East 62nd Street—long ago, it was called Wutong Street, named after the ancient Chinese parasol tree that stood deep inside one of the old courtyards. That tree had lived for over five hundred years, still lush and full of life, having somehow survived centuries of war, disaster, and change.
William had changed too.
He wore a crisp white shirt now, freshly pressed. His hair was trimmed short, and a faint, easy smile played on his lips. He looked bright, clean, and relaxed—completely different from the man who had stood atop Mount San Juan Teotihuaca just a day ago.
A new era called for a new face. William figured it was time he learned how to live like a modern man.
"Hey, kid. Who you lookin' for?"
A drunk in his forties was sprawled out on a lounge chair in the courtyard, surrounded by a pile of empty bottles. The place was a mess—trash everywhere, dead leaves and broken branches scattered across the ground. The quiet elegance of fifty years ago was long gone.
"Is Christopher Wright still here?" William asked. Christopher had been the one watching over this place for him half a century ago.
"Dead," the drunk muttered, barely lifting his eyelids to glance at William. He waved him off. "If you've got nothing better to do, go bother someone else."
William looked past him, eyes settling on the old parasol tree. "You his son?"
"What's it to you?" the drunk snapped. "Get lost already!" He grabbed a bottle and hurled it at William's feet.
The glass shattered, but William didn't even flinch.
He'd traveled the world, seen its greatest mountains and rivers. But this tree—this tree was different. He and his wife had planted it together five hundred years ago.
No matter who ruled the land, no one had ever dared touch it.
"I want to buy this place," William said calmly. He had no intention of using force. This was a time of peace, and he preferred to keep it that way.
The drunk sat up slowly, squinting at William, sizing him up. Then he let out a snort and laughed. "You know how much this place is worth, kid? Even if I wanted to sell, you think you could afford it?"
"Name your price," William said with a smile. No matter the era, he'd dabbled in all kinds of trades—not for money, but to experience life. When it came to actually buying something, money had never been a problem.
"Fifty million dollars. Cash. Up front." The drunk burst out laughing, then grabbed another bottle and smashed it at William's feet. "Now beat it, kid!"
William didn't respond. He simply walked over and sat down on the stone bench beneath the parasol tree.
He didn't have any money on him.
But he knew someone would bring it soon enough.
"You little shit! You think I'm joking?" the drunk cursed, staggering to his feet. But he was still half-drunk, and as soon as he stood, his legs gave out. He stumbled and fell straight into the pile of bottles, landing in a heap of broken glass and spilled booze.
William didn't even glance at him.
Outside the courtyard, the low rumble of engines echoed down the street.
A single car pulled up to the gate. From it stepped five elderly men. Their bodyguards didn't follow—they were already stationed at every intersection nearby, sealing off the area. No one was allowed within a hundred feet of the courtyard.
If any of the high-society elites saw these five men gathered here—at this old, run-down house—they'd probably be too stunned to speak.
The first to step out of the car was Anthony Carter. These days, he held major stakes in nearly every global energy development project. He owned oil fields across multiple countries, and even foreign heads of state treated him with respect.
But the moment he looked into the courtyard and saw the ancient parasol tree, a chill ran down his spine.
Yesterday, David Taylor had stormed the old estate on Mount San Juan Teotihuaca, and none of them had lifted a finger to stop him. Now they were here to face William—how could they not be uneasy?
If William believed they'd turned their backs on him… what then?
The other four men stepped out of the car, exchanging nervous glances. They were all visibly unsettled.
By all rights, men of their status shouldn't fear anyone. But William wasn't just anyone.
They had once served at his side. Each of them had only learned a fraction of what William knew, yet that sliver of knowledge had been enough to build their empires.
During the years William had vanished, they'd searched everywhere for traces of him. Eventually, they stumbled across something buried in obscure historical records—something that left them shaken.
The discovery was almost too absurd to believe… and yet terrifyingly real: William might have lived for thousands of years.
Across countless nations and dynasties, traces of him appeared again and again.
The legendary Chinese physician Hua Tuo had once written a letter honoring his teacher—William. Leonardo da Vinci's journals mentioned a mysterious youth who had guided him in his early years, and who, even in Leonardo's old age, remained unchanged—still young, still brilliant.
Even further back, in the oracle bone inscriptions of China's Shang Dynasty, there were cryptic references to an ageless boy who walked among kings.
All of it pointed to one man.
If William were merely a brilliant, powerful figure, they wouldn't be this afraid. But someone who didn't age, didn't die?
That was something else entirely.
"Let's go," Anthony said, a shadow flickering in his eyes. He led the way into the courtyard.
The other four followed without hesitation.
Inside, aside from the drunk still cursing on the ground, they saw only a young man sitting calmly beneath the parasol tree.
When William slowly turned to look at them, their hearts nearly stopped.
He'd changed clothes, cut his hair—but that aura, that gaze… it hadn't changed at all in fifty years.
"What the hell are you old bastards doing at my house?" the drunk barked, staggering to his feet and grabbing a bottle, pointing it at Anthony.
Anthony's face darkened instantly. It had been decades since anyone dared speak to him like that.
For a moment, a flicker of killing intent passed through his eyes.
But before he could act, William spoke, voice calm and indifferent: "He's the current owner of this house. I'm planning to buy it. Fifty million. Which one of you is paying?"
The drunk scoffed. "You kidding me? These old geezers? You think they've got fifty million lying around?" He clearly didn't take it seriously. The number had been a bluff—he never intended to sell, and he sure as hell didn't believe William could pay.
"I'll handle it, Master," Anthony said, stepping forward. He pulled out a checkbook and quickly wrote a check for fifty million. "Citibank. You can cash it anytime."
The drunk took the check, glanced at it, then sneered. He crumpled it into a ball and threw it right in Anthony's face. "You think I'm stupid? I said cash!"
Anthony's face twitched. In all his life, no one had ever dared throw something at him—let alone a worthless drunk.
But William's expression didn't change. "Give him cash," he said flatly.
Anthony lowered his head. "Yes, Master."
"The hell is this?" the drunk muttered, looking around like he'd stumbled into a madhouse. "What is this, a movie shoot? 'Master'? Are you people serious? If you're filming here, you better pay up. Otherwise, no one's leaving!"
He laughed, shaking his head. A bunch of old men calling a kid "Master"? What else could this be but some weird film set?
Because if it wasn't… he had no explanation at all.