“Ha ha, you sure run fast!” Grandma Tiger let out a dry laugh, using one foot to flick up the dead wild boar on the ground. The boar flipped in the air and landed squarely on the tiger’s back, in the exact same position as Henry Clark.

It was only at this moment that Henry Clark could see clearly: the tall bun on Grandma Tiger’s head wasn’t a bun at all, but a black gauze crown, simply tied under the chin with a filthy strap. The crown was so worn out that at a glance, it looked like a high bun.

A tattered fur coat hung loosely on his body, a black leather belt cinched at the waist, and a piece of lustrous white jade was set into the belt. Even someone like Henry Clark, who didn’t know much about jade, could tell that this jade belt was extremely valuable.

Hanging from the jade belt was a treasured sword. The scabbard was made of crocodile skin, with an ancient design, and the sword’s unique guard fit perfectly with the scabbard.

If you ignored that strange face, this was definitely a set of human attire, and his shadow in the sunlight was also human-shaped.

If a bird quacks like a duck, looks like a duck, and walks like a duck, then it is a duck.

By the same logic, this Grandma Tiger-like fellow ought to be a human as well.

With this thought, Henry Clark’s fear slowly faded away.

The tiger was very obedient, walking unhurriedly along a narrow mountain path. Occasionally, it would roar, sending the forest into a brief panic.

Henry Clark wanted to speak, but it felt as if a burning coal was stuck in his throat—he couldn’t make a sound.

Grandma Tiger was extremely curious about Henry Clark’s body. While chattering away at a rapid pace in words Henry Clark couldn’t understand, he kept poking at Henry Clark’s charred body with his fingers, as if puzzled how someone nearly roasted alive could still have such lively eyes.

After passing through the narrow mountain path, the view suddenly opened up. Below the mountain stretched an endless plain, lush and green as far as the eye could see. Dense vegetation spread from the mountaintop all the way down to the foot. A waterfall hung before the river, its massive flow crashing onto hard rocks, sending up sprays of water and clouds of mist. A seven-colored rainbow arched between two mountains, like a beautiful bridge.

Descending along the mountain road, the tiger’s rising and falling shoulder blades tormented Henry Clark greatly. At this moment, he felt like a man who had been skinned alive—every gust of wind brought unbearable pain.

Grandma Tiger moved with incredible speed along the rugged mountain path. Henry Clark saw with his own eyes as he leapt a full ten feet into the air and plucked a pear from a wild tree.

Before Henry Clark could marvel, Grandma Tiger lifted Henry Clark’s head, and with a slight squeeze of his five fingers, the pear split into four and finally turned into a puddle of pear juice in his palm.

The squeezed pear juice dripped onto Henry Clark’s charred lips. Just moments ago, he had been worried about life and death, but now he greedily sucked at the juice—it was a sweetness he had never tasted before.

The tiger kept walking until nightfall. Henry Clark didn’t know how many times he had passed out. When he woke again, a crescent moon hung cold and lonely in the western sky.

Ahead was a tall earthen hill.

The hill was pitch black, seemingly covered with trees, though none were very tall. At least in the dim moonlight, Henry Clark didn’t see the towering ancient trees like those on Mount Li.

Grandma Tiger knelt facing the hill, his muffled sobs sounding especially mournful in the night.

No one knew how long Grandma Tiger cried. Lying on the tiger’s back, Henry Clark felt warm and dearly wished this fellow would show a bit more humanity to strengthen his trust in his own judgment.

In fact, Henry Clark found the hill very familiar. He couldn’t make out its full shape in the moonlight, so he kept his doubts to himself.

Grandma Tiger cried for a long time—long enough for Henry Clark to fall asleep—yet he was still weeping.

When the morning star appeared on the horizon, Grandma Tiger finally straightened up, let out a low growl at the tiger, and continued on their way.

Tigers really aren’t suitable for riding—they jostle terribly, especially with their uneven leg bones constantly rubbing against Henry Clark’s fragile body. A horse would be much better. Henry Clark couldn’t understand why a master like Grandma Tiger would choose to ride a tiger.

The wild boar beside him had started to smell after a day and a half of being tossed around. Many times, Henry Clark wondered if, in Grandma Tiger’s eyes, he was just like the wild boar—food for him and the tiger.

Henry Clark had long since grown numb to everything before him. Ever since he discovered he hadn’t died even after nearly being roasted alive, no matter how bizarre things got, he felt there was nothing he couldn’t accept.

For a long time, he treated this place as the world of the dead.

A sheer cliff suddenly appeared on the mountain path. With a leap, the tiger landed on the rock, then followed a stone path into a dark cave.

The tiger shook its body, and Henry Clark fell off its back. He could feel the wild boar’s bristle-like hair, as sharp as steel needles, piercing into his flesh.

Grandma Tiger kept striking two stones together, sending sparks flying. The flashes of fire were brief, but his expression was peaceful, though his face was hideous.

A small flame ignited in Grandma Tiger’s palm. He carefully blew on it, and soon the tiny spark became a blazing fire pit.

Henry Clark lay on his side by the fire, watching the tiger tear at the wild boar’s carcass, and finally chose to close his eyes.