The man was very tall, dressed in a shirt and slacks, his figure looking upright and slender. It should have been a clean and proper appearance, but the seven or eight strings of beads of unknown material on his wrist disrupted the harmony.

He stood beside a half-withered tree, bending over to look at something.

After a moment, he seemed to sense the gaze from inside the house, straightened up, and turned his head to look over.

At that instant, there was still a smile at the corner of his mouth, but the next second, he turned away and started coughing, his lips so pale they were almost colorless, looking sickly and frail.

William Clark didn’t know what was so funny about that withered tree; he only knew that when he saw that person, he instinctively closed his eyes for a moment, and thus saw the other’s spiritual form.

The man had two golden-brown marks, like Sanskrit, running down the left side of his face, from the base of his ear to the side of his neck, then to his shoulder bone, and finally to his heart.

The bead strings on his wrist turned into deep emerald bird feathers, with two loops of red thread, loosely hanging by his hand.

His skin was as pale as paper, but his whole body was wrapped in billowing black mist, like countless chains loosely and tightly binding him, or like evil spirits reaching out from his soul.

William Clark had never seen a spiritual form with such thick, tangled black mist before—it was all... karmic obstacles.

Chapter 5 Portrait

Karmic obstacles are the sins a person bears. Some are innate, some acquired. But whether innate or acquired, someone like Henry Baker is rare in this world.

No wonder he’s said to be a calamity, bringing harm to his parents, to others, and to himself...

George Miller saw William Clark close his eyes, his Adam’s apple moving slightly. There was a fleeting emotion lingering between his brows, so brief that even he himself probably didn’t notice it.

After a moment of daze, George Miller realized that the fleeting emotion on William Clark’s face was probably a faint sadness. Or perhaps... compassion—he’d seen it in Charles Sullivan’s eyes as well.

These judges, when they see certain people in the world, always show a bit of that emotion.

William Clark’s lips moved again.

George Miller instinctively asked, “What did you say?”

William Clark opened his eyes, his gaze still on the garden, and after a moment finally spoke. He said, “I’m hungry.”

George Miller: “?”

George Miller: “???”

Wait, what about the compassion?

We were talking about serious matters—how did you suddenly get hungry???

George Miller was full of question marks.

He stood there dumbfounded for a while, then finally remembered the black mist entwined on ordinary people’s spiritual forms, and also recalled what William Clark ate yesterday—suddenly everything made sense.

“Does he have a lot of black mist on him?” George Miller asked tentatively.

“What do you think?” William Clark was unusually calm... then licked the corner of his lips.

Damn.

This isn’t a tenant, this is a food delivery, isn’t it.

While he was still stunned, the doorbell rang for the delivery.

George Miller hesitated for a moment, but still went to open the door.

In the early morning of April, the chill was still heavy. The man named Henry Baker turned his head and coughed a few more times before finally facing them. Not even his sickly air could hide his naturally good looks.

“Sorry, it’s a bit windy today. If I’d known, I would have worn more,” he said.

Maybe because this man’s reputation for harming his parents was so notorious, George Miller felt a bit afraid of him for no reason, shrinking back instinctively. He even forgot his manners and didn’t reply.

Instead, William Clark glanced at his elbow, where a black jacket was clearly draped. So he said bluntly, “You’re carrying a jacket but not wearing it—if you’re not cold, who is?”

Henry Baker probably didn’t expect such a reception at the door and was momentarily stunned.

He looked down at himself, then raised the arm with the black jacket: “You mean this?”

William Clark said nothing.

When he looked up again, his eyes were already curved in a smile, and he explained good-naturedly, “This isn’t mine. The color is too dark, and it’s not my style.”

William Clark’s face was expressionless, thinking, who cares whether you like it or not—it actually matches your karmic obstacles quite well. But he still said nothing.

In this situation, only someone completely oblivious wouldn’t notice the awkward atmosphere. Anyone with sense would probably just say hello and leave. But Henry Baker was an odd one.

William Clark’s unfriendly attitude seemed to intrigue him.

His gaze flickered slightly, and even as he coughed, he sized them up, still smiling as he asked, “Are you George Miller?”

Over the phone, he had been very polite, calling him “Mr. George Miller.” But now, face to face, for some reason, he dropped all the formalities.

William Clark moved his lips, and spat out two words dryly: “You guess.”

The two of them were inexplicably at odds, and yet there was still a small distance between them, sparks flying from afar.

The weak party caught in the middle got hit by the sparks and couldn’t help but interject, “Um... sorry, I’m actually George Miller.”

Only then did Henry Baker shift his gaze away from William Clark.

When he looked at George Miller, he sized him up as well, as if weighing something. After a moment, he nodded: “I guessed it was you. Then he is?”

George Miller thought, he’s my grandfather’s ancestor, but out loud he honestly said, “My older brother.”

Henry Baker let out an “oh,” nodded, and asked, “Did I offend him? Or is your brother just naturally fierce?”

Maybe because they were closer now, he didn’t bother to be so formal, his voice much softer, but he still asked very seriously.

William Clark: “……”

George Miller didn’t know whether to answer or not. He could only give a dry laugh and say, “He got up early today, so he’s not in a good mood.”