The yamen runners: "……" Is this swindling monk insane? Or is he just putting on a supernatural act?

Startled by the words "You won't live long," Mr. Foster finally snapped out of it, immediately furious. He pointed at Gavin Clark and cursed, "You ungrateful wild monk! You look shady and your origins are unknown. Even if you're not the wanted criminal in this portrait, I can still detain you and investigate your ancestors for eight generations before making a decision—completely in accordance with the law. I was kind enough not to fuss with you, but not only are you ungrateful, you even curse me?! Guards—"

Before he could finish, Gavin Clark interrupted, "Your glabella is dark and dull, black inside and blue outside—this is the sign of depleted fortune and impending doom. Moreover, there's a blood mark by your left ear."

"What blood mark?" Mr. Foster instinctively reached up and felt around his ear, but found no trace of blood on his fingers.

"You can't see it." Gavin Clark put the silver needle he had finally removed back into the hidden pouch, his gaze cold as he flicked the paper figurine with his finger.

For the first time in his life, someone dared to flick him like that. Henry Grant felt this bald donkey must have drunk the entire Yangtze dry and was about to ascend to the heavens! He was about to get angry, but then he heard Gavin Clark mention the "blood mark by the ear," and was stunned. He twisted with difficulty between Gavin Clark's fingers and looked at Mr. Foster.

He saw that on the left ear of the man surnamed Liu, near the sideburns, there was indeed a red mark, as if blood from something had splattered there.

At the sight of that blood mark, Henry Grant's thin paper body trembled, and the anger and hatred he had suppressed for so long surged up like a tidal wave.

In a daze, he seemed to be lying again on that damp coastline, dark clouds covering most of the sky, the salty smell of the sea washing over him in waves, thunder rumbling, rain pouring down. Yet he could not move, his mind muddled, the pain in his back deep to the bone, as if a thousand ants were gnawing at his heart...

He had been skinned alive, his sinews and bones pulled out, yet he hadn't even seen the face of his assailant...

While Henry Grant's mind was in turmoil, Mr. Foster was still feeling around his ear, his face dark as he asked Gavin Clark, "What do you mean I can't see it?! Monk, don't spout such nonsense about dark glabella and blood calamity—what swindler can't say a few lines like that?! What is this blood mark?!"

What is a blood mark?

Henry Grant lifted his eyelids, staring intently at Mr. Foster.

This kind of blood mark by the ear is left by the blood of someone with a grudge, marking the person so they can be recognized when revenge is sought. Earlier, while stuck in the hidden pouch and busy wrestling with Gavin Clark, Henry Grant hadn't noticed it. Now that he calmed down, he caught the scent on Mr. Foster.

It was the scent emanating from the blood mark, like rust, but a little different. To Henry Grant, it was all too familiar—that was his own blood.

Ever since he woke up, he had been searching for the one who had stripped his sinews and bones. But he didn't know their face or background, so he searched in vain. The only clue he had was his own blood. Whoever was splattered with his blood was someone who had been at that coastline at that time.

There were about a hundred such people; he had found some of them. From their mouths, Henry Grant had managed to piece together a few clues. But it wasn't enough, far from enough. With just that little information, finding the culprit was like looking for a needle in a haystack.

So, over the past six months, Henry Grant had made his way here from Huameng, just to find more clues and finally uncover the one he hated...

The person struggling between his fingers suddenly quieted down. Gavin Clark assumed the other had finally given in and stopped resisting. He put Henry Grant back into the hidden pouch, glanced at Mr. Foster, and said, "You were supposed to die today, but someone took your place as a ghost."

With that, he withdrew his gaze and tossed out, "Believe it or not, it's up to you," then stopped wasting words and turned to leave.

But after offending someone to this extent, how could he just walk away?

Mr. Foster was infuriated by all this talk of "early death" and "late death." On one hand, he thought this wild monk was a lying fraud; on the other, since it concerned his life, he couldn't help but feel uneasy.

Eight or nine out of ten con artists love to play this trick: first, they hit you with a "disaster is coming" warning, making you anxious and unsettled; then, they act aloof and turn to leave. That way, some people will take the bait, thinking, "Fine, I'll pay to avoid disaster—what if it's true?"

While warning himself not to fall for it, Mr. Foster ordered the yamen runners: Draw your knives and arrest him!

Trying to scam the county office—was this monk asking for trouble or what?!

Just as the yamen runners surged forward and grabbed Gavin Clark's sleeve, a breathless voice came from afar: "Master! Master, something terrible has happened!"

Everyone turned to look and saw a servant boy stumbling over, barely stopping in front of Mr. Foster, his face panicked: "Master, the young master—he's fallen into the well!"

"What?!" Mr. Foster's legs gave out, and his scalp instantly went numb.