Henry Carter had never written on paper before—not even if you added up all the knowledge of his birth parents could they write from one to ten, so naturally, his family never prepared such things. Over the years, relying on his photographic memory, he had managed to secretly learn quite a few characters from the old scholar, storing them in his mind, and would go home to draw them on the ground at his doorstep with a tree branch. He dreamed of one day touching the Four Treasures of the Study.

Unconsciously, Henry Carter became addicted, so he didn’t listen to his master’s instructions—his master only told him to copy the sect rules once a day from memory, but by the time Alice Foster came in to call him for dinner, Henry Carter was already writing them for the fifth time, showing no sign of stopping.

A wolf-hair brush is nothing like a tree branch. The first time Henry Carter touched paper and brush, his writing was naturally a mess, but it was clear he was deliberately imitating the handwriting of the sect rules carved on the wooden board. That single glance he took in the Hall of Unknowing not only allowed him to memorize the rules in detail, but he also greedily absorbed every stroke and line of the calligraphy.

Alice Foster noticed that with each repetition, he would correct the parts that didn’t look right or were poorly done in the previous attempt, imitating with total concentration, oblivious to everything around him. Once he sat down, he wouldn’t move for more than half an hour, not even noticing when she entered his study.

On the first day, Henry Carter slept well, but this night he was so excited he couldn’t fall asleep. Every time he closed his eyes, he could feel the ache in his wrist, and the characters from the sect rules kept swirling in his mind.

The sect rules must have been carved by the same person who wrote the plaque. Henry Carter liked that person’s handwriting so much he tossed and turned over it. The plaque was one thing, but the old wooden table with the rules carved into it looked like it wouldn’t last a few more years. He guessed the rules hadn’t been carved there very long.

Whose handwriting was it? Could it be his master’s?

He kept pondering this even as he drifted off to sleep, and in his confusion, it was as if something was guiding him to wander around Mount Fuyou. As he wandered, he found himself back at the Hall of Unknowing he’d visited during the day. Henry Carter thought inexplicably, “Why am I here at my master’s place?”

But he couldn’t help but walk inside, and then he saw someone in the courtyard.

The person was tall and slender, probably a man, but his face was so blurry it seemed hidden in a cloud of black mist. His hands were distinct, pale to the point of bluish, like a wandering ghost.

Henry Carter was startled and instinctively took two steps back, but he was also worried about his master, so he mustered his courage and asked, “Who are you? Why are you in my master’s courtyard?”

As soon as the man raised his hand, Henry Carter felt a powerful force pulling him off the ground and drawing him over. In the blink of an eye, he was standing in front of the man.

The man raised a hand and, looking down, touched Henry Carter’s face.

Henry Carter shivered—the man’s hand was icy cold, so cold that just one touch made him feel frozen to the bone.

Then the man grabbed Henry Carter’s shoulder and chuckled lightly, “Little thing, you’re quite bold. Go back!”

Henry Carter felt as if someone had given him a hard shove, and he suddenly woke up in his own bed, with the sky still dark.

After such a dream, he couldn’t fall back asleep. He had no choice but to get himself ready and go out to the courtyard to water the flowers to pass the time, so that Alice Foster was embarrassed to find herself waking up later than him when she came to take him to the Hall of Preaching.

The Hall of Preaching was a small pavilion with a few tables and chairs inside, surrounded by open space. When Henry Carter and the others arrived, it was still early, but some young Daoist boys had already cleaned the place, boiled water, and were preparing to make tea.

Henry Carter quietly found a place to sit, and a young Daoist boy promptly and skillfully served him a bowl of hot tea.

Although Henry Carter kept a cold expression, he only perched cautiously on the edge of the stone bench—old habits die hard. He could endure hardship, but he wasn’t used to enjoying comfort. Sitting there drinking tea while others worked made him feel an awkward sense of unease.

After the time it took to drink a cup of tea, Henry Carter heard footsteps. He looked up to see a stranger, a young man, coming down a side path.

The youth wore a dark blue robe and carried a wooden sword, wider than a palm, in his arms. He walked quickly, eyes straight ahead, while the Daoist boy following him struggled to keep up.

Alice Foster whispered to Henry Carter, “That’s Second Uncle-Master.”

Second Senior Brother Emily Thompson—Henry Carter had seen a wooden plaque with this name behind the Hall of Unknowing’s gate, so he quickly stood up to greet him, “Second Senior Brother.”

Emily Thompson seemed surprised to find someone already in the pavilion. He paused at the sound, looked up, and glanced at Henry Carter. His pupils seemed larger than most people’s, making his gaze appear less than friendly, cold when he looked at others.

…Or maybe it didn’t just seem cold—maybe it really was cold.

Emily Thompson glanced at Henry Carter quickly, then suddenly and awkwardly gave him a smile that looked anything but friendly. “I heard Master brought back two little junior brothers. Are you one of them?”

Henry Carter instinctively disliked Emily Thompson’s gaze; it felt sinister, as if he was up to no good, so he simply replied, “It’s me and Fourth Junior Brother Samuel Foster.”

Emily Thompson stepped forward, interested, and leaned in to ask, “Then what’s your name?”