Mr. Steward jumped up into the big tree, watching as Henry Clark gradually grew two pure white buds of flesh from a pitch-black mass, and felt genuinely happy for him.

Previously, the hard shell was Henry Clark's clothing. Now, as his body gradually recovered, the hard shell would slowly turn into fragments, and what Henry Clark needed most at the moment was a set of clothes.

It seemed Mr. Steward had already anticipated this. As soon as he returned to the stone house, he took a set of clothes from the leather pouch on the tiger's back and placed them beside Henry Clark.

The clothes were obviously old, and the seams crawling with lice proved that the original owner was not someone of high status.

There was also a palm-sized dark red stain at the hem, further proving the mysterious origin of these clothes.

Mr. Steward smiled and said, "Someone trespassed into the forbidden land and I killed him."

Henry Clark couldn't help but avoid Mr. Steward's gaze...

The lingering smell of blood on the clothes told him that Mr. Steward had truly killed someone for a set of clothes.

In Henry Clark's mind, killing was a forbidden zone of thought. In his world, talk of killing was mostly just talk; only a rare few would actually turn anger into action.

Killing had always been the prerogative of the state apparatus, far removed from personal will.

Once a head is cut off, it can't be put back on. That's how Henry Clark saw it. Clearly, Mr. Steward didn't care much, or rather, a human life was less important than getting Henry Clark a piece of clothing for modesty.

Henry Clark didn't throw the filthy clothes into the fire pit out of displeasure. Since Mr. Steward could kill someone for a set of clothes, he could just as easily kill another for a different set.

Now able to sit up, Henry Clark placed the clothes over the fire pit to roast them. Lice kept falling from the clothes into the fire, making crackling sounds.

Mr. Steward was very satisfied with Henry Clark's reaction, and said in a hoarse voice, "The lord comes first, propriety is supreme!"

Mr. Steward had taught Henry Clark this principle last night. His grandfather, by following this very rule, had stood there and taken three arrows from the First Emperor in his chest.

By the same logic, it was not inappropriate for that dead commoner to be killed by the noble Mr. Steward over a set of clothes.

With two arms, a person can basically move. Henry Clark dragged himself along the ground with his arms, put the now thoroughly heated clothes into a gray earthenware jar, and, with Mr. Steward's help, hung the jar over the fire pit.

Tonight's dinner was a bowl of wheat porridge—wheat cooked in a jar with a bit of salt. It was the first time Henry Clark had encountered this way of eating.

The wheat porridge he had eaten before was different from the individual grains before him. It was made by mixing the best wild vegetables with flour, adding various seasonings, and finally steaming it in a basket for twenty minutes—a truly delicious result.

Chapter Six: Breaking the Cocoon

The wheat was not plump. Even after cooking, the bran far outweighed the flour inside, and after a few bites, Henry Clark's throat was rubbed raw and sore.

Mr. Steward took the gray earthenware bowl from Henry Clark's hands and stuffed a piece of sizzling, fatty wild chicken leg into Henry Clark's grasp.

"Wheat porridge is coarse and hard to swallow. Millet and rice are hard to find for now. Bear with it for a few days, and I'll go far afield to find some."

Henry Clark didn't understand why Mr. Steward was so good to him. He absolutely didn't believe it was just a stroke of luck; there had to be a reason.

It wasn't the right time to ask anything. Accepting Mr. Steward's kindness quickly was more important than anything else.

Seeing Henry Clark tearing at the chicken leg, Mr. Steward showed a satisfied smile.

In the days that followed, Henry Clark accepted Mr. Steward's meticulous care with a clear conscience.

Although this care was very primitive—sometimes a piece of roasted polygonatum, sometimes a bunch of already purplish wild grapes, and more often, he would magically produce a golden pear from his bosom.

When a big bowl of yellow rice appeared before Henry Clark, he was convinced that Mr. Steward was truly doing his utmost to take care of him.

Henry Clark spent his days happily peeling off the hard shell from his body—his favorite thing to do.

When he finally endured the excruciating pain to remove the toughest shell from his crotch, the shell that had confined him was finally all gone.

In the rippling water of the clay basin appeared a smooth, egg-shaped head.

As the ripples slowly calmed, the reflection on the water became clearer and clearer. A handsome young face floated on the surface. Even without eyebrows or hair, the well-defined features clearly told Henry Clark that he was now a very good-looking young man.

After shedding the thick shell, his whole body had shrunk by a full size.

With such a tender face, he looked at most twelve or thirteen years old. No one would believe his actual age was already over thirty.

The process of shedding the shell was also a process of rebirth for Henry Clark. Joy slowly emerged like light, dreams soared with hope, and in the best way, he presented his best self to this new world.

Henry Clark was extremely satisfied with his own performance. As for the process, though it was a bit disgusting and embarrassing, the result was good, and that was the best ending.

Just like a butterfly breaking out of its cocoon at dawn, flapping its wings for the first time in the beautiful morning sun...

Standing naked in the sunlight, Henry Clark spread his arms wide, as if embracing the whole world, or perhaps announcing to the world: Here I am.