A man of about fifty years old was standing at the doorstep.

Based on his appearance, he looked sixty or seventy percent similar to James, especially the nose. It was of the same mold.

Meanwhile, there were two other men behind the man.

One of them was the young master of the Witch Doctor Sect—Levi Bayer.

The man looked at James and said with a frown, “Dad, the time has long passed. Why haven’t you learned how to control your temper yet? Look at you. You are already so old. How long more do you have to live? Could it be that you don’t want to have someone to look after you and arrange a proper burial after your death?”

It turned out that this man was James’s son and Cheryl’s father—Franklin Coney.

“Even if I’m dead, I don’t need you to give me a burial! Get lost!” James was so angry that he roared, his eyes bloodshot.

Granny Coney, who was busy in the kitchen, ran out with a spatula.

“Husband, what’s wrong? What’s wrong?”

Upon seeing the standing man at the doorstep,