After returning to Xianyang, all the family’s property, houses, and servants had been seized by others. My father wanted to reclaim them, but my grandfather stopped him, saying that a little wealth was insignificant—as long as he could return to the king’s side, that was all that mattered.

Grandfather often said: This body belongs to the king. Raising horses for the king in Shanggui is serving the king; serving as the house steward in Xianyang is also serving the king. There is no difference between the two.

One must not become arrogant because of Xianyang’s prosperity, nor become dejected because of Shanggui’s remoteness. As long as one does things beneficial to the king, that is the greatest honor for us, the king’s retainers.

In June, the king visited the Deer Park and ordered his attendants to drive out the sika deer within. The king shot and killed two deer in succession with his bow and arrows, but was still not satisfied.

At that time, a sorcerer named Lu Sheng advised: Today the sky is dim and bright by turns; a yin spirit is passing by. The unborn fetus of a pregnant doe must be offered as a blood sacrifice to the yin spirit, and then something wondrous and unspeakable will occur.

The king gladly agreed and ordered my grandfather to drive out a pregnant doe for him to shoot.

My grandfather refused, saying that killing a pregnant doe in June violated ancestral rules... The king grew angry and shot my grandfather with sharp arrows. My grandfather did not dodge and was struck by three arrows... As he was dying, he warned his descendants not to harbor any resentment toward the king because of this.

When the king heard my grandfather’s dying words, he appointed my father as the new house steward.

Today, you show extra care for the doe out of gratitude for her nursing, which is very much in the spirit of my grandfather... In the future, you must always keep this heart.”

To be honest, the story told by Mr. Steward conflicted with Henry Clark’s sense of right and wrong.

Knowing he would die yet still speaking out frankly was in great conflict with Henry Clark’s character and temperament.

He felt that nothing was more important than his own life. Ever since Mrs. Clark passed away, he didn’t even have anyone he wanted to protect with his life, let alone use his life to correct someone else’s mistake.

He had no mind to consider such distant matters; he was only worried about whether his own body could recover. If not, he was prepared to truly attempt suicide.

After sleeping soundly with one arm around the sika deer, the story told by Mr. Steward really became just a story to him—a cautionary tale to be wary of.

After dawn, he used one hand to eat the leftover fruit from last night. Those who have a hand to use are fortunate, especially when one regains the use of a lost hand—then one is filled with gratitude for the world.

Henry Clark was once again tossed onto the hammock-like soft sling by Mr. Steward, along with a thick bearskin.

He watched as Mr. Steward left the stone house with the tiger again, still looking every bit the great general heading off to battle.

Henry Clark was very curious about what he did every day, leaving early and returning late, but he was cautious enough never to ask.

Not to mention that he couldn’t speak now—even if he could, he wouldn’t ask. In this world, those who die from talking too much are as numerous as fish in the river.

The doe, whether frightened silly by the tiger or suffering from animal Stockholm syndrome, actually stayed in the stone house and didn’t leave.

When Henry Clark was up high in the soft sling, it would calmly eat grass beneath him. Even when Henry Clark threw broken branches at it, it would only shake off the branches that landed on its body and continue eating.

Given this, Henry Clark had no solution. Sooner or later, this creature was destined to end up in the tiger’s belly.

At dawn, clouds and mist surged in the mountain hollow, and as the sun rose, the cloudscape was magnificently unpredictable. The first time Henry Clark saw such a scene, he couldn’t even bear to blink.

But after watching for more than ten days in a row, he lost interest.

When people are idle, they tend to do all sorts of inexplicable things.

As it happened, Henry Clark had a precious hand he could use, so, prompted by curiosity, he began to peel off the scorched shell on his body.

He started with his neck, where a thick, hard shell made every turn of his head a torment.

The shell was very hard, but once he peeled off a small piece, it was easy to follow the lines of dead muscle and strip it off in strips.

He was very careful—if he felt even a little pain, he would stop immediately. He only wanted a bit of freedom, with no intention of self-torture.

Fortunately, this part of the hard shell had already separated from the new muscle, so he managed the task skillfully and even felt an inexplicable sense of pleasure.

When the hard shell on his chin hadn’t completely separated, Henry Clark gave up on removing it. The new skin on his neck was smooth and delicate, without any scars, which made him ecstatic. He then turned his attention to his other arm.

Peeling the hard shell from his left arm was like a gambler opening a dice cup—exciting and thrilling.

First, a flawless little hand appeared before his eyes. Henry Clark deliberately compared his two hands. Thank heavens, they were about the same size. Though a bit smaller, they hadn’t become any more deformed.

The wrists were roughly the same thickness. With that, peeling off the hard shell became a pleasure. Each day he removed a little, and each day brought a bit more happiness to his life—a happiness he had never experienced before. He didn’t even plan to share this pleasure with Mr. Steward.

He was so absorbed and meticulous in his task that even when Mr. Steward returned, he was still locked in a final struggle with a small patch of hard shell in his armpit.