Fusang Dwarves

Fusang Dwarves

"Fusang people?"

"That's right, Fusang people. Sail east from Hangzhou and you'll reach Fusang. The lords across that land wage war without cease, and the common people suffer beyond endurance. For a bite to eat, they'll do anything. And Fusang people sell their lives for money—they're extremely faithful to their word."

The memories Qin Mo had absorbed were incomplete. He was fine when it came to relatively important matters, but he knew nothing at all about much common knowledge. Lin Bo had long grown accustomed to this. This time, thinking Qin Mo did not know about the Fusang people, Lin Bo explained everything in great detail.

But how could Qin Mo not know about Fusang? In countless films, those warped humanoid monsters known as Fusang warriors had left a deep impression on him. Loyal, savage, tenacious—ruthless toward their enemies and even more ruthless toward themselves, treating their own bellies as if they were nothing.

"This subordinate once went to Fusang with Allen while searching for the mistress at sea. Though those Fusang people are short, they value their promises and fight fiercely. They obey military discipline better than refugees do. If Young Master intends to recruit them, he should make plans early." Lin Bo's words stirred Qin Mo's interest. Since he was recruiting cannon fodder anyway, Fusang people truly were a suitable choice if it could be arranged. Even if every last one of them died, he would not feel the slightest guilt.

"Lin Bo, since we know the route to Fusang, why don't we engage in maritime trade?" Qin Mo recalled the matter. Sea trade was immensely profitable, and the Elven Race was skilled at sailing, so why was Dayuan still so poor?

"Cough, cough, cough... Young Master, Allen had only one thing on his mind—finding the mistress—so naturally, he explored places where no human footprints had ever reached. We also made several voyages ourselves, but first, we lacked capital, and second, the wind and waves were merciless. Later, we no longer dared take such risks." Hearing Qin Mo's question, Lin Bo's old face flushed red with shame.

Qin Mo fell silent as well. People of this era lacked sufficient understanding of the sea, and they had even less access to reliable navigational methods, causing the risks of deep-sea voyages to expand without limit. Maritime trade thus became a business where one gambled with one's life, and few ordinary people dared touch it.

Bang! ... Bang! ... Clang! ... Clang! Sounds of fighting rang out from Qin Mo's castle. The maids and servants whispered among themselves, marveling at how diligent their Heir Apparent truly was.

Inside the castle's training hall, Qin Mo and Allen were practicing combat techniques. Allen was tall and well-proportioned, with the standard build of a High Elf.

Qin Mo had the sort of body that looked slim in clothes but muscular without them, yet compared to Allen, he appeared somewhat leaner and visibly a size smaller. Both moved swiftly, and there was an indescribable beauty to their fighting postures. It was easy for onlookers to find them pleasing to the eye and overlook the danger within.

With a clang, Qin Mo's sword was twisted from his hand by Allen again. This was already the third time today. Qin Mo let out a breath. Unfazed, he dropped to the floor and panted heavily.

Ever since learning that he had to march north to war, Qin Mo had been forced to end his leisurely life. At night, he intensified his cultivation of his internal arts; during the day, he sought out Allen to temper his combat skills. His internal arts had been personally taught by the old prince, Qin Lan, and his cultivation was already far from ordinary. But his combat skills were much poorer. After all, for the previous ten-odd years, he had spent nearly all his time fighting the Black Flame within his body, leaving his combat skills with practically no use.

According to Allen and Lin Bo, the combat techniques of the Elven Race could be called unrivaled under heaven, just as the internal arts of Great Xia cultivators were unique in the world. This was recognized by all.

The only fly in the ointment was that Elven combat techniques required an Elven constitution to cultivate. Nor could they be inherited directly through one's bloodline like those of the Blood Race; they had to be taught and honed before one could master them. Qin Mo had truly suffered enough because of this.

Yet he had no idea what Allen was thinking. More than once, Allen had marveled inwardly, As expected of Teacher's son. This body alone is enough to make one green with envy—speed, strength, coordination, advance awareness of danger, and that unbelievable comprehension. It has only been a few days, yet he already surpasses what I achieved after years of cultivation.

But Allen had also discovered one very bad problem... Qin Mo liked to slack off. Though Qin Mo's progress could already be described as advancing at divine speed, Allen felt there was still tremendous potential to be unearthed. Yet Qin Mo always came up with every conceivable excuse to rest. If pushed too hard, he would simply throw a tantrum and play dead.

Watching Qin Mo disregard all decorum as he panted heavily on the floor, Allen felt vexed. He so clearly possessed the finest talent under heaven, yet he was lazy by nature. Was this really a High Elf, a race renowned for its innate purity?

"Heir Apparent, there is still an hour before you may rest."

"Allen, how many times have I told you? I know Elves worship freedom and dislike being restrained. Why force yourself to call me Heir Apparent? Just call me by my name." The retainers left behind by Lin Bo and his father all called Qin Mo Young Master, while the Elves addressed him as Heir Apparent. Their attitude was respectful, but they retained their own freedom.

"You are Teacher's son, so calling you by name would be fine. But I shall still call you Heir Apparent—I'm used to it. All right, the order has been given. Stop making excuses to slack off. Today, we must train for a full three hours." Allen had truly seen Qin Mo's tricks for dodging work these past few days. If you did not cut him off, he could chat with you for an entire day.

"Wait... hold on, Allen. I have something important to ask you." Qin Mo told him about Lin Bo's proposal to hire Fusang people to fill their ranks.

"What use are those races enslaved by the Dwarves? To howl as they charge forward and die for the Orcs?" Allen thought very little of Qin Mo's proposal. He felt that fighting alongside Fusang people would be nothing less than an insult to Elves.

"Dwarves? What Dwarves?" Qin Mo's interest immediately surged, and he eagerly pressed Allen for gossip.

Allen glanced at Qin Mo and said helplessly, "After the Millennium Pact, the Elven Race chose the northern part of the Western Continent as their home, while the Blood Race founded a nation in the Alps. The Sea Folk vanished without a trace, but the Dwarves were unable to find suitable territory for a long time."

"Dwarves have strange appearances and suffer discrimination wherever they go. Yet they are also extremely hot-tempered; at the slightest disagreement, they start throwing punches. They always turn everything into a complete mess, and for a very long time, they could not integrate or live alongside humans."

"Until one day, Dwarves came to Fusang. When they saw the Fusang people, who were not much taller than themselves, they settled there. Their martial strength was fairly formidable, and the Fusang people worshipped the strong, treating them like thunder gods... Heh heh! The Dwarves actually became gods." Allen's face was full of mockery. One look was enough to tell that he was a thoroughly wicked racist.

Qin Mo imagined Dwarves standing beside Fusang people, and an amused expression appeared on his face. They really were a match made in heaven!

Suddenly, his body flew straight into the air. Qin Mo reacted with extreme speed. With a slight movement of his nimble limbs, he clung directly to the corner between the wall and the ceiling.

Allen had already charged at him barehanded, his expression icy. Qin Mo knew Allen was truly angry—he was disgusted by Qin Mo's slacking off. From the experience he had accumulated over this period, Qin Mo feared he would be thoroughly dealt with today. He had no choice but to pull himself together and respond with all his strength.

Fuzhou was an important city in the southeast of the Great Xia Empire, facing Dayuan Island across the sea. Thus, ships arriving from Dayuan generally stopped first at Fuzhou before heading north or south. Today, more than ten great seagoing ships slowly sailed into the waters beyond Fuzhou's harbor. One could tell from their draught that they were laden with heavy cargo.

Dockworkers who made their living through loading and unloading had gathered at the wharf. Seeing such a large job arrive, they crowded forward one after another, hoping to secure the work and earn some rice and grain for their wives waiting at home with empty pots and their wailing infants crying to be fed.

"Stop crowding around! These are salt ships delivering cargo to the Tax Office. If you aren't afraid of being owed your wages, then go wait at the tax warehouse!" A burly man emerged from the ship's cabin and shouted at the ragged laborers. At once, half the people on the dock dispersed. Unloading goods for the Tax Office was no good job; not receiving one's wages was as common as the sun rising in the east.

Lin Yongqian, the son of Lin Bo and Lin Huaiyuan, was not yet thirty, but he was already one of Dayuan's prominent figures in foreign trade. This time, he had been sent to Fuzhou to pay the salt tax.

Lin Yongqian had a round face that always seemed to be smiling. It was this ever-smiling face that let him move through the business world like a fish in water. But if anyone thought that made him easy to bully, they would be gravely mistaken. Among Dayuan's younger generation, his ruthlessness ranked among the top three.

Once, a wealthy merchant had relied on connections with officials to swallow one of Lin Yongqian's shipments. On the surface, Lin Yongqian smiled and accepted the loss. Yet before a month had passed, that wealthy merchant's entire household—dozens of people—was buried in a sea of flames. Not one escaped. It was said that this smiling softie had arranged it.