As Dou and the others turned back, Han Cheng glanced at those guys a few times.
For this matter, it was better to talk to the shaman. Compared to the average tribe member, the shaman was more open to new things—he might be able to explain them more clearly.
As Han Cheng walked back, he muttered to himself in his heart.
Stepping into the courtyard, he looked toward the granary from a distance, and sure enough, the shaman was there, holding a rabbit and sneakily peeking into the granary.
Seeing this scene, Han Cheng instantly wanted to take back his thoughts.
The shaman, addicted to catching mice, crouched at the door crack, secretly peeking inside—his posture looked downright shady.
And really, who sets a trap and then squats by the door, staring at it non-stop?
At first, when the mice weren’t familiar with his tricks, it worked. But after repeatedly falling for them, they had learned better and wouldn’t easily take the bait anymore.
And yet, here he was, still standing guard at the door. How bold would a mouse have to be to dare to eat from the trap under such a sinister gaze?
Han Cheng had told the shaman this more than once, but his words never seemed to help. Before long, the old man would return to the door, peeking inside again—sometimes more dedicated than a cat for an entire morning.
Faced with the shaman’s obsession, born out of sheer hatred, Han Cheng was helpless.
If the old man enjoyed it, so be it—Han Cheng just worried that doing this for too long might affect his health.
Noticing someone approaching, the shaman turned around with an irritated expression.
There was no need to ask. No mice had fallen into the trap.
Looking at the disgruntled shaman, Han Cheng wondered if he should rally the tribe members later to flood some field mice out of their burrows.
After capturing them, he could release them into the granary, let them wander into the traps, and make the shaman happy.
Just like how Hao Jian secretly hooked fish onto his boss's fishing line underwater…
Not long ago, Han Cheng mocked Dou and the others for their dramatic inner thoughts, but his own was even more over-the-top.
Curling his lips into a slight smile, he pushed aside these ridiculous ideas. He didn’t want the tribe’s granary to turn into a mouse paradise, so he began discussing the details of the tribe’s expansion and plans with the shaman.
Then, Han Cheng realized he had made another mistake.
The shaman was not open-minded about tearing down courtyard walls, expanding the settlement, or demolishing some houses to build new ones.
Like Dou and the others, he felt that the tribe’s current living conditions were perfect.
A slight expansion was acceptable, but large-scale reconstruction was utterly unnecessary.
As Han Cheng was momentarily stunned by this unexpected resistance, the shaman stared at him in disbelief.
How could something this good just be torn down like that?
At that moment, Han Cheng finally realized the flaw in his approach.
This was a man who had waged an all-out war against mice after they had stolen some of the tribe’s grain.
Telling him to demolish the tribe’s main walls and houses? Of course, he wouldn’t accept it.
In fact, the only reason he was even listening was because Han Cheng was speaking.
If anyone else had dared suggest such a thing, despite his old age and stiff limbs, the shaman would have still managed to jump up and let them know firsthand—an angry old man can hit just as hard.
Compared to the other tribe members, the shaman—who had spent many years in a clerical role—was undoubtedly more articulate and could present stronger arguments.
"The houses and walls are too good? Tearing them down would be a shame?"
Han Cheng silently repeated the shaman’s words in his mind.
You’ve just never seen the buildings that were demolished in later generations. If you had, you wouldn’t be saying it’s a shame to tear these down...
"Alright, you go ahead and keep guarding your mice…"
After some discussion, Han Cheng, feeling the loneliness of foresight, turned and walked away with an air of melancholy.
So this is what it’s like when you surpass those around you to a certain degree…
With a dramatic flair reminiscent of a lone martial arts master who had exhausted all worthy opponents, Han Cheng indulged in his exaggerated thoughts.
Undoubtedly, among so many people in the tribe, someone must understand his intentions and share his vision.
So, the great Han Cheng sought out the one person in the tribe who had been most influenced by his teachings—Shitou, who was currently working with hemp fibers.
Once again, Han Cheng's expectations were dashed.
Shitou, momentarily pulling his focus away from using hemp fibers to make paper, looked up at the divine son, pondered for a moment, and ultimately gave the same response as the others in the tribe.
Having once lived in caves, crammed together with many others as they slept, he didn’t feel that the tribe was overcrowded at all.
On the contrary, he found this communal life lively and enjoyable.
As for the unclear functional divisions within the settlement and the overly dense and increasingly mixed construction, Shitou, like everyone else, hardly noticed these issues.
Patting Shitou on the shoulder and letting him continue his paper-making experiment, Han Cheng walked away, looking somewhat disheartened.
Shitou scratched his head with his damp hand, watched the divine son’s retreating figure in confusion, then shrugged it off and returned to his work with the hemp fibers.
Past experiences shape different perspectives.
For Han Cheng, the settlement was becoming overcrowded, functionally disorganized, and increasingly chaotic.
But to the rest of the tribe, this situation was perfectly fine—nothing seemed wrong.
"Sometimes, being too ahead of your time isn’t a good thing…"
Feeling a bit wounded, the great Han Cheng sighed melodramatically as he held his son, but the only response he received was little Dou’s incoherent baby babbling.
Han Cheng still felt unsettled after playing with his son for a while.
So, he decided to do something childish.
He found a broken clay pot, mixed much soot from the bottom of a cooking pot with water, and made a simple, crude ink.
Then, he grabbed a large brush made from wild boar bristles, tied it to a wooden stick, and carried his tools out to the main entrance of the tribe’s settlement.
Looking around, he found a suitable spot on the outer wall.
Dipping the brush in ink, he began to write with bold strokes.
Of course, he wasn’t writing something absurd like, "Ensuring every family has a second child is the village chief’s duty."
Instead, he first drew a large circle, and inside the circle, he carefully wrote prominent, striking characters.
Tilting his head to examine his work, the more he looked at it, the more satisfied he felt.