately. He walked quickly along the wall, almost running, as if trying to leave the embarrassment and pain behind.

He only slowed down when he was far away from the naval base area, his chest tight with anxiety.

As darkness fell, scattered lights appeared in the town, wisps of smoke rose from chimneys, and the aroma of food grew even stronger.

Ye Sheng's stomach was empty, but he didn't feel hungry; he only felt a cold, clear-headedness.

He realized his shame. Not shame for being a commoner, but shame for harboring such naive thoughts. He thought that with just a little skill, he could open that door.

Whether in past lives or this life, some rules are so similar, yet so cold.

Ye Sheng clenched his fist tightly; the pain made him even more alert.

The road must go on; life must go on. But we can no longer rely on such naive luck.

Unbeknownst to him, Ye Sheng had reached the edge of town, a secluded corner piled with garbage and debris.

The place reeked of a mixture of smells and overflowed with sewage, a stark contrast to the cleanliness of the town. Piles of broken baskets, rotten wood, and shards of pottery lay scattered about, discarded waste from the townspeople.

Ye Sheng intended to leave directly, but when his gaze swept over the pile of garbage, his eyes lit up slightly.

The progress bar for "Scavenging (Beginner)" has somehow jumped to "99/100".

It's almost there.

He paused, hesitated for a moment, and then walked over.

Since things are already like this, I might as well give it a try. Scavenging may depend on luck, but at this moment, it's the only thing I can actively do.

Ye Sheng crouched down, enduring the stench, and rummaged through the tattered scraps with his hands. His movements were practiced and focused, and he temporarily forgot his earlier frustration.

Broken tiles, tattered cloth, moldy bamboo strips... nothing of value.

The progress bar remains stuck at [99/100], not moving an inch.

However, just as he was about to give up, his fingers touched a hard object, buried under several pieces of broken pottery.

Ye Sheng took it out and saw that it was a palm-sized flat iron box, badly rusted, but the lid was still closed fairly tightly.