This human-shaped cardboard figure was clearly cut out by some eccentric genius—the edges were even rougher than if a dog had chewed them, and a few hasty strokes with a pen on the face just barely hinted at a resemblance to Nathaniel Sullivan. Only, there were two blotches of rouge on the cheeks, making it look both bizarre and a bit foolish.

The cardboard corpse hadn’t lain on the ground for long before it started acting up again, springing back to life with a gentleman’s fussiness, frowning at Henry Grant: “I’ve been meaning to say this for days—how come you can’t even hold chopsticks properly?”

Henry Grant lifted his eyelids and gave him a bland glance. “Thanks to your kind wishes, my upper body was paralyzed for quite a while. I’ve only just managed to sit up recently, so I’m still clumsy with chopsticks.”

With that, he flicked his hand and sent a hidden weapon flying, hitting Nathaniel Sullivan squarely on the forehead and knocking the cardboard figure back to the ground, as if he was thoroughly fed up.

Nathaniel Sullivan struggled to turn his head and glanced at the hidden weapon: Pah, a chicken bone!

The paper man was quiet for a moment, then started struggling again as if remembering something: “Let’s make a deal—can you not smear two blobs of rouge on my face tomorrow night?”

This time, Henry Grant was even lazier, replying with just one word: “No.”

Nathaniel Sullivan: “……”

As the saying goes, you can’t bite the hand that feeds you. If Henry Grant hadn’t helped him make this paper body, who knows where he’d still be drifting around in a daze.

But even so, Nathaniel Sullivan couldn’t quite figure out one thing—

Huizhou is vast, with plenty of empty houses lying around. Any one of them could have served as a temporary shelter, yet he insisted on picking the burned-out, ruined Jiang family clinic. Who knows what kind of spell he was under. Besides, on his very first day here, Henry Grant had said he was here for something important. But four days had passed, and apart from eating, he’d only done one thing: casually helped Nathaniel Sullivan cut out a paper figure.

Surely the important business wasn’t just making paper men?

Nathaniel Sullivan, thin as a sheet, lay on the cold ground for a while, then suddenly sprang up again as if remembering something.

Henry Grant had a bad temper—he’d already lost patience after two interruptions, and the third time he directly snapped: “Say one more word and I’ll cut your mouth off. If you have something to say, wait till morning.”

Nathaniel Sullivan hurriedly said, “Just one last thing.”

Henry Grant glanced at him. “Every time you talk, my head aches. If I listen too much, I’ll be paralyzed again. Shut up.”

“When I came in just now, I think someone followed me. When I entered the courtyard wall, I caught a glimpse—it seemed to be a monk, with a string of copper coins at his waist. I figure, by now, he should be at the door.” With that, Nathaniel Sullivan flopped his head back onto the ground, and the paper man fell silent.

That was it—he’d used up his allotted time for the day. Until nightfall, he couldn’t move or speak, at best just a bystander.

Henry Grant: “……”

A monk following a ghost—what could that be about?

A monk with a string of copper coins at his waist following a ghost—what could that possibly be about?

Such an important matter, and you, you bookworm, wait till now to mention it? Saving it for the New Year?!

With Henry Grant’s explosive temper, if he were in his usual healthy state, he’d have sent Nathaniel Sullivan and the whole courtyard flying. But now, he could only stare expressionlessly through a hole in the window, watching as the courtyard gate creaked open from the outside.

These days, there were charlatans everywhere making a living with their glib tongues. Henry Grant had seen plenty, and knew that some of them did have a few real tricks up their sleeves—whether they could get the job done depended on experience. The older they were, the harder they were to fool.

So, when the monk outside stepped in, Henry Grant actually felt a bit relieved—the newcomer was unexpectedly young. He didn’t look like a complete novice, but he couldn’t be that formidable either. And when Henry Grant used his sharp eyes to scan the string of copper coins at the monk’s waist, he was completely reassured.

The more skilled someone was, the more evil spirits their coins had subdued, and from a distance, such coins looked very different from ordinary ones. The surface would have a refined, lustrous sheen, evenly coated like a layer of oil. Some people could fake that yellowish gloss with underhanded tricks, but that would only fool ordinary folks—it wouldn’t work on Henry Grant.

But this young monk at the door hadn’t even bothered to fake it. The string of coins at his waist didn’t have a trace of that yellow gloss—there was barely any copper left on them at all. Who knows where he’d dug them up from; maybe he’d never even used them properly.

And he still wanted to make a living down the mountain? With what? His looks?

Henry Grant snorted inwardly, calmly set down the food box, and casually cast a concealment spell, turning it into a charred wooden stump.

He silently leaned back against the chair, and his tall, thin figure instantly collapsed, turning in the blink of an eye into a thin sheet of paper—only, the edges were much smoother than Nathaniel Sullivan’s, the drawing much more refined, and there were no extra blobs of rouge on the face.

Nathaniel Sullivan, lying motionless on the ground: “……”

Clearly, someone here must be part turtle—a purebred bastard.

The thin sheet of paper occupied by Henry Grant slid gently off the chair to the floor, landing right next to Nathaniel Sullivan’s paper figure. In just the blink of an eye, the two sheets lying on the ground sank further, turning into a patch of dark green moss pressed against the muddy floor, blending seamlessly with the dilapidated house, leaving not a trace behind.