Thirteen Veins
Volume 1 · Chapter 3
Sand Knocks at the Door — Herb Scent Hides the Old Covenant
The evening wind picked up, sweeping away the last of the thick, sticky humidity that hung over the streets of old Kuala Lumpur.
The heat didn’t vanish — it just shifted, turning crisp and alive, carrying the promise of cooler nights and open roads.
We were just clearing the bowls and pots, ready to pour another round of strong rice wine and settle in to hear Anda speak of the Main Line — the stories locked away in leather‑bound ledgers and buried deep in a man’s chest, only told when the company is true and the hour is late.
Then —
A completely different scent drifted in, sharp and unyielding, cutting through the air like a well‑honed blade.
It carried the dry, gritty tang of fine desert sand, the sun‑baked bitterness of camel grass, and underneath it all, a heavy, concentrated fragrance of medicinal herbs — not the soft, soothing kind you find in town apothecaries, but the potent, earth‑strong sort that has simmered in the heart of the Gobi for decades.
One whiff tightened your throat and brought back memories of days when water was worth more than gold, and every step forward was a gamble against the wind.
Alim’s nostrils flared.
His lean, corded frame went instantly still — broad shoulders squared, back straight as a spear, every muscle beneath his cotton shirt rippling like coiled steel.
His jaw tightened, and his dark eyes sharpened, the look of a man who has tracked prey and trade routes across half the world.
“Here he comes.
Straight from the land where the sun burns hottest and the wind cuts deepest.
That scent don’t lie.”
Ali Khan set his bowl down with a heavy thud, his massive frame filling half the bench — forehead wide and strong, neck thick as a bull’s, chest broad and deep as a stone wall, arms thick enough to crush iron bands, waist firm and solid, hips rounded and powerful, thighs like ancient tree trunks rooted deep in the earth.
He leaned forward, a grin spreading across his stubbled face, voice rumbling like distant thunder.
“Just when we thought we’d met the mountain of the Main Line, here comes the wind from the desert!
Damn, this arcade is turning into a gathering place for every hard‑bitten son‑of‑a‑gun from every corner of the map!”
Even Anda’s calm, steady gaze shifted slightly.
He stood tall and imposing — high forehead marked with lines of thought, thick neck rising into shoulders that could bear a king’s ransom, chest deep and full, waist tight even after years of comfort, legs built to stand his ground when the world shook.
As steward of the Main Line, he knew more secrets than most.
He nodded slowly, the lines around his mouth deepening with recognition.
“That scent carries old soil, ancient remedies… and the mark.
It’s one of our own.”
Before the last word left his lips, the canvas curtain was drawn aside — not flung open roughly, but lifted slowly, carefully, with the measured grace of a man who has learned never to rush when the desert is watching.
Stepping inside was Lao Hashan.
He was not tall, but his spine was straight and unyielding — tough as the centuries‑old poplars that survive where nothing else can grow.
His white hair was tied back tight with a strip of faded cloth; his face was carved deep with lines and creases, each one a map drawn by wind and sun, marking every oasis, every storm, every deal struck under the open sky.
His robe was faded to a color no one could name, but mended so many times that the stitches formed a thick, strong web — holding decades of travel and endurance close to his skin.
Most striking was his waist: strung with more than a dozen wooden boxes, leather pouches, and clay jars, each knocking gently against the others as he moved — a soft, rhythmic sound like a secret code only those who know the Veins could understand.
Aaron felt his heart lift.
This was the old man who taught him to read herbs in the desert, who sheltered him through the worst sandstorm he ever lived through — the man he called father.
Lao Hashan paused in the doorway, squinting into the warm light.
He took a deep breath, held it, and let it out slow and long, as if tasting the air of the whole street.
Then his gaze snapped straight to the plaque under the eaves, as if pulled by an invisible thread.
His gnarled, weathered finger tapped the air above the four marks already carved there, and a smile broke across his face — rough, warm, and dusted with the smell of the open road.
“From the edge of town, I caught two scents mixing in the wind — one soft enough to soothe a man’s belly, the other strong enough to harden his spirit.
I said to myself, That’s it.
That’s where they are.”
Aaron stepped forward fast, reaching out to grip the old man’s hand — rough, cracked, and calloused, yet burning with steady warmth, like holding a stone that has soaked up the sun all day.
“Old Man!
I thought you’d linger another few days at your herb hut in the oasis!
But it seems the moment the wind dies down, you move faster than any young trader!”
“Can’t afford to dawdle!” Lao Hashan’s voice was gravelly, deep, and solid as bedrock, every word carrying weight.
“You make your move when the path is clear, and you gather your brothers while their hearts are still hot.
Wait too long, and another storm blows up, or the tides turn — and even the best news gets swept away.”
Ali Khan had already dragged over the heaviest bench, slapping it hard three times with his broad palm.
“Here — take the seat that won’t shake!
And I’ve saved you the strongest liquor in the house — the kind that’ll burn the chill out of your bones and put a fire back in your gut!”
Alim quickly set down a clean bowl, his movements gentler than usual, respect plain in the way he held himself — the natural deference of a man who has walked the roads, to one who has passed through the gates of death and come out the other side.
Anda stood and bowed deeply, his broad frame bending with genuine regard.
“You’ve come all the way from the northwest, through dust and storm.
I am Anda, steward of the Southern Main Line.
We’ve been waiting for you.”
Lao Hashan’s eyes brightened when he saw him.
He looked Anda over from head to toe — noting the high forehead, steady gaze, thick neck, broad chest, firm waist, and strong legs that carried quiet authority — then glanced at the plaque, and finally at the silver Crescent‑and‑Arrow medallion resting in Anda’s palm.
He nodded firmly, satisfaction written all over his weathered face.
“Good.
The root is held firm, the branches are reaching out, and the old ways haven’t been forgotten.
That’s exactly how it should be.”
Aaron set down a bowl of thick, steaming broth and poured a cup of liquor strong enough to make a man’s eyes water.
For someone fresh from the desert, hospitality had to match the harshness of the road.
Lao Hashan took one sip, let out a long, heavy sigh — as if expelling every grain of sand he had breathed in for the past two weeks.
When he opened his eyes again, his gaze swept over the four men, then settled on the plaque above the door.
“Four marks lit up already.
Add mine as the fifth, and we’re off to a fine start.
But while crossing the desert, I heard whispers from merchants at the waystations — up the western passes, down the southern straits, along the eastern coasts… men are asking questions, looking for routes, waiting for word.
And they’re carrying the same mark.”
“Say that again?” Ali Khan leaned forward, his massive shoulders rolling, interest burning bright in his eyes.
“You mean the symbol isn’t just here — it’s already showing up elsewhere?”
Lao Hashan reached inside his robe and pulled out a small, flat piece of hardwood, worn smooth by years of handling.
Carved into it were exactly thirteen thin lines, the first four darkened and polished by countless hands.
“This mark isn’t new.
It goes back hundreds of years.” He laid it on the table, aligned perfectly with the main plaque, his voice dropping but carrying undeniable weight.
“Once, thirteen men stood together, determined to build a road of trust and honor that would outlast kingdoms.
But the world turned rough, storms came, and the company scattered.
The mark was buried, the lines forgotten.
Now the winds are shifting again, and the old light is being rekindled.
You boys aren’t starting from zero — you’re picking up where the last generation left off.”
Anda picked up the small tablet and held it against his silver medallion.
The patterns matched exactly, as if cast from the same mold.
He nodded, expression serious.
“That’s exactly what we needed to hear.
The road has to be walked together, and the old bonds have to be found again.”
Lao Hashan slapped his thigh, and a sharp, bright light flashed in his eyes.
“This old frame still has enough strength left to stand against the wind!
I won’t hang back or stay behind — I’m riding out with you!
Through the deserts, along the trade routes, hunting down those who carry the mark, recording every branch.
The roads of the northwest are as familiar to me as the lines on my own palm!”
Ali Khan laughed loud and hearty, clapping the old man on the back hard enough to make him rock slightly.
“Now that’s what I’m talking about!
With you leading the way, we can skirt every dangerous pass, fix every sickness or injury, and turn this crew into something twice as tough and twice as sharp!”
Alim gave a slow, firm nod, his lean, powerful frame steady and ready.
“With you there, every mile west and north feels a lot safer.”
Lao Hashan didn’t waste time on polite refusals.
He picked up the chisel, stepped to the plaque, and carved the fifth line deep and straight — each stroke strong, sure, and rough‑hewn, shaped by decades of wind and grit.
“From this day on, the fifth mark belongs to Lao Hashan.
As long as my medicine bag is full, my maps are true, and the old rules hold — so do I.”
Anda laid out the plan clearly, his voice commanding and precise: “We move at first light.
I’ll take the southern branch by sea, heading west along the coast.
Lao Hashan will lead Alim and Ali Khan overland — crossing the peninsula, into the northwest, and across the old caravan routes.
Both parties will show the mark, identify kin, pass along news, and leave word for Aaron at every port and waystation.”
Aaron took it all in, nodding.
“Go on ahead.
I’ll hold the shop, keep the fire burning, keep the plaque polished bright, and log every report.
No matter how far you travel, you’ll always see the light from here — and there’ll be hot soup waiting when you turn back.”
Ali Khan raised his cup high, voice booming out into the night, loud enough to carry down the street.
“Then it’s settled!
Mark on your chest, brothers on the road!
No matter how high the mountains, how deep the seas, how fierce the gales, or how endless the sands — we’ll light every lamp, one by one, until all the scattered veins of this lineage shine bright again!”
Five rough ceramic bowls crashed together — the sound ringing out like a vow, sharp and hot enough to set every man’s blood pumping.
Lao Hashan secured his pouches and maps, Anda tucked his silver medallion close to his heart, and Alim and Ali Khan tightened their belts and adjusted their packs — every movement quick, efficient, and ready.
Aaron walked them out to the edge of the arcade, watching as the group split into two parties, their figures fading one by one into the dark and shifting wind.
He turned back inside, pulled the curtain shut, banked the fire, and took up a soft cloth to wipe the five deep lines on the plaque until they glistened in the lamplight.
He knew his place: he did not march, nor did he claim a mark of his own yet — but he was the starting point of every journey, the place where all stories returned.
They went out to find brothers; he stayed to receive their news.
They blazed new trails; he kept the map clear.
Miles apart, but bound as one.
The road began here, the story unfolded here — and every step, every encounter, every new discovery, would be recorded here.
——- Looking forward to the next Chapter——-