The big rock was a dividing line for Henry Clark; outside the big rock was the wild, while inside was a temporary home.

He wasn’t reckless enough to run outside the big rock—at least, not before he was sure it was truly safe out there. Not even for Mr. Steward. Whatever could kill the highly skilled Mr. Steward would have no trouble killing Henry Clark.

The only thing he could do was to wait safely on the rock with the tiger for Mr. Steward to return.

There was plenty of sunlight on the big rock. The tiger sprawled out lazily, basking in the sun. Seeing the tiger so relaxed, Henry Clark’s own tense nerves gradually eased; this place actually seemed more suitable for getting things done.

By the time the sun was about to set, Henry Clark finally finished a pair of pants. They weren’t the kind of deep robes Mr. Steward wore—when climbing over rough rocks, his dark backside would be exposed.

Wearing pants felt great, but Mr. Steward still hadn’t come back.

The millet rice was steamed, the tiger’s pickled meat was ready, the wild vegetables had been drizzled with wild boar fat, and the chopsticks had been boiled in hot water.

Still, Mr. Steward hadn’t returned.

Waiting for someone was extremely unpleasant. Henry Clark had never liked waiting; if it took too long, he’d get irritable.

As dusk fell, it started to rain outside, a steady drizzle. Henry Clark stared at the now-cold food, sat cross-legged at the door, and watched the rain.

A chilly wind blew through, and finally, Mr. Steward returned.

He looked disheveled, his tattered robe soaked with mud and water, the once-fine scabbard caked in so much mud its original appearance was unrecognizable.

Henry Clark stepped forward to help, but Mr. Steward pushed him away, staggering and collapsing onto the bamboo slips, his breathing as heavy as a bellows.

This was a sign of exhaustion.

Before, Mr. Steward had taken care of him; now it was his turn to look after Mr. Steward. That’s just how things go, always coming full circle.

After stripping off Mr. Steward’s wet clothes, he saw a large bruise on his chest, as if he’d been punched.

Henry Clark didn’t ask who had done it; he just knew that Mr. Steward’s situation seemed far from stable.

Once he’d caught his breath, Mr. Steward silently took the millet rice Henry Clark handed him, with some meat broth poured over it. He didn’t touch the vegetables, just wolfed down the rice and then fell asleep on the pile of bamboo slips, snoring thunderously within moments.

After eating, Henry Clark washed the dishes, then sat by the hearth again, using a large needle to sew a jacket.

Naturally, clothes made this way couldn’t be very good. Basically, he sewed a layer of linen inside a bear pelt, then used hemp rope to tie a few Chinese knots as buttons.

If he had silk or brocade, Henry Clark could make even prettier buttons—he’d learned this skill from Granny Yun while making qipaos for others.

Before going to bed, Henry Clark not only finished his own jacket, but also mended Mr. Steward’s torn clothes.

He stretched, glanced around the stone house once more, and couldn’t help but sigh.

In fact, nothing was lacking in this house; it was just that Mr. Steward had made it look like a pigsty.

The essence of life is diligence. A person’s living environment often reflects their state of mind.

Henry Clark believed that Mr. Steward could be sloppy, but his own new life was just beginning—he absolutely couldn’t let himself develop slovenly habits. Over time, fake sloppiness would turn into real laziness.

Because of his work, Henry Clark had met a few truly remarkable people.

They all shared one trait: they never showed off in front of others.

Skill is like food already eaten—you know how full you are, there’s no need to spit it out for the whole world to see.

In unfamiliar environments, caution is always right.

That’s exactly what Henry Clark was doing now.

Mr. Steward thought he only recognized names and liked to teach him characters, so Henry Clark followed along carefully, stroke by stroke. In any case, his knowledge of clerical script was only at the recognition level.

When Mr. Steward woke up, the sun was already in the west. Dressed in strange clothes, Henry Clark brought him food, and as he ate, he watched Henry Clark tidy up the messy stone house.

“Why don’t you ask me why I was so late coming back yesterday?” Mr. Steward put down his bowl, looking thoughtful.

Henry Clark brought over the sand tray and, right in front of him, wrote the three characters for the First Emperor in three different scripts.

Mr. Steward quickly forgot what he’d just asked, carefully checked Henry Clark’s work, pointed out two mistakes, and then continued teaching him characters.

The routine was two meals a day. When night fell, Mr. Steward finally stopped teaching, coughed, stood up, and went outside the stone house, staring blankly at the last bit of sunset on the horizon.

“How long have you been here?”

Mr. Steward turned to Henry Clark and smiled, “A lifetime.”

“Don’t you want to go out and see the world?”

“No. Outside is the Han Empire’s world—there’s no place for a Qin man like me.”

“Don’t you feel any regret?”

“A Qin man’s word is worth its weight in gold—he never turns back, even in death…”

Henry Clark thought for a moment and said, “Staying here isn’t so bad. As long as you’re happy, anywhere can be a paradise.”