The next day, Henry Stone woke up feeling exceptionally refreshed. He could no longer remember the jumble of abstract images from his dreams, but he felt that something about himself was different today. Yet he couldn’t quite put his finger on what had changed—he just felt clear-headed and full of energy.

“Dad, Mom!” As soon as he got up, Henry Stone cheerfully greeted his parents. They vaguely sensed that Henry Stone seemed a bit different from before, but couldn’t say exactly how. With their straightforward mountain folk nature, they didn’t notice that, for the past few days, Henry Stone had been the one to greet them so cheerfully and proactively. In the past, this boy would get up early in the morning looking dull, and it was always the parents who called him first.

Henry Stone’s father was pouring water from a wooden bucket into the water vat when Henry Stone stepped forward. “Dad, let me help you.”

“Don’t—” Henry Stone’s father hurried to stop him. That wooden bucket was filled with water and weighed dozens of jin—not something a little lamb could handle. But Henry Stone had already picked up the bucket with one hand, easily lifted it over his shoulder, and poured the water into the vat.

His father was stunned for a moment, then broke into a carefree, gratified smile: his son had grown up—another strong worker for the family!

Henry Stone was also taken aback. When he offered to help, he’d assumed his father would lift the bucket with him. He’d tried before—when the bucket was full, even straining with all his might, he could only just manage to lift it with both hands, let alone hoist it over his shoulder.

How had he suddenly become so much stronger overnight?

At his age, these questions were impossible to figure out. With a youthful mind, if he couldn’t understand it, he just put it aside.

After a simple breakfast, his parents went to work in the fields, and Henry Stone and his younger sister went out to gather firewood. The siblings played all over the mountain, and by noon, each was carrying a basket of firewood on their back as they headed home. Suddenly, Sarah Stone pointed at a patch of grass and said, “Brother, I think there’s someone over there.”

Henry Stone looked and saw a foot in a black shoe sticking out from the tall grass.

The two of them walked over curiously and saw a man in a round-collared shirt, with a sash around his waist, lying in the grass fast asleep. A bamboo hat covered his face, and a bright red wine gourd hung from his waist sash.

The man’s attire was rather odd, and Henry Stone couldn’t quite figure out who he was. There were often scholars out for a stroll in the mountains, but they were usually accompanied by a page, and when inspiration struck, it was a rare and precious thing—if there was no page nearby to serve with brush, ink, paper, and inkstone, it would be a real pity to miss the moment.

But this man had brought nothing but a wine gourd—truly a rare sight.

Sarah Stone had none of these thoughts. Seeing the man still asleep, she called out in a clear voice, “Hey, if you sleep here, be careful—a wolf might come and carry you off!”

Henry Stone’s father often used this trick to scare his little daughter.

The man stirred, took off the bamboo hat covering his face, and looked at the two of them with bleary, drunken eyes. He sat up, stretched comfortably, and brushed the grass off his clothes. “Well, at least someone can lead me out of here.” He took a swig from the wine gourd at his waist and teased, “You two little ones didn’t get lost like me, did you?”

Sarah Stone giggled, scraping her cheek with her finger. “Shame on you! I stopped getting lost when I was four, and you’re such a grown-up and still can’t find your way down the mountain…”

The man blushed, chuckled awkwardly, took another swig of wine, and his face turned even redder.

“Come with us. If you keep sleeping here, you really might run into a wild animal, and then you won’t be able to run away even if you want to.” Henry Stone smiled slightly and led the man down the mountain.

Just as they reached the village entrance, the three of them saw a crowd gathered under the crooked old tree.

On the millstone in the center sat a man in a blue long robe. This man held a high status in the village, for he was the only literate person—the esteemed Mr. Bolton.

Mountain folk didn’t really understand official titles; as long as someone could read, they were called Mr. Bolton.

Mr. Bolton’s family was the largest landowner in the village—half the good fields on the nearby mountain belonged to the Zhangs. In Mr. Bolton’s father’s generation, he was determined to produce a scholar in the family to bring honor to their ancestors. So, regardless of whether his son was cut out for it, he forced him into the county’s private school.

Because of this, even though the Zhangs were landlords, they tightened their belts for over a decade.

Although Mr. Bolton failed the exams time and again, and his teacher considered him hopeless, in this mountain village he put on the airs of a “great scholar.” The thing he was most proud of in his life wasn’t his own poetry or essays, but that he had once befriended the most talented scholar in Daxia, Brian Foster.

—In reality, it was just that Brian Foster’s first teacher and Mr. Bolton’s private school teacher were old friends, and out of courtesy, Brian Foster’s teacher came to give a lecture on the “Gongyang Commentary” at the county school. When the teacher introduced them, Mr. Bolton was three months older than Brian Foster, so out of politeness, Brian Foster addressed him as “Mr. Bolton.” This became the highlight of Mr. Bolton’s life and his favorite story to boast about.

“Do you know who Brian Foster is? He’s recognized as the number one scholar in Daxia—unmatched in both poetry and prose. The current prime minister, Lin Changren, personally named him as his successor. Right now, he’s just a scholar, but within ten years, he’ll definitely be a minister at court. Even someone like that respectfully calls me Mr. Bolton—tsk tsk!” Mr. Bolton’s boasts always began this way, and he would bask in the envious gazes of the mountain villagers, who had no idea who Brian Foster was.