Brian Brooks scratched his head and said with apparent sincerity, “He’s not an idiot—even our village fool, Peter Bolton, can see that.”

Before the person across from him could get angry, Brian Brooks turned to a scruffy man squatting at the edge of the clearing, gnawing on jerky like a rat, and asked, “Peter Bolton, do you think Henry is stupid or not?”

That middle-aged man, so filthy he’d make most city folks gag, shook his head vigorously, then stared fixedly at the girl fiddling with her fingers, drooling all over the ground. Maybe, for this true fool, he’d never understand the meaning of “a feast for the eyes,” but instinctively he could tell that the fresh-faced woman was far more appetizing than the stinky jerky in his hand.

Not giving these rich folks a chance to lose their tempers, Brian Brooks was already haggling like a pimp, rattling off, “One day in the mountains is 1,000 yuan. If you bag a mountain jumper—oh, that’s a rabbit—add 50. Roe deer or fox, add 100. Wild boar, add 300. If it’s over 400 jin, that’s a separate price. If you get a black bear, at least 500. If it’s a Siberian tiger, uh, well, you do your thing, I didn’t see anything, no charge.”

To some villagers who more or less understood what was going on, each of them silently cursed Brian for his greed. 1,000 yuan meant a huge deal to Zhangjia Village—something city youth could never imagine. To put it in perspective, it was half the price of a bride. So calling Brian Brooks’s “sky-high asking price” a lion’s opening mouth wasn’t an exaggeration. But the villagers were simple and protective, and wouldn’t really expose Brian Brooks’s lack of loyalty. Even though Brian Brooks was notorious for being unscrupulous, at least he’d put in a lot of effort during disputes with outsiders. If it weren’t for the two The Brooks Family brothers, Zhangjia Village wouldn’t have the peace it enjoyed today.

“That’s the deal.”

The tall young man, with a real leader’s air, settled Brian Brooks’s price in one crisp sentence. A thousand or two in expenses was probably less than he’d spend on a night out—no need to fuss. He couldn’t care less if this not-so-pleasant-sounding young farmer was making a killing. In fact, if he really managed to bag a big wild boar or a black bear, even ten thousand wouldn’t be a problem. Imagine going back to his circle and saying he’d personally hunted a black bear—how attention-grabbing would that be?

The alluring girl, with eyes that could hook a soul, only gave the rustic Brian Brooks a casual glance from start to finish, with no desire for a second look. Her patched, glaringly shabby cotton jacket—patches like that only existed in movies in her world. She nestled up to her boyfriend like a delicate bird, carefully inspecting her nails painted in dazzling colors. The admiring stares from villagers aged eight to eighty made her feel quite pleased.

Brian Brooks quietly let out a sigh of relief and asked, “When are we heading into the mountains?”

The young man, face like a poker card, replied, “Now. We’ll grab our gear from the car and head in immediately. Any problem?”

Brian Brooks squinted slightly and grinned, “Nope.”

Look at that smile—seemingly fawning, yet somehow making people uncomfortable. After the woman with the camera finished taking a close-up of a gap-toothed child grinning wide, she happened to catch an interesting scene: the guy called Brian Brooks gave a few hard stares at the perky backside of the temptress who’d practically seduced every male in the convoy. In his eyes, besides the meaning every man would have, there was also a hint of something different, a touch of amusement. She thought to herself, “Guess it’s true—out of these wild mountains come the slyest folks.”

Chapter Three: Bow Hunting

Brian Brooks was also curious what rare gear these rich kids would bring into the mountains. He figured hunting rifles were most likely, and was eager to see the upgraded version of the old blunderbuss. His biggest window to the outside world was the library in that rundown high school, so he knew that hunting was becoming trendy in China. He’d heard that the Lushuihe Changbai Mountain hunting ground hosted plenty of city folks paying for a taste of the wild every year.

Full of anticipation, hands tucked into his sleeves, he followed the group to the edge of the village—and was stunned. These big vehicles, though it was his first time seeing them, radiated an unmistakable aura. He also noticed that two of the license plates were unusual: one started with “Shen K3,” another with “Shen Y7,” both with red characters, the rest black, in a clean, sans-serif font, the curves rounded. It absurdly reminded Brian Brooks of “The Red and the Black.”

Though this true frog-in-a-well had no idea that “Shen K3” meant it came from the Heilongjiang Provincial Military District, he could guess the owner was no ordinary person. He instinctively glanced again at the woman who wouldn’t put down her camera—she and that wooden-faced guy both rode in the “Shen Y7” car. Pulling his gaze back, he saw the rich boys unloading their gear and froze, muttering, “Bows?”

There’s gun hunting and bow hunting, of course, and even wilder knife hunting. In Brian Brooks’s eyes, gun hunting was like fishing with a net, bow hunting like fishing with a rod—both required skill, but the latter was undoubtedly more challenging. Brian Brooks didn’t think going into the mountains with these amateurs to play with bows was going to be pleasant at all. Hunting in the mountains wasn’t sightseeing—who knew when a starving beast might show up? Brian Brooks stared, dumbfounded, at these eager city folks. So these thrill-seeking rich kids really thought they were master archers?