Half a month later, the Central Siberian Plateau, Baikal Mountain Range.
Cold winds emerged from the distant snowy mountains.
Underneath the fur cap, Huai Shi looked up, breathing warm air.
The bonfire before him crackled crisply, sparks flying, while the clay pot hanging over the fire bubbled with the sound of unsalted lamb soup.
Huai Shi sighed, took out a paper package from his pocket, and sprinkled a little of the rock salt he had scraped off after a two-kilometer run into the pot. Using a wooden ladle, he skimmed off the froth, covered the pot again, and continued simmering the soup.
Below the wind-blocking pile of rocks, the hillside appeared to have tufts of green, where dirty sheep lowered their heads to nibble at the grass.
The Old Shepherd, leaning on his cane and draped in furs, smoked his own sun-dried tobacco while chatting with Luo Su. The two seemed to be in joyful conversation, often bursting into laughter.
Huai Shi watched intently.
