Henry Cooper left, and the young Daoist blocked Evelyn Smith's way, putting away the rare smile on his face. "What's done is done. Please restrain your grief and take care of yourself. Your son's fate was destined to be this way—perhaps a karmic debt from a previous life. You're still young; in the future, burn more incense and show reverence to the gods. If you can move the heavens, perhaps fate will grant you another son..."

Evelyn Smith felt a surge of anger rise from deep within. "I did it, exactly as Mr. Cooper said."

The young Daoist smiled faintly and said softly, "Whether you did or not, that's not for you to decide."

"Then who decides? You?" Evelyn Smith demanded loudly.

The young Daoist shook his head.

"Mr. Cooper?"

The young Daoist still shook his head.

"Then who is it?" Evelyn Smith's voice grew louder, drawing the attention of the crowd at the courtyard gate.

The young Daoist looked a bit embarrassed, gave a dry laugh, but Evelyn Smith's eyes didn't blink, a wolfish glint shining in his gaze, making the young Daoist both fearful and annoyed. "Of course, it's the gods..." The young Daoist turned to the crowd at the gate and said, "Of course, it's the gods, isn't it obvious? If the gods won't show themselves, it's because your heart isn't sincere—plain as day."

"No, the gods did appear. I saw it with my own eyes." Evelyn Smith struggled to recall, the visions from his unconsciousness vivid before him.

The young Daoist laughed again, handed the bronze chime in his hand to another Daoist, and when he spoke again, his tone was no longer as gentle as before. "Captain Smith, what's the point? After all, that was your son. No one is blaming you..."

Evelyn Smith stepped forward, grabbed the young Daoist's clothes, and said angrily, "I clearly did it!"

The other Daoists and neighbors hurried forward to intervene. The young Daoist struggled several times but couldn't break free, his face flushing red. "Evelyn Smith, don't pull this act. Your own heart wasn't sincere, you caused your own son's death, you can't blame anyone else, and don't even think about pinning it on our Lingji Temple..."

Evelyn Smith raised his fist to strike, but was pulled away by the crowd.

The courtyard was in chaos, people pulling and tugging, the Daoists clutching their ritual items as they hurriedly left, muttering "not sincere" all the way.

Evelyn Smith still wanted to chase after them, but his mood had calmed a little. He had no intention of fighting, only wanted to get a clear answer—where exactly had he gone wrong, to be accused of "not being sincere"? But the crowd held him back, some dragging, some hugging, and he couldn't take a single step forward. All he could do was shout loudly, "I did it!"

Ethan Sullivan squeezed in. "Master, please go check on the madam at home."

A jolt of fear struck Evelyn Smith's heart. His son had fallen ill with a strange disease, his wife was heartbroken—if anything happened to her as well, the family would truly be ruined.

The neighbors all let go, chattering words of comfort, but Evelyn Smith didn't hear a single word. He glanced toward the main room—his son was still there, but he didn't want to look, didn't dare to look. Pushing through the crowd, he ran to the west wing, where his wife Miller sat quietly.

Miller too had not eaten or drunk for a whole day and night, but she had not fainted. She had heard the news a bit earlier than her husband, had the servants bring their son over, and held him in her arms. Her heart felt empty, and she sat in a daze, silent, until the sounds of quarreling outside finally brought her back to herself.

Evelyn Smith entered the room and saw the son in his wife's arms. His whole heart felt as if it had been stabbed several times, then thrown to the ground and trampled.

"This is fate." Miller forced herself to stay strong. Between the two of them, one had to remain calm, and it seemed it could only be her.

Evelyn Smith was silent for a long time before asking, "Are there really gods and immortals in this world?"

"What?" Miller was startled, looking at her husband with concern.

"Are there really gods and immortals in this world? If there are, why would they let our son... He was so good, he never did anything wrong..."

"Don't say that." Miller grew even more flustered. "People will only say your heart isn't sincere."

"Heh." Evelyn Smith took one last look at his son's small face, then turned and walked out of the room. His wife could not answer his question.

"Husband..." Miller tried to get up, but after sitting so long, her limbs were weak, and with the child in her arms, she couldn't move at all. She could only watch helplessly as her husband disappeared.

The neighbors were still in the courtyard, whispering among themselves. When they saw Evelyn Smith come out, they all fell silent, each ready with words of comfort. But before anyone could speak, Evelyn Smith had already walked out the gate, leaving the crowd staring at each other.

Evelyn Smith didn't want to hear anything. He was full of doubts—his wife couldn't answer them, nor could the neighbors.

He didn't know where to go or whom to seek out; he just wandered aimlessly through the streets.

Two

Evelyn Smith stared at the scholar across from him, his gaze icy, like a lone wolf who had just won a fierce battle—no time to savor the spoils, still standing tall and bleeding, baring its teeth at other challengers to see who dared approach, though in truth it was already spent, unable to fight again.

The aura of a victor is usually effective; Evelyn Smith was not a victor, yet he had the eyes of one.

The scholar grew timid, regretful, set down his wine cup, and stammered, "I just remembered... there's something urgent... um... I'll take my leave..."

"You haven't answered my question yet," Evelyn Smith said sternly, as if reprimanding a soldier in the barracks.

"Ah?" The scholar gave a bitter smile.

"Are there really gods and immortals in this world?" Evelyn Smith pressed, even more serious.