'Old Grudges'

Half a month later, Central Siberian Plateau, Baikal Mountains.

A bleak, freezing wind blew from the distant snow-capped peaks.

Beneath his dogskin hat, Huai Shi raised his head and breathed out a cloud of steam.

The campfire before him crackled crisply, sparks dancing through the air. In the clay pot hanging over the flames, unseasoned mutton soup burbled away.

Huai Shi sighed, pulled a paper packet from his pocket, and sprinkled in a little rock salt he had scraped off after running two kilometers. Then he skimmed off the foam with a wooden ladle, covered the pot, and continued simmering it.

On the grassy slope beneath a wind-blocking pile of rocks, faint traces of green showed through as one filthy sheep after another lowered its head to gnaw at the turf.

The Old Shepherd, leaning on a cane and draped in furs, was smoking his own sun-dried tobacco while talking with Russell. The two seemed to be chatting merrily, occasionally bursting into laughter.

Huai Shi's eyelid twitched as he watched.

"Is there something wrong with the brains of all you Heavenly Kingdom Lineage people?"

Either they ran off to Nara to feed deer, shut themselves indoors to play Genesis Simulation, or came out to some godforsaken wilderness to herd sheep. Every last one of them played wilder than the next.

Especially this old man. Apparently, he had not set foot in a city for thirty years.

He handled all his food, clothing, shelter, and transportation himself.

The fact that he had not suddenly dropped dead could only mean Ascenders had ridiculously good constitutions.

Once people started letting themselves go, they became bizarre in every possible way. Just like shut-ins who stayed home all year long—given enough time, they were bound to develop problems.

At first, Huai Shi had not understood