David Thompson said coldly, “Father can go to the clan leader to settle this matter of fifty strings of cash. If you’re afraid of Henry Brooks, then let me find a way to resolve it. You don’t need to worry about this anymore, and definitely don’t go borrowing money from others.”

Brian Thompson gave a wry smile. A child is still a child—so naive in his words. What could a six-year-old possibly solve?

At that moment, a flatbed cart pulled by three donkeys slowly stopped at the entrance of the mule and horse shop across the street. An emaciated old man jumped down, his face drawn and weary, tossed a tattered vest over his shoulder, and lazily shuffled into the shop.

Brian Thompson’s eyes lit up. He hurriedly said to David Thompson, “You go home now! I’ll ask if there’s a donkey cart heading to the county.”

David Thompson suddenly remembered something and quickly asked, “Are you going to the county’s bookshop, Father?”

“Of course I’m going to the bookshop. Why do you ask?”

David Thompson took out a manuscript tied with oiled string from his coat and handed it to his father. “Show this to the bookshop owner, see if it can be printed.”

“What’s this?” Brian Thompson asked in surprise, taking the bundle of manuscripts.

“It’s the story I told to Xiao Qing’er. I wrote it down as calligraphy practice. Maybe it could be published and sold for money.”

“Silly child!”

Brian Thompson found it amusing, but not wanting to disappoint his son, he tucked the manuscript into his coat. “Alright! I’ll ask Manager Clark. You stay home and study hard. The imperial exams aren’t so easy to pass.”

“There you go again! I know.”

After a few more words of advice, Brian Thompson hurried off toward the mule and horse shop. He knew the donkey cart driver, Old Mr. Bolton, and hoped to catch a ride to the county as he delivered goods.

David Thompson wandered aimlessly down the main street of the small town, poverty and hatred weighing on his heart like two heavy stones.

He could easily use his own intelligence to gradually improve his family’s poverty. For example, he could write out the story of Journey to the West and have his father print and sell the books—a pretty good idea, and one that suited his father’s skills. He could even use simple methods to make some daily necessities to sell to merchants, like matches or mosquito coils, and earn a little money that way.

Making money wasn’t the problem. The problem was, he had absolutely no intention of repaying that so-called “medical fee” to Henry Brooks. Frank Brooks’s words still echoed in his ears:

“They gave that dog owner a real beating—heard he even soiled himself, sprayed my dad with blood, and the funniest part was he knelt on the ground and crawled like a dog, crawling under the crotches of four servants…”

The humiliation his father suffered was etched into David Thompson’s heart like a knife. The three little brats were hateful, but a good thrashing was enough—no need to hold a grudge against them. But he would never let Henry Brooks off the hook—not only had he insulted and beaten his father, he’d also stolen ten strings of his father’s hard-earned money, and now was trying to force him to pay another forty. This anger was bottled up inside David Thompson.

And then there was the mountain of debt his father owed, and the way his father was bullied and had no status in the Li clan. He was determined to turn all of this around.

A surge of unprecedented passion welled up in his chest. David Thompson bit his lip and strode off toward Liwen Village…

At dusk, the neighbor Mrs. Harris brought word that his father had caught a ride on a delivery donkey cart to the county and wouldn’t be back for at least ten days. If anything came up, Mrs. Harris would look after him.

David Thompson didn’t want to trouble Mrs. Harris for now—he still had important things to prepare.

In the courtyard, David Thompson was practicing lighting a fire stick. These were the last two fire sticks he’d found in the woodshed. He lit one, then blew it out with a whoosh. Though the fire stick had no flame, a red ember could still be seen glowing faintly, like a spark in the ashes, able to stay lit for a long time. When he needed a flame, a single breath would bring it back to life.

But relighting it took skill—a sudden, short, forceful breath with plenty of air. David Thompson had learned to do this a month ago, and was even more adept than his father.

“Whoosh!” With a single breath, the fire stick flared to life.

David Thompson was quite pleased with his technique—he could now do it flawlessly.

Just then, Dahei, the big black dog sleeping at the gate, suddenly stood up and started barking furiously at the door.

“Who’s there?” David Thompson called out, but no one answered from outside.

He walked over and peered through the crack in the door—no one was there. He was about to walk away when Dahei crouched low, growling fiercely at the door like a wild beast.

“Could there be a rabbit outside? Maybe we can improve our meals a bit?”

David Thompson laughed and opened the door, wanting to see what had Dahei so tense. But just as he opened the door, a wild howl rang out—“Awooo!”—and a huge red-brown mastiff lunged inside.

David Thompson was startled. Before he could react, the mastiff knocked him to the ground, baring its sharp white teeth and lunging for his face.

At that critical moment, Dahei leapt forward with a roar, biting down hard on the mastiff’s neck. The mastiff yelped in pain and snapped back. David Thompson seized the chance, rolled away, scrambled to his feet, and dashed over to grab the hatchet by the woodpile.