Jiang Ai watched him pack up, arms crossed.

She glanced at the boy beside him, carrying a smaller broom. She remembered that the boy had brought her wine yesterday, so she was happy to touch his smooth, alabaster face as a reward for his kindness.

The ball of light in its mind laughed gleefully. It said, "Seeing the transmigrated protagonist so frustrated is truly delightful!"

Ai Cao sighed helplessly. Her hand kept touching the boy's face, her rough fingertips circling his cheek before slipping inside his thin clothes.

The little boy flinched, but the older man glared at him—he knew that if he resisted, he would go hungry again. And he didn't know how long the next hunger would last, whether it would be just one meal or days—

So it was as if his feet were rooted to the ground, and he stood there without moving.

He obediently accepted Jiang Ai's caresses.

No one could have foreseen that he would one day rule the world.

You can't tell the difference between ginger and mugwort, nor can you tell the difference between mugwort and other herbs.

He was too weak, so weak that Ai Cao could simply tighten her grip and strangle him to death. And no one in the tribe would question her actions—after all, he was just a boy; his presence or absence made no difference.

But Ai Cao knew that if she killed the little boy in front of her, another boy would appear out of nowhere and take his place.

So she didn't kill him.

She carried only a faint hint of doubt, further shattering the little boy's already fragile emotions.

When Jiang Ai celebrated her coming-of-age ceremony, the little boy's self-esteem was already shattered beyond repair.