Thirteen Veins :Book Two
[The Thirteen Veins: Roots and Flow]
Volume 2 · Chapter 19
Into the Hills: Roots That Travel Far
The sun hung high and golden over the foothills north of Songkhla, turning the air warm and thick with the scent of damp earth, wild pine, and blooming herbs.
They had left the port behind before dawn, swapping their loose waist‑cloths for sturdy cotton trousers and sleeveless tunics that clung tight across shoulders, chests, and hips — showing off every defined line of muscle forged by years of wind, wave, and hard labor.
Nai Wen led the way, moving with a lean, fluid grace, his steps sure‑footed over loose rock and tangled roots.
His skin was naturally fair, almost translucent where sunlight filtered through the trees, yet kissed to a soft honey‑gold across his high, broad forehead, the strong column of his neck, and his forearms.
From his wide, straight shoulders down to his narrow waist and firm, tapered hips, every muscle was taut and well‑formed — honed by years of climbing, trekking, and careful work.
His legs were long and straight, thighs lean but solid, calves shaped like polished wood.
He walked with his head held high, jaw set firm, and that faint, pale blue mark of the crescent‑and‑arrow Vein clearly visible on his inner forearm, seeming to pulse faintly in the mountain air.
“Up here is where the real treasure grows,” he called back, his voice clear, calm, and steady — carrying well over the rustle of leaves.
“Not silver or gold, but roots and leaves that have fed and healed men for centuries.
The finest grade only grows above two thousand feet, where the air stays cool, the rain is heavy, and the soil remains rich and undisturbed.”
Rashid fell in right beside him, built broad and thick‑set like a ship’s timber.
His neck was thick as a hawser, supporting heavy, rounded shoulders; his chest deep and barrel‑like, tapering to a solid waist and wide, powerful hips.
His arms were corded with ropy muscle, hands large and calloused, while his thighs and calves were heavy and dense — the kind of build that could carry double his own weight all day without slowing.
Sweat glistened on his warm, bronze skin as he wiped his brow, grinning with that easy, rough confidence of a man who knows the world and its ways.
“Treasure, eh?” he said, giving Nai Wen’s firm hip a light, playful nudge with his elbow as they stepped over a fallen log.
“You talk like a bloke who knows exactly where to reach and what to hold onto.
Hope these roots aren’t as flighty as some of the lasses back in port — hard to track down, and even harder to keep hold of once you’ve got ’em in your grasp.”
Nai Wen glanced sideways, a faint, knowing smile touching his lips — rare enough to catch the eye.
“They take years to grow, same as anything worth having.
Dig too soon, and they’re weak.
Leave too long, and they lose their bite.
Timing is everything — same as business, same as a man’s fire in his bones.”
“Speak of timing and planning,” Anda chimed in from behind, his tall, imposing frame cutting a straight path through the brush.
He was built like a solid gatepost: broad, square forehead, thick neck, chest wide and deep as a strongbox, waist tight and unyielding, hips broad and stable, legs thick and straight as oak posts.
There was no wasted flesh on him — just quiet, dependable power.
“We’re not gathering these just for our own use.
We’re laying the groundwork for a proper supply line.
Harvest direct from the hills, cut out every middleman, control the drying and processing ourselves, then ship to markets in China, Hong Kong, and Singapore — places that pay well for authentic, unadulterated stock.”
Lao Hashan followed close, his frame still thick and sturdy despite his years: shoulders rounded but solid, arms heavy with standing veins, chest full, waist firm, legs planted like tree roots.
He stroked his grey beard and nodded slowly, voice deep and seasoned.
We’ll register it properly as a partnership right here in Thailand, open a small branch in Guangzhou to handle customs and distribution.
Keep overheads lean, turn stock fast, and pour profits back into growing the range — tonics, balms, restoratives, not just raw roots.
Old wisdom, new ways — that’s how you make it last.”
Ali Khan laughed loud enough to send a flock of birds exploding from the treetops.
He was the biggest man among them: forehead wide and commanding, neck thick as a bull’s, chest round and powerful as an iron drum, arms thick as young tree trunks, shoulders broad enough to carry two men, hips wide and rock‑steady, thighs so dense they looked carved from granite.
He hefted a heavy wicker basket over one shoulder as if it held nothing but feathers, muscles bunching and shifting visibly beneath his shirt.
“All these fancy words — procurement, margins, turnover — sound grand enough, but at the end of the day it’s still honest work!” he said, giving his twin brother Alim a rough shove that sent him stumbling half a step sideways.
“Me and Alim will haul it all, no questions — but you best be sure it fetches more than pocket change, or I’ll be feeding the lot to the goats before we even reach the dock!”
Alim steadied himself, then fired back, landing a sharp elbow right into Ali Khan’s ribs — hard enough to make the big man grunt and double over a little.
Alim was the mirror of his brother but slimmer, tighter, and more compact: high cheekbones, neck smooth but strong, chest solid and dense, waist narrow and defined, hips trim but firm, legs lean yet coiled with spring‑like power.
His hands were smaller but quicker, fingers skilled and precise from years of sorting and handling.
“You’ll haul it because you’re too thick to tell good root from rubbish!” he retorted, grinning.
“I’m the one who knows which part to dig, how deep to go, and how to cure it so it doesn’t rot or lose its strength.
Without me, your precious cargo would turn to dust before it even hits the sea!”
“Easy, you two — save your strength for the trail, not for knocking each other about,” Rashid laughed, stepping between them and slinging one heavy arm across both their shoulders, his broad palm resting warmly against each man’s chest.
“Strength and sense — that’s the winning mix.
Ali brings the brawn to shift it, Alim brings the know‑how to make it count.
That’s how you build something solid, not just a one‑off run.”
Nai Wen halted at a sun‑dappled clearing, pointing toward a cluster of plants with glossy green leaves and thick, knobbly roots half‑buried in rich, dark soil.
“Here we are.
Sanqi, wild ginseng, codonopsis, astragalus — all the roots that warm the core, clear the channels, and feed a man’s vitality.
In China, they call these tonics for the veins — meant for those who work hard, travel far, and need to keep their fire steady.
Funny how the name fits us, isn’t it?”
He knelt and brushed away loose earth with careful fingers, his forearm exposed so the Vein mark caught the light.
For a heartbeat, his fingers hovered above the ground; his brow furrowed just slightly — he could feel a faint, slow warmth rising from the soil, almost a quiet pulse, matching the rhythm of his own blood.
He said nothing aloud, just filed the feeling away in his mind and kept digging.
“Tonics for the veins, eh?” Rashid knelt beside him, his strong thigh pressing lightly against Nai Wen’s hip, and gave a low, knowing chuckle.
“You mean the veins in the body… or the veins of trade, money, and movement?”
“Both,” Nai Wen replied softly, his eyes still on the root in his hands.
“Same rule applies.
A man’s strength runs through his blood and sinew; a business’s strength runs through its supply lines, its trust, and its flow of goods and coin.
Block one, and everything grows weak.
Keep them open and balanced, and nothing can hold you back.”
“Exactly,” Anda knelt on the other side, his knee resting firm against Rashid’s leg as he inspected another plant.
“We’ll grade them properly — premium, first‑rate, standard — each priced to fit its quality.
Seal them airtight, label them clear, and mark every batch with its origin.
When we reach the big markets, that’s what earns us a name and a price above the rest.” This chapter is updated first at g.com.
“Sounds like a plan that won’t go wrong,” Lao Hashan said, already tying neat bundles of dried leaves.
“We use what we know — the old ways of the body, the old rules of trade — and turn them into something real, profitable, and lasting.
No magic needed, lads.
Just understanding how things flow.”
As they worked — stripping leaves, digging carefully, brushing clean, and packing into the deep baskets — the easy banter rolled on, rough and warm, laced with the kind of teasing only true brothers share.
“Careful with that one, Ali — squeeze too hard and you’ll wring all the goodness out, same as you grip a woman’s waist!”
“Better than holding it too loose like you do, Alim — let it slip right through your fingers and it’s gone before you know it!”
“Nai Wen, you sure this stuff won’t make a man too riled up?
Send a crate north and half the merchants might be pacing their rooms all night long!”
“Better lively than lifeless,” Nai Wen smiled, wiping dirt from his hands onto his trousers.
“It only builds what’s already there — strengthens the flow, clears the blockages, keeps the fire steady but controlled.
Same as our business: steady growth, not reckless rushing.”
By late afternoon, their baskets were heavy and full, fragrant with earth and herb.
They found a flat boulder to rest upon, shirts unbuttoned or pulled loose, chests rising and falling with deep breaths.
Sweat glistened across their skin, catching the low sun — revealing every curve of muscle, every old scar, every mark earned over years of living.
Shoulders leaned against shoulders, arms draped across backs, legs touching casually, bodies warm and relaxed in each other’s presence.
Rashid leaned back, arms folded behind his head, his broad torso stretched out, and looked slowly from man to man — each with his own strength, his own part to play, his own place in the whole.
“First step done,” he said, eyes glinting in the golden light.
“We have the goods, we have the route, we have the plan.
Now we carry it north, cross the border, and open those doors.
And all the while… we keep our eyes sharp and our senses open, looking for the next Vein, the next mark, the next brother waiting further along the way.”
“Every root we dig, every agreement we strike, every mile we walk,” Nai Wen added softly, his gaze drifting once more to the mark on his arm, “we learn to feel the flow — not just in the ground, but in the world around us.
Understand it, and we grow stronger.
No miracles, no tricks — just awareness, and patience.”
Anda lifted the joined bronze medallion from beneath his shirt, holding it so it caught the last rays of sun, its faint winding lines glowing bright.
“One Vein leads to another.
One road opens the next.
We’re building more than a trade route.
We’re weaving the very network that will hold all Thirteen Veins together — in body, in work, and in blood.”
The sun dipped lower, painting the hills in shades of deep gold and burnt red.
Six men stood tall, shoulders touching, hands resting easy on each other’s backs or hips, bodies strong and at ease, purpose clear in every face.
The quiet promise of the Veins hummed beneath their feet, in their bones, and in every step ahead.
——-Looking forward to the next Chapter——-