However, it wasn’t long before he gradually lost his caution and restraint. He realized that the bald monk seemed too preoccupied to notice what was happening here. Through the two layers of white linen wrapped around the secret pouch, he could vaguely hear a jumble of voices outside the courtyard, as if a group of people had gathered for some unknown reason.

“Hiss... Why did you hit my face?!” Nathaniel Sullivan lowered his voice, squeezing out a few words through gritted teeth. It sounded like his patience with Henry Grant was nearly at its limit.

Henry Grant’s searching movements sped up, and he accidentally hit the wrong spot. He had neither the time nor the inclination to explain to the bookworm, so he just gave a low “shh,” signaling the fool to stay put and keep quiet.

For the past half year, his movements had been restricted. Whenever he wanted to do something or go somewhere, he always needed a little help—be it from people or things. This time, he’d finally run into a bald monk. Even if the monk had no real skills and relied solely on trickery, he still had to be carrying something that could fool others. Henry Grant wanted to grab something useful from the secret pouch and then slip away in the ensuing chaos.

While Henry Grant was busy, the young monk he’d robbed had already reached the gate of the Jiang family’s medical hall.

The once-sturdy gate was now badly damaged, with the copper door rings even a bit deformed. When the two doors met, they couldn’t close tightly, leaving a large gap. The monk paused in front of the gate, lifting his eyelids.

Through the jagged gap, he could clearly see a dense crowd of people gathered outside. The Jiang family’s medical hall had long since become a deserted house, so there were naturally no lanterns hanging at the entrance—and even if there were, no one would be there to light them. But now, the group outside was holding a string of paper lanterns, their pale, flickering light casting a fierce and solemn air over the newcomers, making it clear they “came with ill intent.”

This scene—either they were here to catch ghosts, or to arrest someone.

As the saying goes, “A clear conscience fears no midnight knock,” but with such a show of force, anyone would feel a bit uneasy if they ran into it unexpectedly. Yet the young monk only glanced at them before withdrawing his gaze. He pushed open the courtyard gate, not even looking at the crowd, and stepped out as if the group with lanterns didn’t exist at all.

The people gathered at the entrance of the Jiang family’s pharmacy were not idlers. They wore the gray-blue uniforms of the county yamen, with thin swords about two feet long hanging from their waists—about a dozen in total. When they saw the monk trying to leave, they immediately gripped their sword hilts, closed ranks, and blocked his way.

The monk stopped, frowning as he sized up the people before him, as if unsure what they had to do with him.

“Is this the person you mentioned?” a slightly older voice suddenly rang out.

The monk glanced at the speaker—a short, middle-aged man wearing a scribe’s hat and sporting a goatee. He looked rather thin, though his belly protruded slightly. Anyone from Ningyang would instantly recognize this man as the county yamen’s scribe, Lucas Foster.

But the monk wasn’t a local, and with his temperament, even if he were, he probably wouldn’t care what the scribe looked like or how many eyes and mouths he had.

However, the person Mr. Foster was questioning was someone the monk did remember somewhat—it was none other than the short waiter from Jiuweiju.

It turned out the waiter had mulled over the notice posted by Jiuweiju and finally went to the county yamen. Since the reward was so hefty, it had to be a dangerous criminal—who knew if the man was wanted for murder?

So, the waiter reported the young monk, and the county yamen wasted no time in coming to arrest him.

The monk’s gaze fell on the waiter, who seemed a bit guilty and shrank his neck slightly. He stammered, “M-monk, I...”

Before he could finish, the young monk had already looked away. He raised his hand, and a dark object traced an arc through the air, landing squarely in the waiter’s arms. The waiter thought it was something dangerous and shut his eyes in fright. Only when he heard the clink of coins did he cautiously open them.

A money pouch!

What the monk had tossed back was the very pouch the waiter had given him earlier.

It was as if the monk had finally thrown away what needed to be thrown away. With a calm expression, he took another step forward. This time, perhaps annoyed by the delay, he coldly addressed the yamen officers: “Move aside.”

“Sir, this...” The yamen officer blocked his way while glancing at the scribe for instructions.

“Wait.” The scribe pulled a thin sheet of paper from his robe and, holding it up to the lantern light, unfolded it. “Where are you from, little monk? Which temple do you serve at? Do you have a Dharma name?”

The young monk frowned at him, seeming reluctant to answer, or perhaps lost in thought.

Seeing his uncooperative attitude, the scribe’s tone hardened: “Little monk, someone has reported that you resemble a wanted criminal pursued by the authorities across the land. If you refuse to speak, we’ll have no choice but to take you in for further investigation!”

The young monk shot him a cold glance, then after a moment, calmly replied, “Dharma name Gavin Clark, a wandering monk, with no home or temple.”