The third morning finally broke clear, revealing dazzling sunlight, pure white sands, emerald coconut palms, and a sapphire sky. This was the Caribbean at its most beautiful. Yet, within Tortuga Castle, everyone trembled under Lord Foulke’s thunderous rage, utterly incapable of appreciating the scenery. All they knew was that the Lady had been missing for three full days, possibly suffering on Hope Island, so at dawn, Tortuga Castle dispatched its swiftest three-masted barque straight across the water.

That morning, Fang Senyan continued his practice of footwork with Blind Matt. Regrettably, the strenuous training that morning yielded no further advancement in his basic footwork level. However, his mind wasn't entirely focused on it. Before noon, the dispatched three-masted vessel was seen returning, riding the waves, but a black flag now flew from the top of its mast.

This flag was known as a death banner, signifying the demise of an important person. But pirates were accustomed to death. As for who the important person was, the term was vague—it could be the First Mate, the Captain, or perhaps even the Boatswain or Navigator! Unexpected things happened at sea daily; a black flag was commonplace, and almost no one connected this symbol of death and mourning with the esteemed Lady of the manor.

Yet, by this time, Tortuga Castle was thick with unbearable tension. Nearly every servant was terrified of making the slightest error. Since the Lady’s return on the ship failed, Lord Foulke, already cold and solitary in temperament, had grown even more brutal, often unleashing his fury on the staff without provocation. In the last three days, over ten bodies had been carried out of the castle; the cause of death, without exception, was whipping. And these gruesome ends were met over trifles like breaking a plate or slicing bread too thinly. As a result, no one dared approach within ten meters of Lord Foulke; even if these terrified servants absolutely had to approach him on business, they would flee the moment their task was complete.

After the barque belonging to Tortuga Castle docked, someone hurried to inform Lord Foulke, and then a body, wrapped in linen, was carried off the ship. Clear stains permeated the thick burial shroud, indicating that in the tropical heat of the Caribbean, the corpse had already begun to decompose and weep ichor. Consequently, the faces of the men carrying the body were ashen, looking as if they might vomit at any second.

The body was swiftly carried into a spacious hall on the third floor of the castle, a private domain of Lord Foulke’s where servants who entered without permission usually met grim fates. Two sailors laid the corpse in the center of the hall and hastily retreated. Judging by their contorted features, vomit was churning violently in their throats, and only immense willpower kept them from erupting on the spot.

Silence reigned all around.

It inexplicably evoked the atmosphere of a tomb.

A fly, drawn by the stench of the decaying flesh, buzzed in through the window. Its life plan was clearly to feast first, then lay hundreds of eggs upon this nutritious food source, and perhaps indulge in some other activities. However, as it neared the shroud, its wings, capable of vibrating over three hundred times per second, suddenly froze. The rich moisture in the air of Port Tortuga instantly converged from all directions, forming a crystal-clear block of ice that suspended the fly in mid-air. It then dropped to the floor under normal gravitational acceleration.

This small block of ice was as fragile as a thin glass cup; with a soft crack, it shattered, and the fly encased within shared the same fate.

It was then that a hand, sheathed in a black leather glove, pushed the door open. A scruffy Lord Foulke entered, looking utterly wretched and dissipated. Were it not for his expensive hunting attire, he would have resembled any common vagrant found wandering Port Tortuga. Yet, his eyes glittered with a light that was both crazed and dangerous—certainly not a good omen.

“No one but I has the right to touch her.” Lord Foulke placed his left hand over his chest, displaying an impeccable aristocratic grace. He bowed slightly toward the spot where the fly had fallen.

“Not even a fly.”

Then, the Lord knelt beside the corpse and slowly reached out to peel back the linen shroud. The dense stench of decay immediately spread, but Lord Foulke seemed utterly oblivious. His movements in lifting the covering were gentle, tender, much like a groom lifting his bride’s veil, filled with a quiet warmth, until the entire body of Sally Hepburn, swollen, putrefied, and distorted by immersion in the tropical sea, was completely exposed.

“My dear Sally, welcome home.” Lord Foulke tenderly swept the rotting corpse, weeping fluid, into a close embrace, as if fearful of waking her from a deep sleep. The affection in his eyes was thick as honey. “I will take you to see your garden. A merchant ship brought the Black Tulips you craved yesterday. For that alone, you owe me a kiss, don't you think?”

Lord Foulke gazed deeply at his wife in his arms; the bloated face and the nauseating, pungent odor seemed filtered away by his obsession. The man held the corpse tightly and pressed a fervent kiss upon lips that were beginning to ulcerate, swell, crack, and weep yellow fluids!

Moments later, everyone in Tortuga Castle heard a scream of agony erupt from the third floor! Merely listening to the sound was enough to feel a tearing sensation, like a wolf howling in despair and madness across an icy wilderness! This sound held the castle captive with irresistible force for nearly fifteen minutes before finally ceasing.

Then, not long after, the contemporary Lord Foulke, reeking offensively of corpse stench, reappeared before them, his expression vacant, as if entirely unchanged. But it was as if the very sunlight shining upon him had instantly dimmed to grey. The true ruler of Port Tortuga issued his first command in three days:

“Go fetch Alchemist Master Bacon! Pay whatever he demands! The important thing is that I see this man within the quarter-hour! Go now! Immediately!”

It must be acknowledged that Master Bacon, appeased in terms of finance, was exceedingly quick in his work. Only ten minutes later, Lord Foulke’s request was satisfied. Fifteen minutes later, the aged-looking Master Bacon was escorted by Lord Foulke into the dungeons beneath the castle.

It was clear the area had been thoroughly cleaned, and any incarcerated prisoners had been relocated, though the air retained an indescribable damp, murky atmosphere. Those with less sensitive noses might have sneezed several times. Upon reaching the second level of the dungeon, a chilling cold rose from the stone floor, penetrating deep into the lungs, threatening to freeze the very marrow. Master Bacon muttered a few words, then miraculously pulled a long-necked, round glass bottle from the satchel he carried, draining the pale blue liquid within in one gulp. Instantly, he appeared invigorated.

Lord Foulke’s pupils contracted slightly upon witnessing Bacon’s action, but he then continued to lead the way forward until they halted in an immensely spacious subterranean chamber. The temperature here was frigid, and in the center stood a wide, crystalline ice slab, perfectly reaching waist height. Upon this slab rested the female corpse, which had been fermenting in the Caribbean winds and rains for three days. Naturally, under the chilling refrigeration, the odor it emitted had subsided to a tolerable level.

“Ah… though it is impolite to say so, I must inquire, how may I be of service to you?” Master Bacon finally broke the silence after enduring Lord Foulke’s ten-minute silent contemplation of the corpse.

Lord Foulke suddenly turned, his eyes burning with fury and madness—clearly, he resented having his thoughts so abruptly interrupted. But the emotion passed as quickly as a skimming dragonfly. The master of Port Tortuga spoke with a dry, husky voice:

“My apologies, Master Bacon, I have slept poorly these past days and my temper is frayed. Please examine this female corpse for me. Determine the cause of death, and if you can identify the perpetrator, all the better. I will pay double the cost for any alchemical materials required.”

Alchemist Bacon instinctively frowned upon seeing the corpse, and his reply immediately became quite commercial:

“Your esteemed Lordship, Old Bacon is merely an alchemist. This field is hardly my specialty… and this body is so severely decomposed… My God, have you finally granted me a miracle today?”

At some undisclosed moment, Lord Foulke’s hand, usually cold as an iceberg, now held a grayish-brown leather pouch. This pouch looked identical to any ordinary sack, yet its surface shimmered with a faint glow, as if clear running water adhered to it! This was a highly typical high-level alchemical artifact, and Bacon’s sharp intellect, utterly at odds with his aged appearance, immediately linked the pouch to a legendary high-tier item. His lips began to tremble violently:

“Th-this, could this be… The Bag of Endless Gold?”