The monk frowned and lowered his eyes, glancing at the money pouch in his hand.

This thing hadn’t been washed in who knows how long; its original color was no longer discernible, and it gave off a stale, greasy odor.

He almost tossed the filthy thing away on the spot, but just as the string was about to slip from his hand, he hooked it back with a single finger. With a look of mild but unmistakable distaste, he carried the tattered cloth pouch and silently walked to the entrance of the The Sullivan Family medical hall.

The waiter who had fled back to Jiuweiju gasped for breath against the wall for a long time before he managed to describe, with words and gestures, what he had just witnessed to the night watchman covering his shift. After finishing, he mulled it over for a moment and hissed, “Hiss—suddenly, I feel like that master looked a bit familiar.”

“You’re at this stall all day, people come and go from all over, of course everyone starts to look familiar to you,” the night watchman replied grumpily.

“……” The waiter, having caught his breath, straightened up. His gaze inadvertently swept over the blue wall he was leaning against, and suddenly froze.

On the blue wall was a wanted notice posted half a month ago. Unfortunately, right after it was put up, it snowed heavily. The notice, frozen and soaked, became so mottled by the next day that the portrait was unrecognizable. Even the early-rising waiter had only caught a vague impression at the time, leaving just a blurry memory.

Now, most of the notice had peeled away, leaving only the neck portion of the portrait. Faintly visible was a tiny mole on the side of the neck—exactly like the one on that master’s neck just now.

The waiter shuddered: this was a most-wanted criminal with a hefty reward!

Author’s note:

I’m back again~

This story might get a bit melodramatic. Xuanmin is the top, Henry Grant is the bottom, don’t pick the wrong side~ Still 1v1, HE, mwah!~

Note [1]: The first paragraph is the original inspiration, adapted from Lang Ying’s “Qixiu Leigao.” Original text: My friend Jin Maozhi’s father, at the end of the Chenghua era, traveled as a guest to Xinhui County, Guangdong. One day, as the morning tide receded, a dragon fell from the sky onto the sand. Fishermen beat it to death with the wood they carried. Officials and commoners flocked to see it. It was as tall as a person, several dozen zhang long, with head, feet, scales, and horns just as in paintings, but its belly was mostly red. This can be called a clear sighting.

Chapter 2 Paper-thin Man (Part 2)

The The Sullivan Family medical hall was located in Yanchao Alley. Most of the wooden parts of the house had burned down in a fire three years ago. Now, only half of the westernmost wing remained, enough to block a bit of wind and rain, but not much use otherwise—not fit for people, but good for hiding ghosts.

The The Sullivan Family’s son, Nathaniel Sullivan, not yet of age, had become a lonely wandering ghost in his own home.

After slipping into the courtyard through a crack in the wall, he dawdled for a while longer, but his mouth didn’t rest—

“Is the door separated from the wing room by the East Sea or something?” That clear voice couldn’t help but pipe up again.

After speaking, Nathaniel Sullivan rolled his eyes at the sky with his sickly face, then, after a moment’s silence, replied in a hoarse voice, “I made it in, but the food box is stuck outside the wall.”

He snorted to himself, muttering, “Impressive.”

A moment later, he changed his voice again: “You flatter me.”

Nathaniel Sullivan: “……”

Judging by his bluish face in the moonlight, he probably didn’t want to speak anymore.

The three crumbling walls of the wing room were blackened by smoke. The north-facing window was just a gaping hole. In the fifth watch of a winter night, dawn had yet to break; only a sliver of crescent moonlight leaked into one corner of the room. The person sitting by the window hole was half bathed in the cold, pale moonlight, the other half hidden in darkness.

He wore black clothes that blended into the night. Under his straight, handsome brow bones were two shadows; his pitch-black eyes reflected a faint glimmer. Even by outline alone, one could tell he had a fine appearance… but the half of his face in the moonlight was far too pale, and the wrist propping up his chin was especially thin, giving off a heavy air of sickness.

In fact, he really was ill—he couldn’t stand up, nor could he walk.

As for the cause? Not even ghosts knew. He’d stayed at the The Sullivan Residence for four days, and aside from his surname Grant and given name Henry, Nathaniel Sullivan knew nothing about him.

“Please change your posture, will you? You’re sitting all wrong. If you keep slouching, your upper body will go limp too.” As soon as Nathaniel Sullivan entered the wing room, he stuffed the full food box into Henry Grant’s arms. He’d spent at least a dozen years studying the classics, and just the sight of Henry Grant’s lazy posture made his eyes ache.

“If a little slouching could make me paralyzed, do you think I’m you?” As soon as Nathaniel Sullivan turned away, not wanting to see it, he retorted at himself in a clearer voice.

“……” The great scholar Sullivan was thoroughly exasperated. He turned back to Henry Grant with a look of utter defeat and said, “I’m already inside, ancestor—can’t you speak for yourself?”

Henry Grant lifted the lid of the food box, squinted as he inhaled the aroma of hot food, and finally lazily spoke for himself: “Fine, for the sake of the meat, I’ll make the effort. Want a piece?”

Nathaniel Sullivan snapped, “You going to give it to me after you’re ashes?”

Henry Grant: “Keep dreaming.”

“Just eat!” Nathaniel Sullivan said, ignoring him after that. He walked to the base of the wall, and suddenly collapsed, turning into a thin, paper-like human shape that slid down the wall to the floor—his time each day was limited, and when it was up, he had to rest.