Many of the household guards either lowered their heads, staring at the bowls and chopsticks on the table, or crossed their arms and glanced over sideways, their eyes filled with mockery. In their view, even if Henry Foster had a knife in his hand, he still couldn't do anything to Charles Grant; however, a sharp glint flashed in Walter Grant's eyes—perhaps he was hoping Henry Foster would act rashly.

Henry Foster drew his knife.

This was a saber suitable for both infantry and cavalry combat. The blade was narrow and straight, with a simple, sharp edge that gave off an intimidating aura. Forged from refined steel, the blade bore fine forging patterns, making it quite attractive.

Seeing Charles Grant secretly on guard, Henry Foster gripped the knife and thrust it toward the large black dog curled up in the corner by the wall.

The big black dog clearly hadn't expected that barking twice would bring about its own death. When it saw the knife coming, it suddenly leapt up, but was still a beat too slow. The blade pierced straight through its abdomen, its body arched, and as it struggled to bite Henry Foster's wrist, Henry Foster flung it away, dog and knife together. It landed in the muddy ground by the wall, whimpering and struggling, blood gushing out and quickly soaking the ground.

“An old dog raised in the household, yet it dares to bare its teeth and bark wildly at its master—truly deserves to die!” Henry Foster wiped the blood splattered on his wrist with a towel and said to Kyle Sullivan, “Go skin this old dog, chop it up, and stew a pot of dog meat for everyone to enjoy…”

Everyone was stunned. If the young master Henry Foster had lost his temper and tried to attack Old Master Fan with a knife, they wouldn't have been surprised at all—they were even waiting for the old master to teach him a lesson. But no one had expected Henry Foster to do this.

Charles Grant was shaking all over with rage; in the past, even when Henry Foster cursed him to his face, calling him an old bastard or a mongrel, he had never been this furious.

Kyle Sullivan stood up, his eyes darting between Henry Foster and Charles Grant, seemingly unable to make up his mind.

Henry Foster walked straight over to David Grant, sat down at the table where the household guards were eating, picked up his chopsticks, and began shoveling rice into his mouth, grabbing food and eating heartily. After half a bowl of rice and a pile of chicken, fish, and vegetables had gone down, he noticed that everyone else was still either standing or sitting, not moving. He waved his chopsticks and called out:

“It’s too boring to eat alone in the East Wing. From now on, I’ll eat here with everyone at the big table—no need to prepare separate meals for me. Why are you all just standing there, not picking up your chopsticks? Are you waiting for Kyle Sullivan to stew that old mongrel so you can eat dog meat?”

Charles Grant rolled up his sleeves, the veins on his exposed arms twitching; he said nothing, and the others just looked awkwardly at Henry Foster without responding.

Henry Foster continued shoveling food into his mouth, chewing heartily as he spoke slowly and deliberately to Charles Grant:

“Master Fan, what you said earlier makes sense. If we don’t set some rules and let the tenant farmers hunt and chop firewood in the back hills as they please, the place will surely be ruined. But I’ve already given my word. If you really send people to snatch the game back from Old Zhao now, the tenants won’t know whether this estate belongs to the Han family or the Fan family. That wouldn’t be good, would it? Or do you perhaps have some other intention, Master Fan?”

“You’re overthinking it, young master. How could this old servant have any other intentions?” Charles Grant said through gritted teeth.

“That’s good. I know you’re loyal to my father and the Han family, and you keep me in check because you don’t want me to cause trouble. I’m not so clueless as to not appreciate that.” Henry Foster finished the food in his bowl, didn’t look at anyone else, put down his bowl and chopsticks, and went back to the East Wing.

Watching Henry Foster stride away, Charles Grant trembled with rage for a long while before finally sitting back down at the table by the window.

Walter Grant suddenly stood up, unfastened the saber at his waist, and threw it onto the table with a clang, saying indignantly, “Even the master of the house always treated father with respect and never spoke harshly to him—this young master has gone too far! Does he really see us as nothing more than that dog, to be stabbed to death whenever he’s annoyed?”

“Eat!”

Charles Grant glared at Walter Grant, stopping him from saying more, but as he picked up his chopsticks and looked at the four dishes he had all to himself, he remembered what Henry Foster had just said about eating with the guards from now on. He found he couldn’t swallow a bite, his stomach full of anger instead. With a loud smack, he slammed his chopsticks on the table and said,

“I’m done eating. You all take these and share them!”

“Father, what about the big black dog? Should we chop it up and stew it now?” David Grant asked foolishly.

“…Eat, eat, eat, all you know is eating! Would you only be happy if I chopped up these old bones of mine and stewed them for you?” The veins on Charles Grant’s forehead bulged as he scolded David Grant. “Go find a spot in the back ravine and bury it!”

Chapter Eight: Killing

“Ethan Carter, what did you hear in the East Wing the night before last that made you go call Master Fan?”

Back in the study, Henry Foster picked up a copy of “Miscellaneous Records of Duyang” by the Tang dynasty scholar Su E, but didn’t open it right away. Seeing Ethan Carter standing outside, clearly restricted by the rules and not daring to enter the study after dark, he asked through the doorway.