According to our station’s reporter, around 7 p.m. last night, at a residential building on XX Street, XX District, a naked man jumped from a height and smashed through the awning of the tofu shop on the first floor... The cause of death was suffocation due to his mouth, nose, and lungs being filled with tofu pudding. His identity is still being further confirmed...

Three days later, a new grave appeared in a suburban cemetery in Guangzhou. A socially outstanding and progressive young man, Henry Clark, who died tragically while naked and drowning in a barrel of tofu in the midst of an affair, finally met his heroic end...

Chapter 2: Almost Kicked the Bucket Again...

No one knows how much time passed before Henry Clark finally regained consciousness. However, he felt pain—a splitting headache, as if someone was pressing a giant millstone down on his head. Worse yet, he had not a shred of strength in his body. He couldn’t move at all; even lifting his eyelids or pursing his lips was utterly impossible. Henry Clark could only rely on his ears to listen.

Something was off. Henry Clark heard the roaring sound of ocean waves in his ears, and the rocking motion made it clear to him—someone who had spent years escorting cargo by ship all over the world—that he was on a boat.

“Master, even though young master is gone, you must still take care of yourself.” A rather deep voice sounded by his ear.

“He was just fine a moment ago, how did he end up like this in the blink of an eye? My son, white-haired sending off black-haired, how could I, William Clark, be so unlucky...” Henry Clark felt someone throw themselves onto him, wailing loudly. That person was really heavy, almost suffocating him.

What the hell is going on? Henry Clark was completely confused. His own father had died on the battlefield in Vietnam long ago, and his mother had died in a car accident a couple of years later. He was raised by his father’s comrade-in-arms, so where did this “father” come from?

Enduring the intense pain and lost in wild thoughts, Henry Clark heard the first person speak again: “Someone, help the master over there. You few, come with me to send young master off on his final journey...”

He felt several people come over and lift him up—several pairs of hands moved him and placed him on what seemed to be a flat board. Then he felt himself being moved.

As they walked, those people chatted... Upon hearing their conversation, Henry Clark was shocked. The “young master” they were talking about seemed to be him, and they were discussing throwing him into the sea for a burial at sea.

Damn it, seriously? Who are these lunatics, trying to give a living person a sea burial? Henry Clark gritted his teeth, gathering his strength. Finally, as he was being jostled about, he managed to force out a sound: “Put me down...”

“Huh, Samuel Grant, was that you talking?” One of the guys carrying the board turned to ask another, who rolled his eyes and said, “Bullshit.”

“But I swear I heard someone speak?” The first guy protested, but no one paid him any attention, nor did anyone hear Henry Clark’s barely audible, mosquito-like voice.

Through his barely open eyes, Henry Clark could see he was getting closer and closer to the stern of the ship. He was panicking—damn it, in his current state, if he hit the water, he’d sink like a stone for sure.

Finally, just as they lifted Henry Clark up and were about to toss him into the sea, he managed to rasp out a shout: “Goddammit, put me down! ...”

His voice was so loud that the men carrying him were startled and lost their grip. Henry Clark suddenly felt his body lighten, and then saw the blue sea rushing up to meet him. The impact with the water nearly knocked him out again. After swallowing a mouthful of seawater, his survival instinct kicked in, unlocking his last bit of strength. His limbs could move, albeit weakly, but at least he could get his head above water. Through his blurry vision, he saw people running frantically on the ship, and several others jumping into the sea like dumplings, swimming quickly toward him. Amid the shouting, when a big hand finally grabbed Henry Clark’s arm tightly, he breathed a sigh of relief—he didn’t have to die, at least for now.

...

Very good, very strong. When he woke up again, his head wrapped up like an Indian, Henry Clark saw a group of men with shaved foreheads and long braids. At first, he thought he’d stumbled onto the set of a period drama, but reality soon shattered his illusion. He saw two wounded men—no one would willingly chop off their own hands or feet just to film a war scene. The thick, bloody smell, the scabs soaking through the bandages on their wounds—no makeup artist could make it look so real. Add to that the bulging muscles and scars all over their exposed skin, and the cold, knife-like glint in their eyes—these men’s aura was no less intimidating than the mercenaries he’d met all over the world. Having spent years among hardened killers, Henry Clark instinctively calmed down. Clearly, this was definitely not a hospital, and it sure as hell wasn’t a period drama set.

The burly man who had been wailing over him earlier was now sitting at his bedside, tiger eyes brimming with tears, anxiously watching the dazed and shocked Henry Clark—his only son.