Yvonne Bailey that little woman never even came to the villa at all—everything was just his own imagination, and he had only had a few strange dreams after catching a chill?

However, the window in front of the desk was still half open, and it hadn’t been cleaned for two or three days. A layer of dust had gathered on the windowsill, with several messy handprints and footprints left behind, clearly visible.

Yvonne Bailey and another man had jumped out through the windowsill—it wasn’t just his imagination!

No matter how muddleheaded Henry Foster was, at this moment he could confirm that Yvonne Bailey had really come at night to poison him—it wasn’t a dream, but something that had truly happened.

But this only made Henry Foster even more confused.

No matter how much of a scoundrel Henry Foster was, he still had some self-awareness.

Even though he usually enjoyed visiting the Wan Hong Brothel for pleasure, and often spoke rudely and teased Yvonne Bailey, who sold her art but not her body, he had squandered over a hundred gold ingots at the Wan Hong Brothel in just two or three months, yet hadn’t even touched Yvonne Bailey’s chest.

Yvonne Bailey should have been scheming to hook such a lavish patron as him—why would she try to kill him?

Could there be some other hidden plot?

But his grandfather, William Foster, who had once served as Vice Minister of War, had already retired and returned to Xuanzhou to live. His father, David Foster, as a Junior Secretary Supervisor, held a fourth-rank official post, which was by no means outstanding among all the civil and military officials at court. He himself was a wastrel, and his father, disappointed in him, had sent him to this other residence to cultivate himself. He had no power or influence, and couldn’t even command Charles Grant, that old dog who only obeyed his father’s orders—who would go to such lengths to poison him?

Henry Foster cleared his throat, about to call the ugly maid Ethan Carter to question her, when suddenly a fragment of memory flashed through his mind. More accurately, it was a passage from Southern Chu’s history that the person in his dream, Simon Blake, had once read:

In his later years, Emperor Wu of Southern Chu ruled foolishly and was suspicious of his ministers. Minister David Foster admonished him to be diligent in state affairs, angering the emperor, and was beaten to death before the Wenying Hall. His son, Henry Foster, fled to his ancestral home in Xuanzhou to raise troops, but was captured by family guards on the way and delivered to the authorities, then torn apart by chariots in the marketplace...

Torn apart by chariots in the marketplace?

Henry Foster was not unfamiliar with this punishment.

The previous dynasty had fallen, and the newly established Chu had made Jinling its capital only twelve years ago. At this time, the Chu realm was still far from peaceful. Emperor Tianyou ruled with harsh laws and severe punishments, and every year many prisoners were executed by being torn apart by chariots.

When his father, David Foster, was transferred to the capital, Henry Foster was also brought to Jinling to reunite with him. Although it had only been three or four months, he had already had the chance to witness such executions with his own eyes.

In previous dynasties, the punishment of being torn apart by chariots meant being dismembered by five horses, but Chu’s version was simpler: ropes were tied under the prisoner’s armpits and around the waist and hips, and two horses would pull in opposite directions until the prisoner was ripped in half, intestines, feces, urine, and gushing blood spilling everywhere.

As a bystander, Henry Foster found such scenes extremely thrilling.

Even though his father had scolded him harshly, he still thought it was worth seeing again. But when he thought that such a thing might happen to himself, Henry Foster suddenly felt a chill run down his spine, his hair standing on end, and his heart involuntarily twitching.

How could something like that possibly happen to him?

Why would he have such a bizarre dream the night before—damn, what bad luck!

Henry Foster tried to banish these chaotic thoughts, but the dream from the previous night became ever clearer in his mind, as if the life memories of the dream’s protagonist, Simon Blake, had already merged into his blood and could not be erased.

The dream’s protagonist, Simon Blake, was not particularly familiar with this period of Southern Chu’s history, and no matter how hard Henry Foster tried to recall, he could only grasp a few fragmented memories.

In the late previous dynasty, regional warlords had divided the land for a hundred years. In the year 900, the last emperor was killed by a powerful minister, and the dynasty was utterly destroyed. At that time, the Huainan military governor Du Yangmi declared himself emperor in Jinling, established the state of “Chu,” and adopted “Tianyou” as the era name.

Emperor Tianyou reigned for seventeen years. After his death, he was posthumously titled the Most Holy and Most Martial Emperor, and later generations called him Emperor Wu of Chu...

Wait a minute.

Isn’t this passage describing the process of Emperor Tianyou founding the state of Chu?

And right now, it’s only the twelfth year of Tianyou—there are still five years until the seventeenth year, when Emperor Tianyou dies?

That bizarre dream from last night—was it just a trick of the mind, or a warning from the heavens?

If these things are destined to happen, doesn’t that mean Emperor Tianyou will die in five years, and he himself will be “torn apart by chariots in the marketplace” before then?

Henry Foster had lived carefreely for so many years, never caring about what happened after his death, but the thought that he might be executed in such a way within five years made it impossible for him to remain calm.

But how could he prove that the historical fragments remembered by the dream’s protagonist were real?

Chapter Three: The Dream Is Not Absurd

“Seventh Young Master...”

As dusk approached, the ugly maid Ethan Carter pushed the door open and entered. She saw her young master Henry Foster still sitting by the window, staring at the palm-sized piece of water jade on the desk—he’d been like this for half the day already, hadn’t he?

She didn’t know why, after just recovering from a cold, the young master had suddenly smashed the ornamental water jade bowl in the study early yesterday morning, picked up a palm-sized shard, and spent day and night fiddling with it on the whetstone—what kind of madness was this?

Now, Ethan Carter didn’t dare call out loudly. She poked her head in for a look at the desk by the window, and saw that the water jade shard was lying on a sheet of xuan paper, its sharp edges already ground smooth by the young master Henry Foster, and over day and night, it had been polished into a round jade disc.