Henry Stone had no idea why these thoughts were in his head. He frowned slightly and spoke confidently: “In the short term, Great Xia should focus on the battle at hand. The strength of the Guirong lies in their troops and horses, while Great Xia’s advantage is in superior weaponry, greater numbers, and abundant provisions. Once war breaks out, the safest strategy is to fortify defenses and clear the fields, holding the fortresses tightly without worrying about the loss of a city or territory. As long as we can hold out for four months, the Guirong’s supplies will be exhausted, and they’ll have no strength left. If they don’t retreat, they’ll be forced to.”

“In the long run, what the Guirong lack—provisions and weapons—are precisely Great Xia’s strengths. Only by using these to control the Guirong and supporting their rival tribes can we keep them in check and ensure peace in the Western Regions.”

Brian Foster nodded silently, glanced at Henry Stone, and looked up with a long sigh: “I never thought that at my age, I’d already be sighing that the younger generation is truly formidable…”

What Henry Stone said matched his own thoughts exactly. He had spent years preparing his Thirteen Memorials on Pacifying the Guirong to present to the Emperor, and their core content was just this.

He never imagined that in such a remote mountain village, someone could, in just a few words, clearly articulate the strategy he had spent years devising—and that this person was just a teenager. If he himself was a genius, then this youth was a genius among geniuses.

Henry Stone pondered to himself for a moment, then continued, “Actually, if His Majesty could change the habit of valuing the Dao over tools, and richly reward Great Xia’s craftsmen, developing mounted crossbows and cannons, then with Great Xia’s current advantages, within fifty years, the Guirong would never dare to raise arms again.”

Brian Foster was greatly surprised. Great Xia had long prioritized agriculture and looked down on commerce and industry—this was the foundation of the nation for many years. Even though Brian Foster was known for his youthful arrogance, he didn’t dare to casually suggest changing this, and many scholars had never even considered it. They had been taught from birth that commerce and industry were lowly.

It was as if Henry Stone’s words had awakened someone from a dream. At first, Brian Foster was shocked, but on further thought, it seemed reasonable. This was something he had never considered before. Still, no matter what, he wouldn’t dare include this point in his Thirteen Memorials on Pacifying the Guirong. He might be arrogant, but he wasn’t foolish.

As good as this idea was, bringing it up would mean standing in opposition to all the scholars in the land. For the once lowly craftsmen to stand on equal footing with scholars—no one could accept that.

Brian Foster took a sip of wine, smiled, and asked, “What’s your name?”

“Henry Stone.”

Brian Foster repeated it twice, patted him on the shoulder, and smiled, “My name is Brian Foster. Remember this name. Not because it’s your honor to know me, but because one day, when you’re famous throughout the land, I’ll feel honored to have known you.” With that, this young talent swung his sleeve, grabbed his wine gourd, and staggered off toward the edge of the village.

Sarah Stone blinked mischievously and made a bet with her brother: “Brother, how many times do you think he’ll trip before he reaches the main road?”

Henry Stone smiled and shook his head, watching Brian Foster’s departing figure. “This gentleman is a man of great wisdom. Though drunk in body, his mind is clear—he won’t fall.”

After walking just a dozen or so paces, Brian Foster’s left foot caught his right, and with a loud thud, he fell flat on his face.

“Cluck cluck cluck…” Sarah Stone’s laughter was like silver bells, while Henry Stone’s face burned with embarrassment.

……

“Father, Mother, I’m going to bed.” Henry Stone put down his now-empty coarse porcelain bowl, wiped his mouth, and got up to sleep. Mountain folk had little entertainment at night and needed to save lamp oil, so they always went to bed early. By the time the moon climbed above the treetops, the whole village was already quiet.

Henry Stone lay in bed and had a very strange dream. It was as if a huge stone was pressing down on him, pinning him so tightly that no matter how he struggled, he couldn’t move at all, as if his body wasn’t even his own.

Even though it was a dream, Henry Stone was startled. He’d heard the adults in the village talk about this “mountain ghost pressing the body” many times.

—This means your soul has caught the eye of a mountain ghost. It sneaks up at night and presses down on you. If you can’t break free by dawn, your three souls and seven spirits will be sucked away by the mountain ghost! From then on, without your soul, only your body remains, and you’ll be a muddle-headed fool.

After all, Henry Stone was just a boy of about ten, and naturally afraid of ghosts, so he struggled desperately without hesitation.

But he felt that compared to the “giant stone” pressing on him, his own strength was far too weak. No matter how hard he tried, he still couldn’t move at all.

No, I absolutely can’t let the mountain ghost steal my soul! Henry Stone imagined his parents’ grief if they found him left as nothing but a muddle-headed shell, and became even more terrified, resolving that he had to break free no matter what. Maybe it was this determination, or maybe it was after dozens or hundreds of attempts—he summoned all his strength and gave a mighty struggle. In his ears, he heard a thunderous crash as loud as the lightning strike from the day before, and the crushing pressure on his body suddenly shattered. Henry Stone felt as if something inside him shot up to the sky.

If he had attended private school and had Mr. Bolton’s level of learning, he would surely have described this thunderous sound as “the great bell and mighty drum.” But now, all Henry Stone could think was: what a huge clap of thunder.