I am a Primitive Man-Chapter 810: What Happened to “Two Tigers Can’t Share a Mountain”?
Chapter 810 – What Happened to “Two Tigers Can’t Share a Mountain”?
Outside the kitchen stood several large water jars, each half-filled with water.
Han Cheng carried out a coarse double-layered hemp-net bag from the kitchen, dipped it into one of the jars, swirled it half a turn, and pulled it back out. Water droplets rained down as three hand-length crucian carp flopped out, which Han Cheng casually tossed to the ground.
Ignoring the fish thrashing in their final struggle, he dipped the now-empty net into another jar with less water. Stirring it around, he pulled it up again—this time, mud clung to the mesh, and a few loaches wriggled inside.
Because the women of the tribe were constantly giving birth, Han Cheng had long ago decreed that whenever people caught fish, they were to keep crucian carp of suitable size alive in jars. These were reserved for postpartum women or the sick, to be stewed into nourishing fish soup.
The loaches were also stored in advance, ready to be scooped up when needed—far more convenient than catching them fresh from the river.
After handling both ingredients with practiced ease, Han Cheng salted them lightly, then set them to boil. Once the water came to a rolling boil, he lowered the fire to a slow simmer.
As the soup cooked, his thoughts drifted to whether Bai Xue’s breasts would get clogged again, like they had when feeding little Pea. If so, Han Cheng didn’t mind acting as a “manual breast pump” once more.
After all, it was for his daughter’s food.
For his child to eat well, there was nothing he wouldn’t do.
Ah—fatherly love truly was incredible.
Feeding the firewood into the stove, Han Cheng grew so moved by his own thoughts that his eyes almost watered.
He needed to give his little girl a name!
When she was born, her mother had been about to tell a joke, but before a word left her mouth, she had laughed so hard she peed herself—and right then the baby came. Maybe… name her Han Xiao (Han “Smile”)?
Always smiling, always happy. The meaning was good. But would his daughter, once grown, glare at the heavens in despair when she learned the story behind her name?
Han Cheng’s face twisted. He thought of the phrase “smiling in the grave.” What a terrible omen!
He shook his head fiercely—no, that wouldn’t do.
Maybe take a character from Bai Xue’s name? Han Bai? Han Mei?
He frowned again. No, those felt off.
Parents always wanted the best names for their children, which is why, decades later, when future generations heard seventy- or eighty-year-old grandparents called “Haoyu,” “Zixuan,” or “Zichen,” no one found it strange. After all, everyone was once a baby.
Then inspiration struck—Han Xing (“Apricot”).
He remembered how Bai Xue had craved green apricots throughout her pregnancy, gnawing them one after another. Swallowing a mouthful of saliva at the memory, he muttered:
“Han Xing… Xing’er…”
He repeated it softly as he fed the stove. The more he said it, the smoother it felt, and joy spread across his face.
Yes. From now on, the little girl would be called Han Xing.
By the time the name was decided, the two soups—milky-white crucian carp broth and loach broth—had finished simmering. Han Cheng ladled them into two clay jars, tied ropes through the handles, and carried them off to Bai Xue’s room.
He had miscalculated. This time, Bai Xue’s breasts weren’t clogged at all.
Perhaps thanks to the nourishing fish and loach soups, by evening her milk was flowing freely. Their little daughter latched on greedily, drinking with gusto.
Han Cheng sighed inwardly. Not even leaving him the chance to display his “fatherly devotion”? Too unfair!
With a baby in the house, nights were no longer restful. Whether in primitive times or the modern age, newborns were all the same—crying when thirsty, crying when hungry, crying when wet.
That night, Han Cheng was woken at least five or six times. It wasn’t very nice.
And yet, each time he watched his daughter settle back to sleep, tender affection welled up again. It was truly a bittersweet happiness.
While Han Cheng wrestled with sleepless nights, the Green Sparrow tribesmen were poling bamboo rafts upriver. As dusk fell, they stopped midstream.
They had no intention of landing—the rafts carried the carcasses of many sheep, their bloody wounds reeking, sure to attract predators.
Indeed, earlier that day, shadows of beasts had trailed them along the riverbanks. Some had even paced alongside the rafts, as though only the river itself restrained them.
Thus, the tribesmen tied the rafts together and anchored them in a wide stretch of river.
Portable stoves were set up, fires lit, river water ladled into pots, and food added as they fanned the flames.
The sunset blazed crimson across the clouds, reflecting in the rippling river. Smoke from their cooking fires drifted low across the water. Fish leapt now and then, flashing silver in the fading light. On the banks, predators lurked openly, their eyes fixed on the rafts.
A hauntingly beautiful tableau of sunset, river, rafts, smoke, leaping fish, and waiting beasts.
Then—splash! splash!
Two heavy impacts sent ripples racing outward.
Not fish, but two tigers, unable to resist, had plunged into the river.
The commotion alarmed the tribesmen, but only for a moment. There were only ten of them on the rafts, but none felt fear.
Excitement surged instead. For days, they’d eyed the beasts stalking them, itching for the chance. Now, two tigers had delivered themselves.
In the water, tigers were far from their element. Against bronze spears in the hands of hardened warriors, they never stood a chance.
After a violent struggle of splashing and roars, silence returned. The sunset clouds faded, but blood still stained the water.
Two tigers lay dead upon the rafts, eyes wide, unclosing in disbelief.
They had eaten these upright-walking “big monkeys” before—crunchy, tasty, and harmless. Why had it gone so wrong this time?
The tribesmen didn’t ponder such mysteries. They only laughed in triumph. One man tugged a tiger’s tail, exposing its golden-furred testicles.
Grins broke out.
The Divine Child loved male tigers best—he relished their kidneys as food and steeped their penises in wine.
They had caught a male tiger; Han Cheng would be pleased.
Another man bent to check the second tiger. Someone scoffed—why bother? Hadn’t the Divine Child said, “Two tigers cannot share one mountain, unless male and female”?
These two had traveled side by side, even leapt into the water together—surely a mated pair. One was male, so the other must be female.
But when the tail was lifted, silence fell.
Another set of golden testicles.
The tribesmen stared, dumbstruck.
What about “two tigers can’t share a mountain unless one male and one female”?
These two had clearly been affectionate companions, yet… both male?
Their worldview cracked a little.
The next afternoon, the rafts returned to the tribe, laden with sheep and the two tigers.
Excited children raced along the riverbank, shouting. Adults soon joined them.
On the rafts, the weary hunters beamed, poling faster at the sight of their joyous welcome.
No danger remained. Since the tigers had been slain, all the other beasts had scattered.
Even Han Cheng and the old shaman hurried to the river.
When Han Cheng saw the rafts, his excitement faltered. Too few men had returned—and not even the chief, his eldest senior brother. His heart sank further at the sight of the tiger corpses.
Only after learning that the others had led another flock by land did relief flood him. Smiling again, he asked about the hunt.
The hunters’ spirits lifted even more at his concern. They launched eagerly into tales of the migration. Sheep in the hundreds, an endless living tide—beyond anything words could capture.
Han Cheng, who had seen such spectacles on television in his past life, smiled quietly and let them boast, giving them their moment of glory.
When the hundred-seventy-eight sheep and two tigers were finally unloaded, the tribe erupted in cheers.
Then someone, scratching his head, asked:
“Divine Child… why are they both male?”
“Huh?” Han Cheng blinked.
“You said two tigers can’t share a mountain, unless one male and one female. But these two—why are they both male?”
Others crowded around, eyes bright with curiosity. The question had nagged them all the way back.
Han Cheng froze. These people… what a sharp angle to take!
“…Maybe they were… brothers. Yes, brothers. That’s why they got along without fighting.”
“Like him and me?” one man piped up, pointing at his lifelong companion. They’d never quarreled—surely they were like those tigers.
Han Cheng nearly choked. He coughed hard, then forced a smile.
“Yes, yes, just like you two. Now—hurry and butcher the sheep! Tonight we feast on mutton!”
He steered the topic away as fast as possible. He wasn’t about to let these innocent primitives drag him down into… other implications.
Soon the delicious work of processing sheep consumed everyone’s attention.
Over forty had died during the drive, and another dozen too wounded to survive were slaughtered. Two were reserved for that night’s feast; the rest were salted, dried, or boiled into jerky.
The entrails—nearly sixty sets—were cleaned and cooked, more than enough for the whole tribe.
The air was filled with rich aromas.
Han Cheng himself carefully washed intestines, slicing them into long continuous threads. These would serve as surgical sutures for wounds.
Beside him, Liang worked just as diligently, blade in hand, face taut with concentration, afraid to ruin the precious gut strings.
.
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Chapter 810: What Happened to “Two Tigers Can’t Share a Mountain”?
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