"On the night before last, I don't know what happened, but as soon as it got dark, I felt sleepy and went to bed early. There were a few claps of thunder on the mountain, which woke me up. Worried that the window here was open and rain might come in, I ran over but heard Young Master talking in the study. I was afraid Young Master had been locked in the study by Mr. Grant for too long and was talking nonsense from being stifled, so I ran to the north courtyard to call Mr. Grant over. I didn't notice anything unusual, and didn't expect Young Master to catch a cold. It must have been some nonsense spoken in his sleep, right?" Ethan Carter said through the door.

Henry Foster nodded, signaling Ethan Carter that she could go rest. He found a few copper coins in the study and wedged them tightly into the cracks of the doors and windows.

The windows of both the study and the bedroom faced the eastern mountain ridge. The study was brightly lit with candles, but Henry Foster walked into the unlit bedroom, stood by the window, and stared at the ridge opposite, watching to see if anyone would peek out from there during the night.

The mountain air was clear and crisp. A full moon, like a silver plate, hung in the deep, leaden sky above the ridge. The bright moonlight poured down, tree shadows swayed on the ridge, and occasionally the call of a night owl could be heard—otherwise, all was still.

Walter Grant, or perhaps someone else, was secretly colluding with Yvonne Bailey. After today's commotion in the north courtyard, perhaps the truth would come out in the next couple of days.

Of course, what Henry Foster wanted to know most at this moment was exactly what kind of conspiracy he had become entangled in—or rather, what secrets were hidden behind Yvonne Bailey and the late Honglou.

In these times, war broke out frequently, the Central Plains were devastated, bandits ravaged the land, and with a shortage of provisions, they even salted corpses to use as rations—a tragedy beyond words. Yet in Jinling City, there had been decades of peace and prosperity, untouched by war, and the air was still thick with luxury and decadence.

There were hundreds, even thousands, of brothels and courtesan houses in Jinling City. Henry Foster had heard of the fame of the late Honglou while still in Xuanzhou, and after being brought to Jinling by his father for just three or four months, he had already become a regular there.

Previously, Henry Foster had been preoccupied with the beautiful women of the late Honglou, but thinking carefully now, compared to ordinary brothels, the late Honglou exuded many mysterious qualities.

Even those like Frank Miller, who could vividly recount palace secrets, couldn't figure out the true nature of the late Honglou, nor did they know which mysterious figure was really in control behind the scenes.

That alone was enough to show that the late Honglou was anything but simple.

Henry Foster wasn't sleepy, nor was he in the mood to read the books in the study, so he stood by the window, recalling from memory the stances of the sixty-four-move Shigong Fist, trying to practice it again, while also pondering the fragments of memory left from his dream the night before last.

The sixty-four-move Shigong Fist had been taught to Henry Foster by his father, David Foster, when he was serving as an adjutant in Chuzhou, passed down by an old Taoist who traveled through Chuzhou and was on good terms with his father.

Henry Foster had practiced this set of forms from age six to twelve. Although he had neglected it for six years after that, he still remembered every move and posture. However, now, as he set up the stances, he felt extremely rusty, and after barely finishing one round, he was already drenched in sweat.

Henry Foster wiped the sweat from his body with a towel, then continued to stand by the window. Looking through the crack at the ridge opposite, he felt a bit hungry after just one round of practice. He thought to himself that, despite neglecting it for so many years, he hadn't forgotten the essence of the sixty-four-move Shigong Fist—truly a blessing in disguise.

Henry Foster rolled up a thin quilt from the bedroom into the shape of a person, placed it on the chair outside, so that from the eastern woods it would look like he was sitting at his desk reading through the night. Then he put the washbasin by the bedroom window, lay down fully clothed, and rested.

Hearing Ethan Carter knocking on the door outside, Henry Foster opened his eyes and woke up. By now, daylight was streaming in, and the night had passed peacefully without incident.

Henry Foster got up, restored the study and bedroom to their original arrangement, and opened the door to see the maid Ethan Carter outside, looking surprised—probably not expecting that he would lock the door so tightly at night.

After washing up, he saw that breakfast was prepared as usual in the west wing, but Henry Foster ignored it and went to the north courtyard.

The household guards and servants had already eaten breakfast, and there were only a few people left in the kitchen. He saw a few dark, barely passable steamed buns left in the steamer, took them out with a dish of pickles, and sat by the window in the north courtyard dining room, tearing the buns into small pieces and stuffing them into his mouth.

They were dry, hard, and rough on the throat, but Henry Foster was so hungry that he didn't find them too hard to swallow.

"Murder! There's been a murder..."

A moment later, Ethan Carter came running into the kitchen, her face drained of color, shouting.

"..." Henry Foster's expression sharpened. He asked, "What happened? Why are you so startled?"

"I don't know either. Just now, Kyle Sullivan came running back covered in blood, saying that Walter Grant was killed by someone at the manor on the west side, and two household guards were shot. Right now, Mr. Grant is leading people over there..." Ethan Carter said.

...

...

After hearing what Ethan Carter said, Henry Foster learned that Walter Grant had gone to the west bank of the creek early in the morning to drive Uncle Sullivan, James Sullivan, and their family out of the manor, but was shot and killed by James Sullivan after entering the house. Kyle Sullivan and two other household guards heard Walter Grant shouting from the training ground, rushed across the creek, but before they got close, the two guards were shot and wounded. Kyle Sullivan was unharmed and ran back to report.

So Walter Grant really was up to something. Henry Foster's spirits lifted. He put down his bowl and chopsticks, crossed the creek, and hurried to the manor on the west bank where the tenant farmers lived.