Here, only Henry Clark and a few companions with intellectual disabilities remained. Here, Henry Clark, whose face always wore a smile as if he never had a single worry, was like the sturdiest sunflower under the sun, standing out like a child blessed by angels.

Sometimes, Henry Clark often wondered if that kindly Mrs. Clark had deliberately done something behind the scenes to prevent others from adopting him.

The moment this thought arose, he was overwhelmed by a strong sense of guilt—Mrs. Clark had practically devoted her life to caring for him...

Mrs. Clark passed away on a stormy night. When she left, she had no regrets, only repeatedly caressing Henry Clark’s face with her withered hands, reluctant to part.

Again and again, she told Henry Clark, “You are a child of God. You are destined to accomplish great things. You are a child of God. Your future is destined to be extraordinary. When I saw you, there was light upon you...”

This poor old woman, who had never married in her life, departed this world full of infinite hope, and was buried by Henry Clark’s own hands in the dark, damp earth.

The God she had believed in all her life did not take her body and soul to heaven, but left her to rot in the soil.

All her life, Mrs. Clark’s main occupation was to endlessly tell Henry Clark that he would have a great future.

Like most hero stories, there is always a shining guide during the hero’s period of ignorance.

They are usually responsible for leading the hero onto the rugged path he is about to walk, and then they die... This is a very old trope.

Henry Clark was a very obedient child, always had been since he was little. Since Mrs. Clark had already done so much, and with his girlfriend’s face growing darker by the day—he figured breaking up was already on her agenda and would happen within three days.

He felt it was time to rebel against his dull, boring, and painful life.

So, he asked his young boss for annual leave. Twenty days would be enough for him to seek or accomplish his greatness.

Any longer, and he’d lose his job, and finding another would be troublesome.

Amid his girlfriend’s earnest instructions of “You don’t need to come back anymore,” Henry Clark left, to seek the greatness that belonged to him.

“You are a child of God. Your future is destined to be extraordinary. When I saw you, there was light upon you...”

Mrs. Clark’s kindly face seemed to be reflected on the tall glass curtain wall.

Henry Clark smiled. This was yet another clichéd beginning to a hero’s journey.

God created the world in seven days, and Nüwa also took seven days to create humans.

God created the world in seven days, but left the task of creating humans to Adam and Eve.

Nüwa was different. The world was created by Pangu, and she didn’t care—she let the world grow freely, focusing only on making people. Those she molded by hand were destined to be nobles, while those she flicked from willow branches were destined to be commoners.

Henry Clark firmly believed that since it only took seven days to create the world and humanity, twenty days should be more than enough for him to seek greatness.

Since he was thinking about the origin of humanity, Henry Clark naturally wanted to pay respects to the ancestor of humans, Nüwa.

On the back side of Mount Li, there was a Temple of Human Progenitors.

By Huaqing Pool, the voluptuous white jade statue of Yang Guifei was beautiful, though her ample chest had been rubbed black by unscrupulous tourists.

If Li Longji still held power, he would probably have had many people torn apart by five horses.

Avoiding the main road, a gray-black path wound along the desolate autumn ridge, some parts cut through the mountain, others following the terrain upward. Like a python crawling, it twisted and turned, gradually rising higher.

At the top of the mountain was the place where Fuxi and Nüwa had united for three thousand years.

Chapter Two: Burned

Henry Clark lay in the grass, thinking for a whole day and night, still unable to figure out why he hadn’t died.

If greatness meant being scorched by dry lightning, he’d rather not have such greatness.

Indeed, he now looked like a dead man—charred hands, charred arms, charred all over—though for some reason, his eyes were fine.

If he had to pick a suitable adjective, he thought “roast pig” fit his current appearance best—though he was a pig that hadn’t been fully cooked.

This didn’t make sense... He felt more like a silkworm wrapped in a cocoon than a person who’d been roasted.

The feeling was strange. His body still hurt, but it wasn’t the kind of burning pain that drove people mad. It was more like the growing pains of a new life experiencing its first growth.

Is this how a butterfly emerges from its cocoon?

Is this what it feels like to be struck by dry lightning?

During that day and night, a total of four wolves, one leopard, one bear, and a group of wild boars came to visit him. One of the wild boars even mischievously nudged his body, turning him from lying face down to lying on his back.

Henry Clark felt like a tragedy. Clearly, he smelled delicious after being roasted, yet none of his obviously wild animal neighbors wanted to take a bite and put an end to his miserable fate.

The sky was deep blue, with a few soft white clouds drifting by. One of them even thoughtfully shaded Henry Clark from the sun.

Monkeys leaped happily among the pine trees. A fat monkey king, right in front of Henry Clark’s eyes, mated with one of his consorts. Satisfied, he then picked a green plum from a tree and kept throwing it at Henry Clark, as if it were some kind of post-coital game.