None of them knew that Henry Benson was actually feeling relieved as well, relieved to have such a large clan.

Henry Benson had seen the real household register of the village—the one held by his grandfather, with accurate data, not the fake records the village head showed to the government tax collectors.

There were a total of fifty-seven households in the village, with 469 people of all ages, among whom there were 197 able-bodied men, most of whom bore the surname Benson.

If they could be diligently trained and armed with enough weapons, they would be a force to be reckoned with.

Henry Benson cared deeply for the people of the village. Besides the guilt of being an exploiter, he also had a clear understanding of the future situation:

“Winter is coming. The lone wolf dies, the pack survives.”

……

The dirt roads in the village were uneven, and after rain, the ground was muddy. Wastewater flowed through small ditches by the roadside. Arrogant black pigs, chickens, ducks, and geese wandered around leaving droppings everywhere, making the smell unpleasant. The running children tracked the filth all over the place with their feet.

The winding paths led to each household, and the houses were built haphazardly. If you didn’t walk the routes yourself three or four times, you’d definitely get lost once you stepped out the door.

There was only one road paved with cobblestones, starting from the north village gate, passing a clearing under a large banyan tree, and leading to the ancestral manor.

The manor was actually a separate building on the southern edge of the village, occupying the highest spot on the plateau. Its walls were tall and sturdy, the gate imposing and lofty, and if you looked up, you could see a row of iron-gray eaves tiles.

Several roughly made spears stood by the gate. Four gatekeepers were chatting and laughing, but when they saw Henry Benson, they immediately stopped talking and welcomed him in.

“The old master instructed that as soon as young master returns, he should go see him.”

Henry Benson had rushed back from the county seat, thinking that news of his withdrawal from school probably hadn’t reached his grandfather yet.

“Good, there’s still a moment of peace at home.”

After entering, he saw that the courtyard was divided into front, middle, and rear sections. The front yard was where the private slaves lived, with simple earthen houses. On both sides were stables and carriage sheds. Compared to the spacious stables, there were pitifully few horses—only an old reddish horse chewing on some barely nutritious fodder.

The middle yard was a two-story main building, with the owner’s quarters and a hall for receiving guests, but Henry Benson looked around and didn’t see his grandfather.

“Where is grandfather?”

“In the back yard. The orchard just delivered freshly harvested chestnuts.”

The back yard could be reached through a side door of the main building. There were pigsties, workshops, kitchens, and other buildings, and beyond the wall was a garden. The vegetable beds inside were neat, with winter mallow and chives growing well. There was a well and a ditch nearby for irrigation, and the family’s daily vegetables came from here.

Henry Benson’s grandfather was in the kitchen. The old man loved chestnuts and was standing by the stove, waiting for them to finish roasting.

Henry Benson couldn’t help but lighten his steps—he was still a bit afraid of his grandfather. He walked up behind him and bowed. “Grandfather.”

The old man turned around. He usually wore a stern expression, but when he saw his grandson, he smiled, his face full of wrinkles.

“Lun’er, you’re back.”

The old man had a rather imposing name, “Robert Benson,” and was the ninth-generation head of the Benson clan after their westward migration.

Just by looking at him, you’d never guess that Robert Benson was already seventy-one. If Henry Benson got up early, he could see his grandfather washing with cold water in the courtyard, then practicing with a longsword for a quarter of an hour. Thanks to this daily diligence, the old man was still muscular in his seventies.

Other landlords strolled slowly through their fields, hunched over with their hands behind their backs. Robert Benson, on the other hand, rode a horse with a sword at his side, parading through the market with the clan’s men, scaring off bandits for miles around who dared not cause trouble in John Benson.

His hands were covered with thick calluses from years of wielding swords and sabers, looking almost like iron palms. He used tongs to fish a piping hot chestnut from the ashes, blew on it casually, split it in half, and handed the kernel to Henry Benson.

Henry Benson took it and nibbled at it, finding it too hot. Robert Benson, however, stuffed two at a time into his mouth, cheeks bulging as he chewed heartily—good thing he still had most of his teeth.

Chestnuts in these times were nowhere near as sweet as those in later generations. Henry Benson thought to himself that he should try making some candied chestnuts for his grandfather one day.

Robert Benson handed him another handful of peeled chestnuts. “Well? Just as the county magistrate said, the court sending officials to inspect is just a formality.”

“It’s true.”

With his mouth full of chestnuts, Henry Benson just nodded in agreement, and when Robert Benson asked which official had come today, he answered honestly.

Robert Benson still didn’t know about the big thing Henry Benson had done in the county, so he was in a great mood, stroking his graying beard as he said, “In October, you’ll be going to the Imperial Academy. That’s something to celebrate! The wine we brewed last year is ready. I’ve told the cook to kill a chicken and cut some meat. You’ll have a few drinks with this old man.”

It was afternoon, and the women were already washing rice and cooking. The cook was busy, and the aroma of meat wafted faintly from the clay pot. But Henry Benson thought to himself, “Tonight’s main dish is probably grilled meat on bamboo planks.”

Robert Benson pointed with his pinky toward the westernmost village, saying proudly, “Old Foster has always prided himself on his family’s scholarly tradition and once produced a student for the Imperial Academy. He looks down on our family. But now his youngest son, Charles Foster, has been outdone by you. How satisfying! It was worth all the favors I gave the county magistrate.”

Henry Benson just smiled and said nothing, until the two of them sat on the kitchen threshold and finished off a whole handful of chestnuts.