Gideon Blackwood stared at , his face frozen in shock as I leaned into his now doorless luxury car.
"Listen carefully," I said, my voice deceptively calm. "I don't have ti for your childish gas. Move your car now, or I'll move it for you."
When he didn't respond, still gaping at his ruined door lying on the pavent, I sighed and reached in. The slap I delivered was precise—just hard enough to leave a mark without causing serious injury.
Gideon's hand flew to his reddening cheek. "You... you..." he sputtered.
"That's your only warning," I said. "Next ti, I won't be so gentle."
Finally finding his senses, Gideon fumbled with his gearshift and jerked his car forward, tires squealing as he sped away. I turned to see Damian staring at through the windshield, his mouth hanging open.
I walked back and slid into the passenger seat. "We should get going. Your father needs help."
Damian blinked repeatedly before starting the car. "That was... How did you..."
"It doesn't matter," I said, cutting him off. "Tell more about your father's condition."
As we drove through Havenwood City's winding streets, Damian explained that his father, Alistair Prescott, had been deteriorating for weeks. What started as fatigue had progressed to weakness, night sweats, and an unexplainable chill that no amount of heating could cure.
"The doctors found nothing," Damian said, frustration evident in his voice. "Perfect bloodwork, clear scans. They're calling it stress-induced, but I've seen my father handle business crises before. This is different."
I nodded, absorbing the information. "When did it start?"
"About a month ago, right after we renovated the east wing of our house."
That detail caught my attention. "Renovations? What kind?"
"Nothing major—just modernizing so old rooms, replacing antique fixtures. Why?"
I didn't answer imdiately. There were certain principles in ancient dicine that modern science dismissed—the flow of energies, the balance of elents, the importance of positioning. My father's knowledge included extensive information on these topics, information that had been downloaded into my mind that fateful night.
"Just curious," I replied.
---
The Prescott estate was impressive—not as grand as the Ashworth manor but substantial nonetheless. A sprawling two-story ho with manicured gardens and a circular driveway, it spoke of old money and established power.
Yet the mont I stepped out of the car, I felt it—a bone-deep chill that had nothing to do with the temperature. Sothing was wrong here. Terribly wrong.
"Do you feel that?" I asked Damian, who was leading toward the front entrance.
"Feel what?"
I frowned. "The cold. It's... unnatural."
Damian looked puzzled. "The entire house has been like an icebox lately. We've had heating specialists here three tis, but they can't find any issues with the system." VisitMyVirtualLibraryEmpire(*)formore.
Inside, the house was elegantly furnished but had an unmistakable atmosphere of neglect. Not physical neglect—everything was spotless—but a spiritual emptiness, as if the very soul of the ho had been wounded.
Damian led to a sitting room where two n waited. The older one, whom I assud was Alistair Prescott, sat bundled in blankets despite the room being noticeably overheated. His face was gaunt, his eyes sunken, his skin pale with an almost grayish tint.
The second man was middle-aged, dressed in traditional Chinese attire, with a thin beard and calculating eyes. He assessed with obvious displeasure.
"Father," Damian said, "this is Liam Knight, the healer I told you about."
Alistair Prescott barely had the strength to nod. "Thank you for coming, Mr. Knight, though I don't know what you can do that specialists haven't already tried."
"And this," Damian continued, gesturing to the other man, "is Mr. Nolan, a feng shui master we consulted."
Mr. Nolan gave a tight smile. "I've already diagnosed the problem. During renovations, they broke a Ming dynasty vase that had been protecting this house for generations. It was positioned at a critical energy junction. Without it, negative qi has been flooding in."
I walked around the room slowly, ignoring Mr. Nolan's explanation. The cold sensation was stronger here, almost palpable. It wasn't just temperature—it was sothing predatory, sothing feeding.
"It's not the vase," I said quietly.
Mr. Nolan's face reddened. "Excuse ? I've been practicing the ancient arts for thirty years, young man. This family is suffering from a severe feng shui imbalance that—"
"It's not the vase," I repeated more firmly. "That's treating a symptom, not the cause."
Alistair shifted in his chair, his watery eyes studying . "What makes you so certain, Mr. Knight?"
I approached him, kneeling to examine his face more closely. His pupils were dilated despite the bright room. His breathing was shallow. Most telling was a barely perceptible tremor in his left hand—not the shake of age or illness, but sothing rhythmic, almost like it was responding to an external pulse.
"May I see the garden?" I asked suddenly.
Damian looked confused but nodded. "Of course."
We moved through the house, the chill intensifying as we approached the back of the property. The garden was beautiful—stone pathways winding through carefully maintained flower beds, a small ornantal pond with koi fish, and several ancient trees providing shade.
Mr. Nolan followed, clearly irritated. "Mr. Prescott has already paid a substantial consultation fee. My recomndation is clear—they need to commission a replacent vase with specific properties to—"
"It's here," I interrupted, stopping abruptly in the center of the courtyard.
Sothing was buried beneath us. I could feel it—a malevolent presence, sothing disturbed during the renovations, sothing awakened.
"What's here?" Alistair asked weakly, having followed us despite his condition.
I turned to face them. "Mr. Prescott, I know you don't know , and what I'm about to say will sound strange. But there's sothing under your ho that shouldn't be there."
Mr. Nolan scoffed. "This is absurd. The problems in this house are purely related to energy flow disruption from the broken artifact. Even a novice would understand—"
"Quiet," Alistair commanded with surprising strength, his eyes locked on mine. "Continue, Mr. Knight."
I pointed to a spot near an old cherry tree. "There. You need to dig there."
"Dig?" Damian repeated incredulously. "Why would we—"
"Because sothing was disturbed during your renovations," I explained. "Not broken, but awakened. I can feel it. It's... feeding on your father's energy."
Alistair studied intently. "You speak with remarkable confidence for soone who just arrived. How do you know these things?"
I t his gaze directly. "I know the arcane arts, Mr. Prescott. Not feng shui, sothing much older."
Mr. Nolan stepped between us. "This is preposterous! Mr. Prescott, I cannot stand by while this... this charlatan undermines centuries of established practice with baseless claims!"
Alistair's attention remained fixed on . "What exactly do you believe is down there, Mr. Knight?"
I shook my head. "I can't say for certain. But I know it's the source of your illness. And I know it's getting stronger."
A heavy silence fell over the garden. Even the birds seed to have gone quiet. The koi in the pond had gathered at the far end, as far as possible from the spot I'd indicated.
"Father, you can't seriously be considering this," Damian said uncertainly.
Alistair wrapped his blanket tighter around his shoulders. "What would you have us do?"
"Dig," I said simply, pointing again to the spot near the cherry tree. "Just dig until you find sothing."
Mr. Nolan threw up his hands. "This is absurd! I won't be part of this farce!" He stord toward the house.
Alistair Prescott watched him go, then turned back to . For a long mont, he said nothing, just studied my face as if searching for deception. Finally, he nodded.
"Damian," he said quietly, "call the groundskeeper. Tell him to bring shovels."
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