Wet traces of water dripped down from his jet-black hair. He licked his chapped lips and said, “Drive faster, I’m hungry.”

His voice was unmistakably that of a young man—cold and low.

The driver seemed to think of something, shuddered in fright, and didn’t utter another word for the rest of the ride.

No one knew exactly how the car arrived at Minghua Mansion in the end. Normally, the drive took forty-five minutes, but this time it took less than half an hour.

Minghua Mansion was the earliest villa district developed in Ningzhou. It was once in high demand because a theme park and a wetland park were supposed to be built nearby. Who would have thought the theme park would be abandoned after three years of construction, and the wetland park would never materialize? Minghua Mansion suffered as a result, going from being fought over by thousands to being completely neglected.

Expensive, yes—but also truly desolate.

The north gate was usually used for the neighborhood, but the old man had the car stop at the west gate and got out first.

The driver in the front seat was already out of it. If he’d been even a little more alert and stuck his head out to take a look, he would have noticed that the old man’s movements were strange—every gesture was stiff, his elbows always raised high, as if something was pulling him up just to let him move.

The old man stiffly propped the umbrella on his shoulder, freed up a hand, and fished a piece of silver foil from his pocket, lighting it on fire.

The silver foil instantly shriveled, turning into thin, light ash. The sparks flickered, and faintly, two characters could be seen—William Clark.

Only then did the old man wave to the person in the car and say, “You can come through this gate.”

When William Clark got out of the car, he was no longer child-sized, but looked like a teenager, about fifteen or sixteen. The clothes that had been far too big now fit much better, except for the pants, which were still a bit long.

He didn’t care, and reached out to take the umbrella from the old man’s shoulder. The black umbrella tilted, shielding him from the slanting cold rain. He lifted his chin at the old man and said, “I don’t remember the way anymore. I’ll follow you.”

This was his twelfth time coming out of the Wuxiang Gate, and every time, someone had to lead the way.

Charles Sullivan had picked him up twice. The last time, Charles Sullivan was only eighteen, wearing a silk tunic and a stiff skullcap, immediately calling him “Mr. Clark” and then asking him a silly question.

This time, Charles Sullivan looked like his grandfather. In front of outsiders, it was no longer appropriate to call him “Mr. Clark”—it would scare someone to death if he slipped up.

But even being careful, the driver was still badly frightened.

As they passed through the gate, the sound of a suona horn rose from the northeast corner of the neighborhood.

As the saying goes, there’s no one the suona can’t send off. The taxi driver was jolted awake by those two blasts, floored the gas, and sped off into the rain, vanishing in the blink of an eye.

Only then did William Clark look away from that spot, licking his lips again. In just a few minutes, he had grown much taller—the bunched-up folds of his long pants at the ankles were now stretched straight, and he was already a young man.

“You really are hungry, huh?” Charles Sullivan asked.

“What do you think?”

“What a pity.” The old man sighed softly.

“What?”

“You’ll have to find something to eat on your own this time.”

William Clark followed him around a garden, heading east along a path. He hadn’t had time to ask why when the sound of suona and drums erupted in a noisy clamor.

The rain hadn’t let up, and the air was thick with dampness, but he could still smell the faint scent of burnt joss paper. Ordinary people couldn’t tell the difference, but William Clark could—this scent was very familiar; it belonged to the Shen family.

“I brought a kid to take over,” Charles Sullivan glanced at the villa ahead and said, “Raised him myself, just like I was back then. He’s eighteen this year. Other than being a bit timid, he’s good in every way.”

William Clark: “…”

He couldn’t help but say, “You brought back a timid one for this job?”

Charles Sullivan couldn’t help but retort, “How was I supposed to know he’d be so timid when I was raising him?”

William Clark: “You’re really something.”

Charles Sullivan: “You flatter me.”

William Clark: “…”

If only Charles Sullivan weren’t so old now, he’d be in for a beating, William Clark thought with a scowl.

Charles Sullivan glanced at the villa again and saw a boy in mourning clothes come out of the gate, finally relaxing.

He gave William Clark a deep, old-fashioned bow and said, “Mr. Clark, Charles Sullivan has been lucky to know you all these years. Now I’m leaving. Take care.”

He thought for a moment, then added, “May you be freed soon.”

With that, his hunched, aged body collapsed. The white-haired old man was gone, leaving only the clothes he’d just worn on the ground. From the collar poked a few slender white plum branches, with soft white thread tied to the tips, quickly soaked by the rain.

The suona blared, wild trees know not spring.

William Clark was dazed for a moment, suddenly realizing that he really had slept for so, so many years…

He held the umbrella to shield the cotton-threaded plum branches from the slanting rain, bent down to pick up the clothes, and stood silently for a long while. Only when he heard footsteps approaching did he finally look up—

The boy in mourning clothes was coming over. Judging by his age, he must be the successor Charles Sullivan had mentioned.

William Clark wasn’t much of a people person, and after all these years, he still didn’t like dealing with strangers. Holding the clothes, he looked down at the boy in front of him, who was nearly a head shorter, and just stood there, saying nothing, already giving him the nickname “Shorty” in his mind.

Shorty stopped in front of him, staring wide-eyed for a long time, finally realizing that if he didn’t speak, they could stand there until tomorrow.