Like Zhang Yuanmin, Zhao Jun also made an impression on everyone at No. 78 Logging Camp the moment he arrived.

But they took note of Zhao Jun out of fear—they didn’t want to fail to recognize someone important and accidentally offend the new inspector.

The Leader of No. 78 Logging Camp was a man named Yang Hong. He was thirty-nine, tall, and dark-skinned, and he dressed very simply.

Compared to Jiang Fu and Du Chunlin, Yang Hong didn’t look like a Leader; he seemed more like one of the workers.

But Yang Hong was generous and upright. Of all the Leaders in the logging camps dotting the mountains, few were as open and honest as he was.

Yang Hong greeted Zhao Jun’s arrival without fawning, but with genuine warmth. Following tradition, on Zhao Jun’s first day at the camp, Yang Hong had a fine spread of dishes prepared for him.

There were six dishes—a mix of meat and vegetables, including fish. A hot and sour lamb soup made Zhao Jun break out into a sweat, and he felt wonderfully comfortable.

After the meal, Zhao Jun rested for a bit in the Leader’s shack before heading to the Log Pile Yard to get to work.

Around four in the afternoon, while Zhao Jun was still scaling logs, he heard someone call from behind him, "Technician, Technician."

Zhao Jun stopped what he was doing and turned to see an old man standing a short distance away.

He was wearing a grease-stained, black cotton-padded jacket and matching pants. His graying hair was a mess, and his aged face was deeply weathered by time.

Zhao Jun’s heart clenched. ’Master,’ he called out silently in his mind. This old man was Hu Dahai, his hunting master from his past life.

They had been master and apprentice in a past life, and that bond might not exist in this one, but Zhao Jun was still very polite. "Sir," he asked Hu Dahai, "did you need something?"

Hu Dahai grinned. "Technician, I’m the cook here at the Logging Camp. Yang Leader told me to make sure you’re well-fed. As it happens, we’re making steamed buns tonight—wild boar and radish filling. I steamed a batch early, figured you could eat your fill before you head home."

Hearing this, Zhao Jun didn’t stand on ceremony. He readily agreed and followed Hu Dahai into a shack.

This shack served as both the Logging Camp’s kitchen and the living quarters for Hu Dahai and his son.

Hu Dahai had lost his wife in middle age. One of his two sons had also died from illness, leaving only his youngest, who did Gui Ling work here at the Logging Camp.

Since his son was away from home, Hu Dahai felt awkward staying with his daughter-in-law, so he had followed his son to the Logging Camp.

But he was already fifty-eight when he arrived. Yang Hong didn’t have the heart to give him heavy labor, and upon learning he could cook, he made him the camp’s cook.

When Zhao Jun entered the shack, the room was filled with steam. A large pot of buns had just finished cooking.

Hu Dahai lifted the lid, and the room grew even steamier.

Hu Dahai smiled at Zhao Jun. "Technician, my hands are filthy. Would you mind washing up and grabbing the buns yourself?"

"Of course." Zhao Jun knew the old man meant well. He went to a large water vat, ladled some water into a basin, and washed his hands with a bar of pig-pancreas soap. Then he walked over to the large pot, first grabbing a bowl and filling it with cold water.

He picked up a plate, then dipped the fingers of his other hand into the bowl of cold water. Only after all five fingers were thoroughly wet did he reach into the pot to grab a bun.

The freshly steamed buns were scorching, but with his fingers coated in cold water, Zhao Jun had already placed a bun on the plate by the time he felt the heat.

Zhao Jun placed four buns on the plate. After a moment’s thought, he grabbed another plate and picked out four more.

As he carried a plate in each hand to the low table on the kang, Hu Dahai happened to have just ladled him a bowl of freshly made porridge.

It was a thick and gooey cornmeal porridge.

Seeing Zhao Jun approach with the buns, Hu Dahai smiled. "Technician, eat them with the porridge."

"Okay." Zhao Jun nodded with a smile and placed the two plates of buns on opposite sides of the table.

Hu Dahai paused, taken aback. Then he heard Zhao Jun say, "Sir, you sit down too. Let’s eat together."

Hu Dahai was astonished to hear Zhao Jun call him ’Sir’. The inspectors from the Forest Farm he’d met in the past all acted high and mighty, looking down their noses at the workers.

Yet here was Zhao Jun, treating an old cook like him with such courtesy.

"I’ll eat later," Hu Dahai politely declined. "Technician Zhao, you go ahead and eat."

"Come on, Sir. They’re best when they’re hot," Zhao Jun said, standing up to help the old man onto the kang to sit.

The two of them then began to eat the buns, chatting as they ate.

They didn’t talk about hunting, just made small talk. Between the lines, however, the old man hinted that he hoped Zhao Jun would look after his son.

Zhao Jun agreed without hesitation, which made the old man even happier.

Overjoyed, he ignored Zhao Jun’s protests, got off the kang, and roasted two red chili peppers to make a small dish of chili oil for Zhao Jun’s buns.

The buns were filled with wild boar and radish. Though Zhao Jun had no idea where Yang Hong had gotten the meat, he certainly hadn’t been stingy with it.

It was half radish and half meat, with the meat forming a ball around the radish. The old man mentioned he’d also added bone broth, and the savory juices had soaked into the fluffy dough, making even the bun itself delicious.

Dipping a piece in the chili oil, the crisp fragrance of the peppers mingled with the fresh scent of the radish and the savory aroma of the meat. The food was so rich and delicious that Zhao Jun’s mouth was slick with flavorful oil.

Once the porridge had cooled a bit, he started slurping it from the edge of the bowl. Eating the ’wet’ after the ’dry’ like this was called ’filling in the cracks.’

Just as Zhao Jun was ’filling in the cracks,’ the shack door was suddenly yanked open from the outside.

A travel-worn man entered, and his eyes fell upon the two of them on the kang, bowls raised as they drank their porridge.

The man froze for a second. Hu Dahai, hearing the door open, glanced toward the entrance. His vision was a little blurry, and he had to squint to make out who it was.

"Ah," Hu Dahai said, surprised. "Song Dong? What are you doing here?"

The man drew closer, stopping in front of Hu Dahai. He looked at the old man, then glanced at Zhao Jun.

Seeing his hesitation, Hu Dahai smiled. "It’s all right. This is the new inspector for our Logging Camp. He’s not an outsider. Whatever it is, you can say it."

After just one meal, the old man already no longer treated Zhao Jun as a stranger.

Zhao Jun, for his part, recognized the man as Hu Dahai’s nephew, Song Dong.

In his past life, Zhao Jun had learned to hunt from Hu Dahai, but it was Song Dong who had first taken him out on a hunt.

It was also Song Dong who had helped him handle the hunting dogs. In that past life, the two of them had been close, like brothers.

Hearing Hu Dahai tell him it was okay to speak, Song Dong didn’t hold back. He first gave Zhao Jun a nod by way of greeting, then turned to Hu Dahai. "Third Uncle, our dogs are dead."

"What?" Upon hearing this, Hu Dahai hurriedly swung his crossed legs off the kang. He looked up at Song Dong and demanded, "Dead? How many? How did they die?"

Hu Dahai fired off three questions in a row. Song Dong pressed his lips together before answering, "There were eight dogs. Seven are dead. Only Big Elder Hei made it back."

Hu Dahai’s eyes went wide. He stared at Song Dong and asked, "What did you run into? What could kill that many dogs? Did you go after Xiong Ba?"

"It wasn’t Xiong Ba." Song Dong shook his head. He lowered his gaze, his voice hoarse and choked with emotion. "I don’t know what kind of creature it was... but I think it was Big Claw."

"The Mountain God?" Hu Dahai leaped off the kang in an instant. He craned his neck to look up at Song Dong and demanded, "Where did you go?"