Thirty miles Southwest of Laine, by a stream at the foot of Lamel Mountain, an old man, ragged, sallow, and as thin as a stick, was staggering north along the stream.

Before reaching this stream, the old man had been walking along the Lamel Mountains for over a month, with no trace of his pursuers behind him. For a month, he had traveled through dense forests and deep mountains, stumbled along deserted paths, bypassed castles and villages, braved the elements, and survived on a small bag of black beans, grass roots, and mountain rats until he reached this point. One more day of walking, across the wilderness ahead, would bring him to the southern border of Burgundy County.

"Damn the weather," the old man cursed softly as he stumbled step by step towards the Giant Stone Pile in the snowfield. His exposed toes were cracked and festering, and dark blood seeped from the wounds on his back.

About twenty miles South of Laine, Art, riding a mule, took down the water skin hanging from his front saddle and took a swig of water mixed with ale. He was in a good mood; last night, he had slept soundly in a haystack by a farm field, and his mule had also enjoyed a free, hearty dinner.

On his way back, Art detoured around Laine Manor. He remembered his grudge against the Manor's steward, but he didn't want to cause more trouble right now.

The mule's speed did not disappoint Art. On the evening of the day after leaving Tinietz, the Giant Stone Pile he had passed on his way there appeared in the vast snowy expanse. He planned to spend the night among the Giant Stone Pile.

The snowy sky grew increasingly dim. Art dismounted the mule, took down the saddle blanket and a bundle of firewood tied behind the saddle, removed the saddle, unbridled the mule, and pulled out a bundle of hay to place under a Giant Stone Pile. The mule ate grass under the Giant Stone, while Art picked up the dry wood, intending to go around the Giant Stone to find a place sheltered from the wind and snow to build a fire for warmth.

Just as he rounded the Giant Stone, Art's eyes caught a glimpse, and he recoiled in surprise, dropping the firewood and drawing the hunting knife from his waist.

Right around the corner, a dark figure was curled up there.

"A wolf!" Art thought, realizing things were bad. He pressed his back against the Giant Stone, held his hunting knife level with his chest, and slowly shifted to peek around... After a long moment, he slowly lowered his hunting knife.

"Bastard!" Art cursed heavily.

Art slowly approached the figure collapsed in the Giant Stone Pile. He half-squatted and used his short sword to tap his shoulder. Seeing no reaction, he opened his clothes and took the half-scythe with a worn linen handle from the man's waist.

The snow had stopped. The fiercely burning fire illuminated the Giant Stone Pile with a reddish glow. Art faced the fire, his back against the Giant Stone, holding a piece of rye bread, toasted golden brown. Beside the fire lay the unconscious old man. Art had examined him; there was no saving him—his breath was faint, his back was covered in bleeding wounds, his ankles were swollen, his feet purple, and his toes festering. In the grain bag at his waist, there was only a small, frozen mountain rat with its head bitten off and a few pine nuts.

Art dragged him to the fire, poured a few sips of hot water into him, and then paid him no more mind. He was not God and could not pull back someone about to step into heaven.

Even when he started packing his belongings the next morning, Art did not check the old man's breath or heartbeat again.

Once packed, Art placed a small piece of rye bread and the broken scythe beside the old man, then gathered the remaining embers of the fire. Having done all this, Art mounted his mule and strode away.

"I've done everything I should. I can't take a dying old man back to the Valley to waste food..."

"I didn't abandon him to die, because the old man had already passed away..."

"God is merciful; he might have woken up, eaten the bread, and left..."

Throughout the morning, the old man's image lingered in Art's mind. He had to admit that his past life's memories made him somewhat soft-hearted.

"Oh, damn it!!"

"Whoa~~" Art reined in his mule and turned him around.

...

One month later.

At the fence of the wooden house in Unnamed Valley, Art was leading his mule back from a canyon five miles away. On the mule's back was a wild goat with its four legs tied, bleating.

"Master, you're back!" An old man, dressed in a short shirt, long trousers, and a sheepskin coat, with a ruddy complexion, came forward, took the reins from Art's hand, and carried the wild goat down.

"Cooper, don't call me Master anymore. I told you I'm not a Master. Just call me Art," Art corrected the stubborn old man named Cooper Alfred again about how he addressed him.

"Yes, Master~" Cooper bowed slightly.

Art's kindness a month ago saved the old man's life. After bringing the old man back to the Valley's wooden house, Art, relying on three years of accumulated common sense, crushed some useful and useless leaves and roots and applied them all over the old man's body. The old man's life was also tenacious; thick soup, diluted water, a grass bed by the door, and an indoor hearth dragged him back from heaven to the human world. In less than ten days, the old man could get up from the grass bed to make fires and cook for Art; half a month later, the old man repaired the wooden house inside and out and reinforced the fence outside the yard with hemp vines.

Old Cooper didn't talk much, nor did he mention his past, and Art didn't pry. Everyone has a past they don't wish to publicize.

However, Art could tell that for a long time in the past, this old man had a very difficult life. After his injuries and illnesses had mostly healed, Art had casually asked Old Cooper if he wanted to leave.

"Outside is a man-eating hell; this is truly the human world," Cooper refused, shaking his head.

"As long as you let me stay here, I am willing to be your servant," Cooper said sincerely.

Art was noncommittal; he couldn't afford idlers, but he also didn't want to drive the poor old man away.

Throughout the following winter, Art witnessed the old man's capabilities and was glad he hadn't left him in the wilderness to be eaten by wolves.

Three years ago, Art had only taken one summer and autumn to build this small log cabin with a thatched roof, only seventeen feet long and fifteen feet wide. In the years since, Art had only sparsely surrounded the wooden house with a man-high fence to prevent wild animal attacks. In short, it was very crude.

After recovering from his injuries, Old Cooper was constantly hammering, chiseling, and cutting. He applied a thick layer of clay mixed with thatch to the outer walls of the wooden house and opened a small window with wooden grilles beside the sunny wooden door; winter nights required burning fire all night for warmth, and the small house was always filled with thick smoke, so Old Cooper built a fireplace with a chimney flue from stone and clay at the base of the wooden wall to the left of the entrance. Art began to like this capable and stubborn old man...

As winter set in, fewer and fewer animals roamed the forest. Aside from riding his mule to check a few traps every few days, Art rarely went out hunting. On clear days, Art would lead his mule into the forest to hunt wild pheasants and rabbits, while Cooper would carry a linen bag and pick up pine cones, beechnuts, acorns, hazelnuts, and other dried fruits or gather edible roots and wild vegetables in the nearby woods.

Some simple tools bought from Tinietz became the hands of God in the old man's hands. During the day, he either followed Art up the mountain to pick dried fruits and cut fodder, or he hammered and chiseled around the small wooden house; at night, he would make square tables, round stools, or wooden bowls and spoons from scraps of wood by the fireplace.

"Master, can we dismantle the eastern fence and expand?" Cooper stopped his work and looked up at Art, who was skinning a rabbit.

"Why?" Art thought the current fence was already very strong and durable.

"I've cleared and leveled the mixed woods on the east side recently. I think we can dismantle and expand the eastern fence, then move the stable and small sheepfold from outside the fence inside. I'm very worried about the mule and that goat; I've seen wolf paw prints nearby these past few days," Cooper said worriedly.

Art was convinced.

So, in the days that followed, Art became Old Cooper's capable assistant.

...

The ice on the stream began to melt and thin under the gentle breeze, and the constant hammering and clanging that had filled the wooden house all winter had just quieted down.

To the north of the stream, the area had been transformed: a flat, open space about fifty feet long and thirty feet wide was tightly enclosed by a circle of birch palisades with pointed tops, more than a man's height, with the main gate facing the stream; upon entering the gate, to the right against the wall was a stable with pillars, a thatched roof, and wooden railings all around, and next to the stable was a sheepfold, where a mule and a goat were eating fodder; to the left of the main gate, the original fence wall had been completely removed, and a pebble-paved path led from the main gate to the original wooden house. Opposite the wooden house, a new thatched-roof cabin, about ten feet long and eight feet wide, had been built. Between the large and small wooden houses was a ten-foot-wide passageway.

On the wooden table in front of the fireplace in the large wooden house, a large plate of tender, stewed lamb steamed fragrantly, two large wooden cups were filled with watered-down ale, and a honey-glazed roasted rabbit sizzled on the wooden grill in front of the fireplace.

Despite being diluted with water, a large cup of ale had made Art slightly tipsy, and Old Cooper appeared even more intoxicated.

"Master, today is the happiest day I've had in years," Cooper said, hiccupping.

"Indeed, you are a capable and stubborn old man. You've transformed this place in just three or four months. Now, you also have your own house, and you've become the second resident of this Unnamed Valley," Art said joyfully.

Old Cooper tilted his head back and drank the remaining ale in his cup.

"Master, is that line on the wall your family motto?" Cooper squinted at the wall behind Art.

"Until the Lamb Becomes a Lion," Cooper murmured softly.

Art suspected he was hearing things, staring at the old man in front of him with surprise.

"Yes, Master, I am literate and can write," Cooper's eyes gently turned to Art.

"Please forgive me for always concealing my past; I should have been honest with you…" The old man, emboldened by the wine, slowly recounted his past.

… … … …

Forty-five years ago, Cooper Alfred was born in the Alfero Monastery, south of Provence. That's right, he was the Bastard of a monk.

As a child, Cooper grew up in the Monastery and received a systematic theological education.

When he was thirteen, the monk passed away, and Cooper, still a minor, was expelled from the Monastery. For the next seven years, Cooper was a beggar, a thief, a bartender who worked for food but no pay, a porter at the docks, and a shop assistant.

At the age of twenty, Cooper's life took a turn.

That year, Cooper followed a caravan to Genoa and met an old Master Craftsman who was renovating the Genoa Cathedral. The old Master Craftsman discovered Cooper, a talented man who could read and write, and took him on as an apprentice to teach him architectural skills.

Thanks to his cleverness, Cooper became an excellent architectural craftsman after only three years as an apprentice. Soon after, the old Master Craftsman married his daughter to Cooper.

Having experienced a difficult life, Cooper understood the importance of hard work and struggle. Over the next ten years, Cooper built stone houses for merchants, designed manor castles for knightly Masters, and participated in the construction of churches and monasteries.

At thirty-two, Cooper was already a young Master Craftsman in Genoa.

At thirty-seven, Cooper independently designed and supervised the construction of the Busara Monastery. With this feat, Cooper was recognized as an Architectural Master Craftsman by the Genoa Architectural Guild, which made him famous for a time.

But then, Cooper's life took a sharp downturn.

The year after he became an Architectural Master Craftsman, a Monastery in Rapallo collapsed. The chief designer committed suicide out of fear of punishment, and Cooper, who had participated in the Monastery's design, naturally became the scapegoat. The ecclesiastical court found Cooper guilty, confiscated all his property, and the Architectural Guild revoked his Architectural Master Craftsman qualification and banned him from the construction industry for life.

Filled with resentment, Cooper left Genoa with his wife and child and returned to Alfero, where he cleared and cultivated land in an ownerless wilderness.

Hard work paid off, and five years of sweat transformed the ownerless wasteland into fertile farmland.

Just as life was looking up, the neighboring Lord Master and the Earl's tax collector began to visit frequently. The Lord Master demanded to 'reclaim' this 'fertile land' that he claimed originally belonged to him, while the tax collector pressured Cooper to pay a huge amount of 'overdue' grain taxes for five years.

Cooper, unable to bear the oppression, argued reasonably. This finally angered the Lord and the tax collector, who colluded with a group of bandits to attack Cooper's small farm, raped and killed Cooper's wife and daughter, and cut off his son's head.

Cooper, who narrowly escaped with his life, hid everywhere, barely surviving, biding his time for revenge.

Last summer, the Grand Duchy of Lombardy in the south invaded the southern borders of Provence on a large scale, causing widespread panic throughout the south.

Cooper took the opportunity to sneak back to Alfero, assassinated the tax collector, and used a broken sickle to cut off the head of the Lord's only son on the Lord's mistress's bed.

Thus, the Lord launched a thousand-mile pursuit of Cooper.

It was during this escape that Art saved him.

"Also on the run! It seems the world is a dangerous place, doesn't it?" Art couldn't help but sigh.

"Master? I don't understand," Cooper didn't understand what Art's "also" meant.

"Nothing, Cooper, just stay here in peace; your enemies won't find this place," Art comforted him.

… … … …

Spring returned to the land, and all things revived.

A little further downstream from the small creek in front of the door, in an open area of about half an acre, the waist-high weeds had turned into a thin layer of ash. Art, with his left hand on the light plow and his right hand wielding a long whip, was driving the green mule in a proper manner…

"Master, you should stop; you really don't have the life of a farmer," Old Cooper quickly stepped forward and took the plow from Art's hand.

"Your plowing method, deep one moment, shallow the next, fast then slow, would exhaust even the strongest draft horse, and the wheat seedlings won't grow evenly in the future~" Old Cooper smiled as he took the plow from Art's hand.

"How is it that a plow, which works like an arm in your hands, is not as good as a broken iron hoe in mine?" Art turned to look at the crooked, uneven furrow behind him, scratched his head, and said glumly.

A month ago, right after the severe winter, Art took silver coins and rode the green mule to Tinietz. When he returned, the green mule carried, in addition to two large sacks of hulled wheat and rye bread, a single-share light plow and several iron hoes, iron rakes, short sickles, and other farm tools. The cloth bag on the front saddle contained barley seeds. The wheat and bread were what Art wanted to buy, as they couldn't eat meat every day; the seeds and farm tools were bought at Old Cooper's strong insistence.

Art had seen farmers cultivating fields in both his past and present lives, but he had never plowed himself. He didn't believe he had to rely on farming for survival; the game in the Valley and forest was enough to sustain him, and even with Cooper, they could always make a living with a bit more effort. But the stubborn old man, after accidentally discovering an open wasteland in the Valley South, kept pleading with Art to let him try to cultivate it~

Unable to refuse the stubborn old man, Art had no choice but to agree.

Art also knew that half a day's journey south of the Unnamed Valley, through a low valley, lay a vast, flat valley plain nestled between two north-south extended mountain ranges. The small creek on the Unnamed Valley side extended into that valley plain, forming a gently flowing river. When he first arrived at the Unnamed Valley, Art and his father had explored that valley plain; it was an even vaster and more desolate wilderness… However, Art had no immediate plans to tell Cooper about this, otherwise, the stubborn old man would immediately start clamoring to cultivate the entire inter-valley wasteland into fertile farmland.

As the weather gradually warmed, the barley in the wasteland also began to sprout and head. Looking at the vast expanse of lush wheat seedlings, Old Cooper's wrinkles smoothed out day by day.

Having just finished the work of fencing the wheat field with thorny branches and deadwood, the old man began to busy himself with feeding the livestock.

Three days ago, Art went into the Lamel Mountains with his hunting bow, intending to shoot a few pheasants and wild rabbits to taste something fresh. In spring and summer, when all things grow and reproduce, Art rarely hunted in the Lamel Mountains, but several months of smoked meat and thick soup had made Art a bit tired of it.

In a tree hollow, Art found seven or eight wild boar piglets that had just been weaned. After confirming that the mother boar was not nearby and there was no danger, he quietly carried away three small piglets.

Returning to the wooden house, he excitedly handed the piglets to Cooper, asking him to rub them with wild honey and make a few roasted suckling pigs to reward their internal organs.

But the old man's eyes lit up again as he stared at the little piglets…

"Cooper, it's useless; I've tried to raise them, but they don't survive," Art said, quickly drawing his hunting knife, intending to do it himself.

"Master, Master, wait, let me try, I can definitely keep them alive~" Cooper stepped forward to stop Art.

The old man was being stubborn again. So, next to the sheepfold where two wild goats were kept, there was now a pigsty where three small piglets slept.

… … …

"Master, don't you think our sheepfold is too empty? Can we still go and catch a few more wild goats?" The stubborn old man patted the bits of hay clinging to his chest and walked towards Art.

"Do you think those are your family's sheep? Now those fellows have become clever; they won't fall into my traps at all~" Art, who hadn't gotten his honey-roasted suckling pig, was in a really bad mood. Moreover, Art didn't intend to hide in the Valley his whole life, dealing with livestock and wheat fields. He needed to farm, but not in this way.

"How about I try my luck tomorrow…"

"Suit yourself!"

… … …

The summer heat slowly dissipated, and early autumn approached.

Throughout the summer, Art seemed idle. In previous years, during the less frequent hunting days of spring and summer, Art would maintain and repair his hunting bows and arrows in the small wooden house, and make traps such as snares and cage nets. More often, he would be repairing the wooden house, clearing drainage ditches, and reinforcing the wooden fence. But this summer, Art was clearly superfluous. Aside from helping Old Cooper harvest barley at the end of summer, most of the time he was either in the wooden house maintaining and making tools for autumn hunting, or riding the green mule with his hunting bow, exploring the depths of the Valley~

The Unnamed Valley in early autumn was filled with the joy of harvest.

Old Cooper's carefully tended reclaimed land contributed all the fertility accumulated over centuries. Fifty pounds of barley seeds, after a spring and summer of growth, turned into nearly five hundred pounds of grain; the wild sheep in the sheepfold continuously produced fresh milk, and the one small piglet that ultimately survived in the pigsty grew into a creature fatter than two goats. Even the area around the wooden house was planted with wild parsley, cabbage, and more…

For a long time to come, they could be self-sufficient.

"Perhaps hiding in the Valley like this isn't so bad after all."

"Don't forget the oath you made." The thought was extinguished as soon as it appeared.