From a distance, Charles Grant could be seen leading a group of people gathered in front of a thatched hut. David Grant, along with two others, was grabbing the hands and pinning down the feet of the young James Sullivan, dragging him out of the hut. It took all their strength to finally pin him to the ground, making it impossible for him to struggle.

The others rushed up in a flurry to help tie up James Sullivan with hemp rope, then began to kick and beat him mercilessly.

It was hard to imagine that a boy of fifteen or sixteen could possess such strength.

Two of the household guards had each been shot in the thigh with an arrow and were now sitting on the ground, cursing loudly: “Kill this bastard, it hurts like hell!”

Henry Foster couldn’t help but smile inwardly at the two guards’ furious expressions. If James Sullivan weren’t still so young and not ruthless enough, these two guards would have suffered more than just arrow wounds to their thighs.

Henry Foster noticed that both guards had been shot in the same spot on their thighs, which told him that after killing Walter Grant, James Sullivan hadn’t intended to go on a killing spree. The fact that Kyle Sullivan had emerged unscathed from James Sullivan’s arrows was somewhat surprising to him.

Aside from being somewhat strong, Kyle Sullivan was slow to react in every other aspect.

Not seeing any sign of Walter Grant, it was unclear whether he was truly dead. Just then, the hunter Uncle Sullivan came rushing out of the house, his body covered in several large footprints, clearly having taken quite a beating inside.

Seeing James Sullivan being brutally kicked and beaten, barely breathing, he threw himself over his son, kowtowing to Charles Grant: “Master Fan, please spare Wuji’s life! Young Master Fan took our game and drove us out of the manor. Wuji is young and ignorant, that’s why he shot Young Master Fan with an arrow! Master Fan, you can chop off the hand he used to shoot, but please, just spare Wuji’s life! I, Uncle Sullivan, will serve you as a beast of burden for this life and eight more!”

“Do you think you have the right to speak, you old dog?” David Grant raised his foot and kicked Uncle Sullivan more than a yard away.

Uncle Sullivan immediately crumpled like a stalk of dead grass bent by the wind, clutching his waist and gasping in pain.

Although Uncle Sullivan was not in poor physical condition, with James Sullivan having committed murder, he had resolved to grit his teeth and take a few hard blows to let David Grant and the other manor guards vent their anger. He didn’t even try to defend himself or dodge vital spots, letting David Grant’s kick land squarely on his chest, nearly knocking the life out of him.

If one were to ask what distinguished the household guards on the east bank of the creek from the tenant farmers on the west bank, it was that, except for the rather thin Kyle Sullivan, the guards were all tall and imposing, exuding an intimidating presence. Even without drawing their knives or bows, a murderous aura seemed to fill the air.

These men were all veteran soldiers whom David Foster had brought back from the Guangling army, seasoned by the bloodshed of battle, so their imposing manner was no surprise. In contrast, Kyle Sullivan always appeared timid and was often mocked by the other guards, likely due to his personality.

The tenant farmers on the west bank, however, shared two striking characteristics.

First, they were thin.

Regardless of age or gender, they were all thin—thin and weak, even more emaciated than Henry Foster at this time, with sallow faces, each looking as if they were on the verge of collapse.

Among so many tenant farmers in the manor, Henry Foster had previously observed Uncle Sullivan and James Sullivan closely. Perhaps because the father and son often poached to supplement their food, their bodies were relatively robust.

The other notable trait of these tenant farmers was that, as they watched Uncle Sullivan and James Sullivan being beaten nearly to death by the guards, they cowered and dared not approach, let alone try to stop the guards from beating the father and son.

If not for that dreamlike memory having seeped into Henry Foster’s very bones, he would never have noticed such details. But now, seeing all this with his own eyes, he felt a deep sense of shock.

“Stop!”

Henry Foster had no time to ponder why he felt this way. With a dark expression, he walked into the crowd, stepping between David Grant and Uncle Sullivan to prevent further senseless beating. Judging by David Grant and the others’ furious looks, he figured Walter Grant must be dead, so he calmly asked,

“What exactly happened?”

“Wu Cheng came to confiscate their game and drive them out of the manor, and this little bastard actually used the Black Cloud Bow bestowed by the young master to shoot Wu Cheng dead!” David Grant was now red-eyed with rage. Blocked by Henry Foster from beating Uncle Sullivan, he instead stomped hard on James Sullivan’s thin back, nearly breaking his frail spine.

“Wuji! Wuji!” Two figures burst out of the house in a frenzy.

A middle-aged woman in tattered clothes, her garments torn to shreds, hair disheveled, face marked with several bloody handprints, clung to David Grant’s leg, wailing and kowtowing desperately to Charles Grant for mercy. She knew that if James Sullivan were beaten to death today, there would be nowhere to seek justice.

A frail young girl, also with disheveled hair, threw herself onto James Sullivan, clinging tightly to her younger brother, refusing to let go, terrified that David Grant and the others would strike again and kill James Sullivan on the spot.

Seeing David Grant reach out to grab the girl’s hair, Henry Foster seized his arm and shouted, “Stop! David Grant, I said stop!”

David Grant, mindful of Henry Foster’s status, didn’t dare shake him off and, eyes bloodshot, retreated to the side.

Both David Grant and Walter Grant were adopted sons of Charles Grant. With Walter Grant killed and David Grant stopped, the other guards also sullenly withdrew to the side.