If it had been more than half a year ago, Henry Grant would never have bothered with such troublesome matters. If some foolhardy soul dared to invade his lair, he could have buried them on the spot with a fresh grave. But now, he had no choice but to lower himself and layer on concealment spells one after another—

As someone who had only barely recovered from being completely paralyzed to being half-paralyzed, even moving himself was a struggle. This paper-thin body could barely withstand any spells at all; it was already fortunate if he didn’t end up digging his own grave.

Fortunately, the monk who came this time was just a pretty face—nothing but a decorative pillow.

He figured the monk would come in, take a look around, and, finding no one inside or out, would simply leave.

The young monk in white hemp robes paused in the courtyard, his gaze sweeping coldly around.

The Jiang family clinic originally had three main rooms, three side rooms, a medicinal garden, and a rather large storefront at the front. It was quite a sizable residence, but after being burned in a great fire and left desolate for three years, now a few glances were enough to take it all in at once...

The monk withdrew his gaze, stepped around the rubble and broken tiles on the ground, and headed straight for the half-collapsed side room on the west side.

As soon as he stepped through the door, his fingers, hidden in his sleeve, imperceptibly curled. He subconsciously rubbed the face of a copper coin at his waist with his thumb, then, frowning slightly, let go.

Transformed into moss clinging to the ground, Nathaniel Sullivan stared fixedly at the monk’s boots, terrified that the monk would pace around and step right over him. Henry Grant, on the other hand, was completely at ease, not taking the monk seriously at all.

Sure enough, the side room was so small and shabby that a single glance could take it all in. The monk didn’t even step inside; he just stood at the doorway for a moment before turning to leave.

Henry Grant sneered inwardly once again.

But before long, he couldn’t laugh anymore... because the monk came back!

When he returned, he was holding a piece of white hemp cloth, which, judging by the material and size, he must have torn from the hem of his own robe. Holding the clean white hemp and a piece of copper he’d found somewhere in the courtyard, he walked over to Henry Grant with a cold expression, lifted his robe, squatted down, and scraped the mossy Henry Grant up from the ground.

Henry Grant: "..."

As he scraped him up, the monk’s brow clearly furrowed—if Henry Grant wasn’t mistaken, that seemed to be an expression of faint disgust.

Henry Grant: "..."

Damn it, this bald donkey actually thinks I’m dirty!

Chapter 3 Paper Man (Part 3)

In the first half of his life, Henry Grant considered himself someone who could shake the heavens above and the earth below, yet now he’d been caught by a monk with nothing but a pretty face—using nothing more than a scrap of copper.

After the two patches of moss were scraped up, they quickly revealed their true forms: two small, human-shaped paper cutouts. The monk glanced indifferently at the faces on the paper, then folded them up and tucked them into a hidden pouch at his waist.

Henry Grant hadn’t even had time to spit a mouthful of blood at the bald donkey before he was forced to stick tightly to the monk’s waist, fitting perfectly, not a sliver of space between them.

If sheer frustration could kill, Henry Grant would have died and come back to life over two hundred times during this “confiscation and bagging” ordeal. He was born proud—he could only anger others, never be angered himself, a shameless and unreasonable ancestor. Yet this time, he’d carelessly run into a hard wall and capsized in the gutter.

Whatever the original reason, a grudge had now been formed between him and this bald donkey.

Henry Grant was not one to submit to authority; he responded to kindness, not force. If he’d had a knife in hand, he would have stabbed the monk in the waist without a second thought—but unfortunately, he wasn’t in the habit of carrying weapons.

The monk looked like an ice pillar, unresponsive and expressionless, but his body was still warm. The slight heat from his body seeped through the not-so-thick white hemp cloth, bit by bit, into the paper cutout.

Soon, the thoroughly warmed Peter Grant: "..."

Annoying!

Truly annoying. For someone in poor health, a bit of warmth in the dead of winter could easily sap one’s fighting spirit—especially for someone like Henry Grant, who’d been bedridden for half a year. His meridians were blocked, his blood and qi sluggish; this body could barely generate any warmth, and he’d spent nearly the entire winter freezing. Suddenly being warmed like this, his body grew lazy before his mind did, and he actually didn’t feel like moving.

Folded twice, Henry Grant lay there indignantly for a while, finally overcoming his body’s laziness and secretly began to grope around in the monk’s hidden pouch.

As for this young monk, Henry Grant still didn’t know how deep his abilities ran.

If he really was skilled... what skill was there in tearing a piece of hemp cloth or scraping up some moss? Even a naked child could do that! Besides, if he truly had ability, lifting a patch of ground would be as easy as moving a finger—he could have turned over the whole courtyard, so why bother scraping it up himself with a scrap of copper?

But if he had no skill... how did he see through all those layers of concealment at a glance?

At first, Henry Grant was careful not to make a sound, moving very gently as he searched. Thanks to the thinness of the paper, it was actually hard to notice.