“Is that enough, Frank Bolton my brother?” Ethan Clark stepped lightly on the water, floating effortlessly on the surface.

Frank Bolton looked enviously at Ethan Clark, who moved freely in the river as if walking on solid ground, and said happily, “That’s enough, that’s enough, Young Master Hua, no more, if we catch any more, this basin won’t hold them.”

Ethan Clark nodded, dove into the water again, netted a few bigger fish, then stepped onto the shore. After getting dressed, he broke off a slender willow branch and skillfully threaded it through the fishes’ gills, tying a knot.

Frank Bolton carried the basin of fish, while Ethan Clark held the willow branch with four fish strung on it. Bathed in the faint afterglow of the setting sun, they made their way back to town.

As soon as they entered the house, Henry Clark came up to them. Seeing the four fish in his hand, he was stunned. “Young master, where did these fish come from?”

“Caught by the river,” Ethan Clark replied with a faint smile. “Henry Clark, where’s the kitchen?”

“Over there,” Harold Grant pointed casually, then asked in confusion, “Young master, why are you asking about the kitchen?”

“To cook the fish.” Ethan Clark tossed out the words and strode toward the kitchen. His favorite food in life was braised live fish. In his previous life, he would eat live fish almost every few days. Going out to restaurants was troublesome and not very hygienic, so he eventually taught himself to cook fish. The more he cooked, the better he got, mastering the color, flavor, and timing to perfection.

By the time Henry Clark snapped out of his daze and rushed into the kitchen, Ethan Clark had already deftly gutted and cleaned the four fish.

“Young master, you, you, how could you?” Henry Clark exclaimed in shock. “This menial work is for the hired cook to do. If not, Henry Clark can do it. You’re the young master—how can you do such rough chores?”

“Heh, I’ve done all sorts of eating, drinking, whoring, and gambling—what’s this in comparison? Go wait outside. When I finish the braised fish, I’ll let you all have a taste. Go!” Ethan Clark said as he made decorative cuts on the fish.

Watching Ethan Clark’s skilled fish-filleting, Henry Clark could hardly believe his eyes. This young master had always been pampered, never lifting a finger—when did he learn to cook? Today, he seemed like a completely different person… so strange, so mysterious!

…

Outside the kitchen door, Liam Young walked over and asked, “Henry Clark, why are you standing outside the kitchen in a daze?”

Henry Clark’s expression shifted. He opened his mouth, but didn’t know how to explain.

The door opened, and Ethan Clark came out holding a plate, with a beautifully cooked braised fish on it, looking very satisfied. Seeing Henry Clark and Liam Young, he smiled, “All right, Henry Clark, I’m done. There are three more—help yourselves. Oh, right, bring… bring one in for the young madam to try as well.”

With that, ignoring the shocked faces of Henry Clark and Liam Young, Ethan Clark hummed a little tune and went back to his room.

Volume One: The World in a Pot

Chapter 8: Exemplary Teacher

Night gradually fell, and a crescent moon quietly climbed to the treetops. A gentle breeze blew, and the night was as calm as water.

The inner courtyard.

Liam Young said softly, “Miss, the fish is already cold. You should at least try it.”

“Liam Young, did the young master really cook this himself?”

“Yes, miss, Liam Young saw it with her own eyes.”

“He… tell Uncle Lin not to let the young master do such lowly chores again. Come, Liam Young, Lucy Young, let’s try it together.”

…

In the Ming Dynasty, there was no such thing as the colorful nightlife of modern society. Bored, Ethan Clark first practiced calligraphy for a while, then forced himself to lie on the bed and read the “Four Books and Five Classics,” and finally fell into a deep sleep with a thread-bound book in his arms.

The night passed in silence. At dawn, the sounds of footsteps and voices of passersby could be faintly heard from the street outside the residence. With Henry Clark’s help, Ethan Clark reluctantly finished washing up. It was just a basin of clean water, a towel, and a bowl of salt water for rinsing his mouth.

After breakfast, he went to the study to practice calligraphy as usual. In fact, his calligraphy skills were already quite advanced—after all, he had been practicing since childhood for more than ten years. Although this body was not his own, his hand was still under the control of his consciousness, and with a little practice, he could write with ease.

“The west wind is fierce, wild geese cry under the frosty morning moon.

Frosty morning moon, the sound of horses’ hooves shatters, the bugle is choked.

The heroic pass is truly like iron, but now we stride forward from the beginning.

From the beginning, the blue mountains are like the sea, the setting sun is like blood.”

Looking at the poem he had just written in traditional characters, Ethan Clark felt a sense of pride and satisfaction. He deliberately wrote in traditional script to train his writing habits, since he now lived in an era where traditional characters were the norm.

“Hey, Young Master Hua, I didn’t expect your calligraphy to be this good!” A slightly immature voice sounded behind him. Startled, he turned around quickly. Frank Bolton, dressed in a blue long robe and wrapped in a moon-white headscarf, stood there with a hint of surprise on his delicate face, smiling.

“Oh, it’s Frank Bolton my brother. When did you get here? Haha. I was just scribbling a bit, sorry you had to see it.” Ethan Clark put down his brush. “Did you need something? Didn’t I already pay you back the fish yesterday?”