Wandering ghosts are generally more sensitive than real, living people. He only felt that there wasn’t even a trace of breath around him, the calmness bordering on eerie.

Standing by the doorway, Gavin Clark and Mr. Foster exchanged glances. Suddenly, Gavin Clark furrowed his brows and looked up at the sky.

The wind was still, the clouds silent, and all was quiet in every direction.

The entire The Foster Family residence suddenly became utterly silent...

This strange quiet didn’t last long—just a few blinks of an eye—before the sound of the wind suddenly rose again, “wooing and sobbing,” completely different from before, with an inexplicable sense of grievance.

After a few rounds, the wailing wind grew louder and louder. At first listen, it sounded as if ghosts from all directions were weeping together, making one’s hair stand on end.

Amidst this ghostly, howling wind, something suddenly let out a “buzz—” sound.

It was like the lingering note of metal striking metal, but also a bit different.

The limp Henry Grant dangling from Gavin Clark’s fingers instantly stiffened. Others might have trouble distinguishing that clear sound, but he heard it with perfect clarity.

Because it sounded exactly like the thing he was searching for.

Northeast!

Henry Grant forced himself to tilt his face and look in that direction.

Just now, that bald monk had asked: who lives in the northeast room again?

As Henry Grant was pondering, that strange sound merged with the wailing wind, suddenly becoming piercing. In that instant, everyone present felt as if they’d been struck hard on the back of the head, their ears ringing, vision going black, and their minds blanking out.

Chapter 8: Gold Ingots (Part Four)

When that buzzing passed and the sesame-sized blackness before his eyes slowly faded, Henry Grant realized something was wrong—

Beneath him was a ground paved with bluestone slabs, and moving even a little scraped up a patch of dark green moss. Clearly, he had landed on the ground, and the bald monk who had been holding him was nowhere to be seen.

Not just the bald monk—he looked around and saw that Mr. Foster was also missing. The house behind him was still there, but it had a proper door and façade, with intricate wood carvings above the doorframe. At a glance, it was clearly not the place where that fool Charles Foster lived, so he didn’t expect to find Nathaniel Sullivan and the others inside either.

In fact, the place he was in was extremely quiet—he couldn’t hear even the faintest trace of human voices. It was like an empty mansion, with deep courtyards but utter silence.

“What the hell is this place?” Henry Grant muttered.

His current situation was a bit worrying. If it were someone else dumped in such a silent place, they could at least walk around a bit to see what was going on. But Henry Grant couldn’t—being half-paralyzed, he couldn’t walk.

So, the paper-thin Master Grant simply sprawled himself out, airing the creases on his body, propping himself up with both hands, and lazily shook his head as he took in the scenery—

Besides the house behind him, there was an old vine running along the wall to his left, and a shade tree whose branches just reached over the wall. To his right was a corridor and the courtyard wall, and through a narrow door, he could vaguely see a small inner garden.

Just from this corner, it was clear this was a carefully arranged residence. But no matter how exquisite a mansion, if there wasn’t a single person in sight, it was a bit unnerving.

Fortunately, Henry Grant was someone who’d stirred up the heavens. No matter how creepy the scene, he didn’t find it frightening—just needed to be careful.

“South is ahead, north is behind...” He wasn’t admiring the view for no reason. After looking around, Henry Grant roughly determined his orientation from the direction of the moss on the stone slabs, the way the old vine grew, and the orientation of the house.

If he wasn’t mistaken, he was in the northeast corner of the residence.

Northeast corner...

Henry Grant hissed, “Sounds familiar...”

If he was still in Mr. Foster’s residence, then this northeast corner was where Mr. Foster’s youngest son, Jack Foster, who had nearly drowned, lived.

The buzzing sound he’d heard earlier also seemed to have come from this direction.

Was the thing he was looking for here?!

Henry Grant shivered, suddenly sitting up straight, holding his breath and listening intently, but he didn’t hear a thing—not to mention that distinctive buzzing.

He brushed aside a patch of moss in front of him, curling his lip in distaste, then lay down and pressed his ear to the ground. This time, he finally heard a faint sound. But strangely, the sound was sometimes near, sometimes far, never in one place.

And it was so faint that if he lost focus for a moment, it was almost impossible to catch. This way of teasing—appearing and disappearing—made Henry Grant extremely impatient. After listening for a while, his temper flared, and he wished he could tear up the ground and dig around with abandon.

Unfortunately, with this flimsy paper body, he couldn’t even manage that.

Just as he was getting rather frustrated, a breeze slipped in through the carved window by the base of the wall. Even the smallest winter wind had some force to it. Henry Grant, who was used to borrowing the east wind, naturally wouldn’t miss this chance. He immediately spread himself out, catching the wind with his paper body.

In the blink of an eye, he was swept up by the wind.

Taking the opportunity, Henry Grant grabbed a tendril of the old vine and, with a few quick moves, hoisted himself up into the shade tree.