Chapter 685

The middle-aged man squinted with a smile and pulled out a ballpoint pen from his pocket. "Miss, just write any character that comes to mind. One stroke, no pauses."

Evelyn took the pen and swiftly wrote the character for "medicine" before handing it back. "Done."

"What would you like to ask about?"

"Career."

She didn’t believe a word of those ominous warnings about impending doom. Even if such disasters could be predicted, were they truly disasters if avoidable? Better to ask about something practical—career—where even a charlatan wouldn’t dare spin wild tales.

"‘Medicine’ is an excellent choice—a noble profession, saving lives, boundless virtue." The man studied the character with exaggerated seriousness. "But if we dissect it, the components hint at hidden weapons. Your strokes are particularly precise, suggesting you might be a target. And judging by your complexion, it seems you’ve already been affected."

This fraud was surprisingly eloquent, twisting everything back to his doom-and-gloom narrative.

Alexander’s frown deepened as he gripped Evelyn’s wrist. "Are you saying her misfortune is work-related?"

"Most likely."

"Is there a way to avert it?"

"Simple!" The man rummaged through his backpack and produced a string of red-corded pendants, each adorned with crude jade Buddhas and Guanyin figures. "These are blessed talismans, the most potent for safeguarding peace—"

The pendants looked blatantly plastic, lacking even the faintest luster of real jade.

Alexander stared at the shoddy trinkets, his lip twitching. As the heir to the Hamilton Group, he’d grown up surrounded by the finest jade—this was his first encounter with such blatant market-stall junk.

"Since fate brought us together, just a hundred each—"

"I’ll take them all."

Alexander cut him off mid-pitch, already reaching for his wallet.

"Wh—all of them?"

"How many do you have?"

"About twenty or so..."

"Every last one."

The man’s eyes lit up as he hastily shoved a Guanyin pendant into Alexander’s hand, snatched the cash, and bolted before the offer could be rescinded.

Watching the scammer flee, Alexander handed the pendant to Evelyn. "Wear it for fun."

She held it up to the sunlight—the plastic didn’t even let light through. "Realizing you’ve been scammed now?"

"I knew the moment he pulled those out." Alexander gave a wry smile. "A true fortune-teller wouldn’t peddle such things. But better safe than sorry. Consider it my peace of mind."

"I thought you’d have caught on when he asked for money." Evelyn massaged her temples. "If High Manager Dempsey knew you were this gullible, she’d regret not stocking up at the wholesale market and hiring a handwriting analyst as her shill."

Who’d have thought the CEO of Hamilton Group could be duped twice by the same street hustler?

Alexander’s gaze lingered on the pendant in her hand. "If you don’t want to wear it, hang it on your bag. Treat it as decoration."

She tucked the Guanyin pendant away with her wildflower bracelet, avoiding his intense stare. "We should grab lunch. We’ve got supplies to buy before heading back to the clinic tomorrow morning."

The old doctor had been holding the fort alone for two days—she couldn’t delay any longer.

"I heard there’s a decent lamb offal noodle place here." Alexander’s voice softened unexpectedly. "Want to try it?"

"Sure."

Remembering the last time he’d eaten at the village chief’s house, Evelyn warned, "Lamb offal has a strong flavor—nothing like the French cuisine you’re used to. Don’t force yourself if you can’t handle it."

That time, he’d vomited violently and spiked a fever.

"It’s fine," he said with misplaced confidence. "If the offal’s too much, I’ll just get the clear broth."

As it turned out, the young master’s imagination of street food was woefully inadequate.

The so-called noodle shop was a cramped storefront by the market, next to a butcher’s stall where freshly slaughtered lamb carcasses hung from bloody hooks. Diners sat on low plastic stools at the roadside, using taller stools as makeshift tables.

Alexander froze at the sight of the grimy seating.

"Offal or clear broth?" Evelyn asked smoothly.

The humble setup couldn’t mask the rich aroma of lamb broth simmering in a large pot.

Glancing at the crimson offal in nearby bowls, Alexander clenched his jaw. "Offal noodles."

If he’d survived the wild herb banquet, a bowl of noodles was nothing.

At such stalls, customers fetched their own orders. Alexander set down their bags and hurried to retrieve two bowls before Evelyn could. But when he tried to sit, a new problem arose—the stool was so low his long legs had nowhere to go.