Grace Miller rattled off questions like beans spilling from a pod: “Your father seems to be somewhat famous… We only arrived the day before yesterday, and we’d already heard about him. They say he was quite capable when he was young. In recent years, as the family grew wealthy, he’s settled here in semi-retirement, not getting involved in much. There are quite a few skilled guests living at the manor, and no one wants to mess with them. With a father like that, who would come after his son in the middle of the night?”

Her tone was rather flippant, as if it had nothing to do with her. The old woman beside her grew displeased and said, “Our master is a first-class philanthropist and great hero, kind-hearted and righteous. If anyone in trouble comes to him, whether he knows them or not, he’ll generously help them out…”

Grace Miller let out a snort, her voice dripping with sarcasm: “Alright, auntie, we all know this kid has a capable father. So what if he’s a great hero? Didn’t he still end up with his son being chased with blades in the middle of the night…”

That Jason Brooks was only fifty, and to call him virtuous and respected was no exaggeration. After marrying and having children, he rarely appeared in the martial world, but if there was a major gathering, he’d usually be invited as a sign of respect. Samuel Carter thought that, after all, the dead should be respected. The girl probably meant no harm, but she was being a bit too irreverent, so he cut her off and asked, “The one who was chasing you earlier—who was it?”

Charles Brooks was silent for a moment, then said quietly, “It was the Hanging Ghost, Frank Harris.”

“Who did you say?”

“Who did you say?”

Samuel Carter and Grace Miller spoke almost in unison—Samuel Carter frowning, while Grace Miller looked at him in strange astonishment.

Charles Brooks enunciated each word: “It was the Hanging Ghost, Frank Harris. I heard others call him that with my own ears…”

Suddenly, he took a deep breath, as if something had just occurred to him, as if he’d just realized something. The blood, the flames, the screams of the whole night flashed before his eyes. He began to tremble, his face turning pale, his whole body convulsing, and he couldn’t even speak.

Grace Miller was startled and pointed at him: “Is he having a seizure?”

Samuel Carter supported Charles Brooks with a grave expression, brushing his hand over the boy’s sleep acupoint. The youth went limp in his arms. Carefully laying him aside, Samuel Carter sighed, “He’s only just now realizing what happened. The shock was too much for his mind. Let him sleep for a while.”

He turned to the panic-stricken old woman and asked, “Auntie, did someone set up The Brooks Family?”

The old woman looked at Charles Brooks’s state, at a loss, sobbing and sniffling, and after a while finally managed to explain what had happened—at midnight, a fire suddenly broke out in the back courtyard of The Brooks Family, and then a group of black-clad men, seemingly out of nowhere, descended like evil spirits.

The most terrifying thing was that none of the “experts” who would normally be alerted by the slightest disturbance managed to get up; no one knew when they’d been incapacitated.

Only old Li, a strange man who had come to the banks of the Suzhou River five years ago to work as a ferryman, had secretly protected The Brooks Family all along, though he refused to live at the manor—according to him, eating The Brooks Family’s food would make him just another hired guest enforcer, and he didn’t want that. He was there to repay a debt of gratitude.

It was thanks to this oddball that the old The Brooks Family managed to preserve a single bloodline.

After a while, Samuel Carter sighed, “That Brother Li truly is an extraordinary man of the world.” He turned again to the old woman, who was just a simple servant, knowing nothing, her mind muddled, only able to cry along. “Auntie, do you have any other relatives?”

The old woman nodded, “I have a nephew in the south of the city.”

Samuel Carter took a gold ingot from his robe and handed it to her, saying, “Take this and find your own way. You’ve followed the young master of The Brooks Family all the way here, and that’s loyalty enough. At your age, you shouldn’t have to wander homeless anymore.”

The old woman took the silver, instinctively biting it, then realized what she was doing and smiled sheepishly. Her tears dried up, and her tone lightened. “Yes, at my age, I’m just a burden to the young master.”

With the money in hand, she didn’t want to stay another moment in this place full of thatch and corpses. She said she would leave—after all, as a cook and laborer, no one would bother her. Samuel Carter made no objection, watching her leave with many words of thanks.

By midnight, Samuel Carter felt a prickling pain in his chest, as if stabbed by a tiny needle, and knew the Seven Apertures Three Autumn Nails were acting up again. The pain wasn’t the tearing of flesh or the dull ache of internal injury, but as if someone were slicing along his meridians inch by inch with a small knife.

Fortunately, after more than a year, he was used to it and showed no sign of discomfort. With his human-skin mask, Grace Miller couldn’t see his expression.

He recalled her offhand mention of Jason Brooks, and that elusive master, and forced himself to focus elsewhere, asking, “That brother at the restaurant today—wasn’t he with you?”