He instinctively glanced at Gavin Clark, who was surrounded by yamen runners, and his heart skipped a beat. For a moment, he didn’t even know whether he should run home first or grab hold of Gavin Clark.

“Master!” Page called out again.

Mr. Foster shuddered, panic-stricken, and lifted his foot to hurry back with Page. In the chaos, he felt dizzy and unsteady, as if his legs weren’t his own. He had barely taken two steps when he suddenly turned his head—

“Let go, all of you, let go!” Mr. Foster grabbed Gavin Clark’s sleeve. “You, you… no! You have to come back with me and take a look!”

Gavin Clark frowned, brushing off his fingers with a hint of distaste. He was about to say something when he felt a movement in his hidden pocket. The paper figurine he had just put back took the opportunity to slip out, latch onto Mr. Foster’s cuff, and, riding the momentum of Mr. Foster, stuck itself onto Page’s collar, following along as they ran!

Chapter 5: Gold Ingots (Part One)

Page had short legs but moved quickly, probably because he was still young and always seemed a bit jumpy and restless. As he ran, he kept glancing back every few steps to wait for Mr. Foster behind him, his eyes darting busily, so much so that he didn’t notice the thing stuck to the back of his collar.

Henry Grant’s legs didn’t work well—even as a paper figurine, he was still half-paralyzed. He relied solely on his hands to cling tightly to his new “mount.”

The paper was so thin and light that, as his mount dashed forward like a wild dog off its leash, Henry Grant trembled in the wind, nearly shaking himself sick before finally arriving at Mr. Foster’s residence. Ningyang County was a prosperous place, and as a scribe, Lucas Foster seemed to live quite well; his house was noticeably larger than the dilapidated Jiang family clinic.

From the outside, it didn’t look like much, but inside, the furnishings were quite exquisite.

“So fancy…” Henry Grant poked his head out slightly from behind Page’s head, discreetly surveying the place and sighing to himself, “He’s really going all out to make things fancy, even if it kills him.”

Page: “???”

He stood stiffly at the threshold, feeling as if someone was whispering right behind him, so close it made his hair stand on end and his scalp tingle. “Who—who’s talking?”

Henry Grant replied offhandedly, “Take a guess.”

Page: “…”

It was bad enough that this wretch was using him as a horse, but now he’d scared him to tears.

This Page was at most twelve or thirteen, with a courage no bigger than a needle’s tip. Henry Grant’s light remark scared him so much that he bolted, not waiting for anyone behind, crying “waa waa” as he ran straight for the main hall—only to trip over the threshold and fall flat.

As he hit the ground, Henry Grant was jolted hard and, failing to hold on, fell off the back of Page’s collar, landing lightly on the floor. He was just about to latch onto Page’s clothes again, but the rabbit-like boy had already scrambled up and darted away.

Henry Grant: “…”

So this is what they mean by “trying to steal a chicken only to lose the rice”—flirting with trouble always brings retribution.

A folded piece of paper now lay on the ground, but no one noticed. The main hall was in chaos, with people of all ages panicking and crowding around a young man, weeping.

The young man’s chest was soaked, his hair disheveled and clinging wetly to his face, some of it messily brushed aside to reveal a deathly pale face. His eyes were tightly shut; it seemed he was neither breathing in nor out.

Mr. Foster stumbled into the main hall and was greeted by this scene, his legs instantly giving out.

“Jin’er—!”

Lying on the ground, Henry Grant whipped his head around, only to see a wave of feet rushing toward him.

Henry Grant: “…”

His vision went black, and he had no time to think—he grabbed a withered grass stem on the flagstone floor, trying to pull himself away. But just as he moved an inch, someone pinched him between their fingers.

“Which bastard is grabbing me?! Let go!” Henry Grant couldn’t help but curse, and when he turned to look, he nearly fainted.

It was that unlucky monk again!

Henry Grant had followed to the Liu residence purely to keep an eye on Mr. Foster and look for a chance to question him for clues. But why had that bald donkey followed too? Wasn’t he acting all disinterested before? Surely he wasn’t here just to catch him?

There were plenty of demons to catch in the world—why did this bald donkey have to pick on him?! Henry Grant cursed inwardly, thoroughly annoyed.

Clinging to the grass stem, he refused to let go, but in the end, both he and the grass were picked up by the monk.

Gavin Clark held the “fugitive” in one hand, his ink-dark eyes flickering slightly, a hint of reproach in his gaze at the paper Henry Grant.

Henry Grant rolled his eyes in response: “…” Who are you?

In that brief exchange, Gavin Clark lightly tapped a round stone in the garden with his toe. The stone rolled a couple of times and came to rest right in front of Mr. Foster’s feet. As Mr. Foster stumbled forward, he stepped on the stone, lost his balance, and pitched forward.

As luck would have it, he fell squarely onto the chest of the silent young man.

“Cough—cough cough!”