The bow was so complex and intricate, exuding a metallic aura, completely different from the homemade bow of Brian Brooks's family—much colder. Just looking at those arrows made one feel a sense of bloodiness. Each bow seemed to bare its fangs at Brian Brooks. In short, they were some very novel bows, at least ones Brian Brooks had never seen before. Even though he had roamed and jumped around the mountains for nearly twenty years, he still didn’t really like bows. But Henry liked them, truly liked them, just as he himself liked the outside world. So Brian Brooks thought that if he really made money this time, he would get one of those things for Henry. He didn’t know that, in fact, the money he earned would never be enough to buy such bows and arrows.

Big Sam went home to change clothes, slung a giant bow and a cloth bag over his back, and strode to the entrance of the village. He handed Brian Brooks a hunting knife and a pair of uniquely textured leather boots. After changing into the boots, Brian Brooks put his old liberation shoes into the cloth bag and shouted to the group of wealthy people busy dividing up tasks, “We can set off now.”

To Brian Brooks’s surprise, Big Sam didn’t seem very interested in those bows and arrows that represented the pinnacle of cold weapon technology. He just glanced at them briefly, then turned his head and continued to give Brian Brooks a silly grin.

Instead, it was those city folks who, upon seeing this burly man nearly two meters tall, carrying a visually striking giant horn bow and a body bursting with explosive muscles—far wilder and more authentic than any gym trainer—finally realized that if you ignored his silly smile, this “fool” actually had a certain rugged masculinity. Especially that absurdly large bow, which made everyone feel a subtle sense of defeat, as if their own compound or recurve bows were just toys.

The group set off into the mountains in grand fashion.

Big Sam led the way, Brian Brooks brought up the rear, and behind him trailed an unremarkable mutt, affectionately circling around Brian Brooks.

Maybe Big Sam’s strides were too big and hurried, because after about an hour, a girl called out that she was tired. Brian Brooks didn’t object; they were about to truly enter the forest, so a break wouldn’t hurt. When he saw the pampered beauty about to plant her round, full bottom onto a tree stump, Brian Brooks immediately stopped her, shouting, “Don’t sit!”

Startled, the pretty girl glared fiercely at this country bumpkin in front of her. The others also looked at Brian Brooks. The culprit frowned and said, “It’s a rule in the mountains.”

Although the group didn’t really understand this so-called “rule,” they didn’t make things difficult for Brian Brooks. The pretty girl’s boyfriend coaxed her, and she giggled away her anger. Brian Brooks squatted down, stroking the mutt’s head with a warm gaze. The dog was pitch black, a bit wolf-like, with a shiny coat. The only flaw was its body, covered in a mess of hideous scars. Although the dog’s frame wasn’t large, it sometimes exuded a fierce aura. But in front of Brian Brooks, this scarred black dog just wagged its tail. Big Sam stood nearby, grinning as he watched the man and dog.

Click.

A flash went off, capturing the affectionate scene between Brian Brooks and his dog. The woman still holding the camera stood in front of Brian Brooks, her tone flat as she asked, “Is it also a rule to mutter to yourself before entering the mountains?”

Brian Brooks nodded, glanced at the tree stump, and explained, “The elders always said that’s the mountain spirit’s pillow—you can’t sit on it.”

The woman asked softly, “Do you believe it?”

“I do.”

Brian Brooks replied without hesitation, as if he had eyes in the back of his head, and said, “No laughing.”

This made Big Sam, who had just started to grin, immediately close his mouth. Brian Brooks let out a sharp whistle, and the black dog instantly darted off with incredible agility, disappearing into the depths of the forest. He slowly stood up, looked at the woman, and said, “I know you’re like Henry, you don’t believe in this stuff. That’s fine, you’re both atheists, materialists. Believing in this is too feudal and outdated.”

The woman put away her camera and chuckled, “Actually, there’s a scientific explanation for your ‘rule.’ The roots of the tree stump are underground, so some miasma can seep and evaporate through the wood grain. If someone sits there too long, the dampness can soak in and make them sick.”

Brian Brooks was stunned for a moment and asked, “You’ve studied this?”

She shook her head, “I haven’t studied it. I just saw it and thought of it.”

Feeling a bit emotional, Brian Brooks scratched his head and said, “You must have gone to university, right?”

She smiled, as if she’d heard a rather funny joke, and didn’t explain—just nodded in acknowledgment. For the second time, she seriously sized up this somewhat clever “ruffian.” In his world, was being smart defined as having a university degree? She sighed, looked up at the birch forest canopy, and murmured to herself, “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.”

Even though Brian Brooks heard it, he naturally didn’t understand, because that was the purest old-school English accent. For someone like him, whose spoken English was almost nonexistent, if it weren’t for English dragging him down, he might have gotten into a third-tier university. Though, to him, third-tier and vocational college were the same. His high school English teacher, whose spoken English was terrible, probably couldn’t even pass the CET-4 exam herself, so it was no wonder her students’ grades were what they were.

Suddenly, she asked, “Let me ask you a somewhat impolite question—why are you called Er Gou?”