Zhijiru's village, Talrasha, was a quite populated area, but the houses were mostly made out of simple straw, wood, and rarely brick or stone. The house that his family left behind after they died was one of the cheaper made straw and wood houses. Because there wasn't enough family members to delegate any tasks to anymore, the house was already half crumbled due to his long travels. Each time he returned the house was in a poorer condition than when he left it. Sometimes, signs that indicated it wasn't just nature's doing. And he didn't have the time, energy, or money to keep fixing it again and again. He decided it was time for him to save up money to buy a better house that could stand up on it's own for a longer time. Maybe invest in a lock. He expected that it would take years though.

In the early morning before he set out to the marketplace he grabbed what few gold, silver, and copper coins he had in a bag and quickly dashed into a forested area near his house. He stood in a clearing, checked the landmarks and dug into the ground using a thin stone and his bare hands. He buried some coins.

He had learned from past experiences to not leave money in his house, or keep too much money on him. Villagers, despite usually scoffing at a distance, also stole from him when he was away. It was desperate times in a once close and happy community. He kept a few coins with him, in case he needed to buy equipment, food, shelter, or other items to barter with. He buried the rest, knowing well that the forests were deemed as cursed for what happened to himself and others. No one would come here looking for coins. Villagers avoided this area as much as possible. Zhijiru took a short cut home off the path, nearly tripping on a corpse. But that was normal around the cursed forest.

After returning home he packed his goods in his wagon. Two hens, a rooster, eggs, his dog Diesel, a young Norwegian Elkhound, and various but few crops, food, and the last two sets of china his mother used to make by hand and sell by the dozens. Lastly, the last sword his father made, hoping to get at least 100 gold coins for it. He always resisted displaying it for sale, because of his fear of departing from it and the memories of his father along with it. His wagon was being pulled by a single ox. His last strong ox. If he lost him, he would have to travel and sell wares by foot.

After he finished filling his cart he guided his ox along past the busy streets by walking alongside it. It was dangerous otherwise, a kid might startle it as a prank. People from the village averted their gaze from Zhijiru. Either they were afraid that he would also curse them, or that they believed that they were above him. One large man spat in his face as he passed by. Zhijiru rubbed it off and kept going. It wasn't unusual treatment, but rage was still welling up inside him. After the streets cleared up he climbed up the wagon front and drove the ox to the busy marketplace that linked up several towns and villages. Some of which, Zhijiru have not visited or heard of. The lonely drive always helped calm him down.

By the time he reached the market and set up shop it was in the afternoon. He set up everything for display in a stall in front of his wagon, his ox tied up to the wagon next to it. The only thing hidden was the sword and half of the money he carried with him. Business was going slowly, as usual. Not often did people want to buy from a dirty poor kid. Sometimes Zhijiru thought the sales he got were just to humor or pity him.