Grandpa Hill was the Mr. Steward under the First Emperor, a very high-ranking official. Back in the Zhou dynasty, the Mr. Steward was in charge of the six classic codes: governance, education, ritual, administration, law, and affairs—an office on par with the prime minister.

However, after the First Emperor, the Mr. Steward became a household retainer, specifically responsible for the emperor’s daily life—a supreme honor.

By his generation, it was already the fourth, and since every generation held the title of Mr. Steward, his name was also Mr. Steward.

This clearly didn’t match Henry Clark’s longing for Peach Blossom Spring...

Peach Blossom Spring was merely secluded and remote, but counting four generations of a family after the First Emperor... that would only bring us to the mid-Western Han at most...

Henry Clark kept feeling it was a mishearing on his part, or maybe Grandpa Steward hadn’t explained clearly—shouldn’t it be forty generations? Even if it were forty, each generation would have to last over fifty years.

It was a simple arithmetic problem, and easy to calculate.

But soon he tossed this doubt to the back of his mind, because one of his arms had fallen off...

To be precise, the charred shell on the outside of his right arm had rotted away.

The pear at his lips fell, and out of habit he reached to catch it, but the rough pouch snagged a patch of hard skin on his arm. When he suddenly pulled, that patch of skin was yanked off like a long glove.

A fair, dazzling little arm appeared before Henry Clark...

Henry Clark examined the arm carefully, moved it back and forth a couple of times, then sighed and continued making a fist.

Judging by the arm alone, it was a flawless beauty’s arm, the skin almost transparent, blue veins pulsing beneath the thin surface. Exposed to the daylight for just a moment, it turned from white to pink.

But it was too small—compared to his old arm, it was a whole size smaller.

Now that the arm could move freely, though still weak and powerless, Henry Clark couldn’t ask for more.

To go from a lump of charcoal to looking like a person was already a qualitative leap.

Even if his limbs ended up mismatched in size, he’d accept it. At worst, he’d just spend the rest of his life with Grandpa Steward in this deep mountain forest.

When Grandpa Steward came back and saw the arm, he grinned so wide his eyes disappeared, and with one kick sent the tiger—who’d also poked its head over to look—off to the side, scaring the sika deer, who never dared stray more than two steps from Henry Clark as long as the tiger was around, into pressing even closer to Henry Clark.

Grandpa Steward cradled Henry Clark’s arm, and even drooled a little, which made Henry Clark very worried.

If just looking at the arm gave him an appetite, what about someone like Grandpa Steward, who’d eaten half-raw meat for years?

Mr. Steward seemed to think of something, pried open Henry Clark’s mouth, and shoved his dirty fingers inside. The callused fingers stirred around in his throat, and when he pulled them out, there was a lump of bluish-gray flesh on his fingertips.

Chapter Five: The Elder Comes First, Rituals Are Supreme

So, once again, Henry Clark was carried outside by Grandpa Steward, mouth wide open toward the setting sun, as a small rake woven from fine golden threads was once again thrust deep into Henry Clark’s throat.

Each time the little rake came out, its fine teeth would be hung with a piece of flesh, until Henry Clark’s mouth began to bleed and Mr. Steward finally gave up this inexplicable behavior.

With a sigh, he said, “It’s best if it falls off on its own.”

This kind of treatment was far too rough, too direct—Henry Clark had no time to react, let alone resist.

Seeing Mr. Steward fix his gaze on him again, Henry Clark quickly waved his hands, signaling him not to be so reckless. He knew his body still had many parts fused to the charred shell.

Fortunately, Mr. Steward understood his gestures and didn’t proceed with further treatment. If he had, Henry Clark’s life might not have been spared.

“Yeye’s skills are actually pretty good. See that? This tiger’s leg was broken, and it was Yeye who healed it.”

Mr. Steward proudly pointed at the tiger, who quickly hid on Henry Clark’s other side. It was clear that, if possible, the tiger would rather not be near Mr. Steward.

His congested throat felt much better now—just a layer of skin had been peeled off by Mr. Steward, and even swallowing hurt. Luckily, after days of constant pain, Henry Clark’s tolerance had greatly improved.

To distract Mr. Steward from wanting to treat him further, Henry Clark did his best to gesture, hoping Mr. Steward would take him back to the stone hut. Compared to treatment, he much preferred learning the language Mr. Steward spoke.

Dinner was wild fruit and rabbit meat. Neither of them ate much meat; most was given to the tiger. Mr. Steward’s gaze lingered on the sika deer for a long time, and Henry Clark quickly used his only movable hand to hug the deer’s neck. Even though the deer no longer had milk, he still didn’t want to roast his lifesaving benefactor and eat it.

Henry Clark’s action made Mr. Steward a bit sentimental. He poked the fire in the stone hut brighter and tried to continue telling his family’s history in the simplest words possible.

He seemed very persistent about this, and wanted to finish telling the family history as quickly and thoroughly as possible, so that Henry Clark could enter the situation he needed sooner.

“In the twenty-ninth year of the king, the ancestor who had been sent in anger to herd horses at the ancestral land in Shangui returned to Xianyang to serve as the king’s steward once again.