Mr. Foster scrambled to his feet in a panic, about to curse out whoever the blind fool was that had tripped him, when he heard the previously lifeless young man suddenly start coughing up water—coughing so violently and painfully that no sound came out, until his face turned red and he finally seemed a bit more alive, drawing a breath and slowly settling down.

The people in the main hall immediately erupted—some with joy, others with astonishment.

Mr. Foster stood stunned for a long moment before coming to his senses, quickly ordering someone to carry the young master back to his room to rest, and then to fetch the doctor.

He offered a few words of comfort to the lady, whose eyes were swollen from crying, then turned around, his expression complicated as he glanced at the round stone on the ground and then shot a couple of looks at Gavin Clark.

All this chaos had left Lucas Foster somewhat exhausted. The sky was gradually lightening, faint morning rays falling into the courtyard, not very noticeable. Lucas Foster once again looked Gavin Clark up and down—

He still felt that this monk, so young, didn’t look like any sort of eminent monk. If nothing else, he certainly didn’t have the seniority. Someone just over twenty wanting to become a great monk? That was like daydreaming in broad daylight. The string of copper coins hanging at the monk’s waist was still dull and unremarkable; except for some clueless commoners, anyone would take such a person for a charlatan.

Yet the string of events just now was laid out plainly before him—

Gavin Clark had just said, “Someone took the disaster for you,” and his son Jack Foster had fallen into the well. He himself had been running just fine, when suddenly a round stone appeared in his path, tripping him so that he ended up saving Jack Foster.

One incident could be called coincidence, but given the current situation, Lucas Foster simply couldn’t bring himself to say the word “coincidence.”

Could it be that this monk really was an eminent monk?

Mr. Foster tucked his hands into his sleeves, forcing an awkward smile onto his face, and cupped his hands to Gavin Clark: “I was blind, truly blind…”

Gavin Clark ignored him, simply lifting his eyes to survey the courtyard.

This movement made Mr. Foster hiss, “Master, I was quite rude just now, please forgive me and don’t hold it against a rash man like me. There was a reason for my earlier discourtesy. As you can see, I had someone specially arrange the courtyard; surely the fortune here shouldn’t have dried up so soon, with fate already at its end?”

Henry Grant snorted disdainfully, “All for show.”

That said, there really wasn’t much to criticize about Mr. Foster’s residence. Facing south, backed by a mountain, the courtyard followed the “four waters return to the hall” layout, gathering wealth and energy. There was even a winding fish pond in front of the main hall, arranged in the “meandering water enters the bright hall” style, meant to ensure official success and a meteoric rise.

Of course, Henry Grant himself only knew a little about geomancy; as a scaly creature with four corners, caring about such things was just a way to pass the time.

He judged whether there was a problem with the residence purely by instinct. From the moment he entered, he’d felt extremely uncomfortable in this house, which was why he’d said that Mr. Foster was “obsessing to the point of courting disaster.”

As for what exactly was wrong and how to resolve it, that was the bald donkey’s business, not his.

He had just finished a bout of finger-fighting with Gavin Clark, having tangled with him one-sidedly for quite a while, until he was utterly exhausted and had no choice but to behave for the time being. This paper-thin body was far too limiting, making Henry Grant, who had been spoiled in his previous life, feel especially stifled.

Gavin Clark had stuffed him back into the secret pouch, and he was now rolling his eyes, lying at the pouch’s opening, observing the The Foster Family residence, when someone suddenly spoke up beside him.

“What are you muttering about? Where is this place?” After lying groggily in the secret pouch for ages, Nathaniel Sullivan finally mustered the courage to climb up and poke his head out. He seemed quite afraid of Gavin Clark, and only dared to speak in a very low voice, so soft that only Henry Grant could hear.

“That whatever steward’s house,” Henry Grant mocked. “Didn’t realize you were half-deaf. The whole courtyard’s been wailing for ages…”

Nathaniel Sullivan’s voice stiffened: “…Steward? The steward of Ningyang County?”

Henry Grant replied irritably, “Who else?”

Nathaniel Sullivan suddenly fell silent.

Henry Grant found it odd and couldn’t help glancing at him: “Cat got your tongue?”

Nathaniel Sullivan quietly shrank back into the secret pouch, muttering in a muffled voice, “Just remembering some old matters.”

Henry Grant: “Old matters?”

“My The Sullivan Family medical hall has some bad blood with this Mr. Foster,” Nathaniel Sullivan said softly.

Henry Grant asked, “What kind of bad blood?”

Nathaniel Sullivan was silent for a while, then said in a low voice, “A matter of life and death.”

Henry Grant: “……” A matter of life and death, and you call it just “bad blood”?

Henry Grant was about to ask further when Gavin Clark suddenly turned around and said coldly toward the side door, “Who’s behind the wall?”

Chapter 6: Gold Ingots (Part 2)

It was actually a narrow door on the side corridor of the courtyard. Behind the door was a narrow path, wedged between firewalls, awkwardly positioned and rather cramped—easy to overlook if one wasn’t careful.

As soon as Gavin Clark finished speaking, there was a “thud” from behind the narrow door’s wall, as if someone had stepped on a loose bluestone slab, making it wobble.