‘I wonder how William Brooks is doing? With that much force smashing down, he should be...’ Henry Webb didn’t let himself think any further.

Although in these times, a person dying was all too common—bodies were often dragged out of the sewers in the city.

Outside the city, corpses were frequently gnawed on by wild dogs, and then the wild dogs would be lured and eaten by people.

But this time was different—this time, William Brooks might really die, and die by his own hand.

Henry Webb kept taking deep breaths, constantly adjusting his physical state.

‘William Brooks has always been eyeing Second Sister Emily Webb, and often does kidnapping jobs. He almost took away my martial arts tuition before. If he doesn’t die, Second Sister will never feel at ease.

So, I’m ridding the people of a scourge. I’m right, I’m right.’

Henry Webb kept finding reasons for himself, though deep down he knew the truth.

Originally, he had only planned to cripple William Brooks, not to kill him.

But when it came down to it, his mind went blank, all his strength burst out at once, afraid that William Brooks would shout out his name.

To stop him from making a sound, he instinctively smashed down on his head, and only after hitting five or six times did he realize he’d gone too far.

Thinking back now, with his head wrapped up, the other side probably couldn’t tell who he was at all.

‘And with a hoe made of wrought iron, using my current strength—able to lift eighty jin stones—smashing down... and all on the head...’

Henry Webb actually knew in his heart that William Brooks was done for.

He wasn’t worried about the authorities, because these days the officials didn’t care at all. People died in the city and outside every day, crimes happened all the time, but the constables at the yamen acted as if they were blind and deaf.

They simply ignored everything.

‘So this... is what it’s like to kill someone...’ Henry Webb’s hands were still trembling, but he knew he had to get used to it.

In times like these, if you’re not ruthless, you can’t survive.

He didn’t want to die, so others had to die instead.

After a long while, he finally stood up.

He turned and walked back toward the town.

Not long after.

At the home of another of William Brooks’s henchmen, a small bungalow.

Henry Webb walked in expressionlessly, and after a short while came out again with a bit of blood on his hands.

The first time he was a little scared, but after getting used to it, he wasn’t so nervous anymore.

Next was the third place, the home of William Brooks’s second henchman.

It was a small mud hut between two towns.

By the time Henry Webb arrived, it was almost dark.

The area around the hut was deserted, just a patch of wasteland.

Outside the house, there were piles of dried corn stalks.

Henry Webb walked to the door and knocked lightly.

Thump, thump, thump.

Silence. No sound from inside.

Thump, thump, thump.

He knocked again and waited.

After a while, there was still no response from inside.

Thinking for a moment, he walked to the window and peered through the gap.

These mud huts usually had doors and windows that weren’t tightly sealed, with big gaps—if you got close, you could see what was inside.

By the faint daylight, Henry Webb could just make out someone lying sideways on the bed inside.

It was a man in a black short jacket.

‘Someone’s there.’

He went back to the door, looked around, and seeing no one nearby, took a few steps back, then charged forward and kicked.

Bang!

With ease, he kicked open the hut’s broken wooden door.

After half a year of training, he was no longer the skinny, weak kid he used to be.

Now, his build was about the same as William Brooks, who used to make him nervous, and his strength was probably similar too. One or two people might not be able to hold him down.

The door was kicked open, but there was still no sound from inside.

Henry Webb felt suspicious, and with caution, stood at the doorway looking in.

“George Scott, get up.” he called out.

The person on the bed didn’t move, as if he hadn’t heard.

A foul stench filled the room, like rotting meat.

Henry Webb’s expression changed slightly, a suspicion forming in his mind.

He walked over, reached out, and turned the person on the bed over.

A pale face, nothing but skin and bones, appeared before his eyes.

The eyes were sunken and shriveled, no moisture left, and tiny black bugs crawled in and out of the nostrils.

This George Scott, William Brooks’s henchman, had been dead for who knows how long.

No one had even noticed he was dead.

And most crucially, the man was still holding a child in his arms.

The child was curled up, huddled into a ball, his small face also just skin and bones, with black bugs crawling in and out of his ear holes and open mouth.

Henry Webb felt his scalp tingle, hurriedly backed out several steps, and ran out of the hut, gasping for air.

Partly from being startled by the corpses, but even more from the stench.

Three people—two died by his own hand, and the other had been dead for who knows how long.

The grudges were settled, but Henry Webb felt no sense of relief.

He washed his hands by the nearby river, then numbly returned to his old house.

The image of that last dried corpse on the bed kept replaying in his mind.

He had already found out before that George Scott had a child, still young. But he hadn’t expected the man to die at home holding his own child, for who knows how long.