“Block it up?” Gavin Clark repeated coldly, then frowned and pointed at Charles Foster: “Doesn’t he need to breathe?”

Mr. Foster: “This... I didn’t think it through, didn’t think it through.”

In just two sentences, Henry Grant’s impression of this Mr. Foster had plummeted: the eldest son was just a bit slow-witted, but the father didn’t care about his life at all.

What was even more ridiculous was that this Mr. Foster, after being blocked by a single remark from Gavin Clark, looked completely helpless. It seemed he hadn’t even considered letting Charles Foster move out of the room before blocking up the draft.

The sky brightened a little more, and the outlines of the rest of the courtyard gradually became clear, as if washed by water. Only this room remained with a blurred doorframe, gloomy and dim.

Gavin Clark, like Henry Grant, seemed to sense the unusual yin energy here.

A perfectly good courtyard, even in the southwest corner where yin energy tended to accumulate, shouldn’t be this gloomy. There was definitely something strange going on.

Without even glancing at Mr. Foster, Gavin Clark lifted his foot and walked toward the small room.

The slow-witted Charles Foster scratched his head, seemingly unable to understand why the guest wanted to go into his room for no reason. He stood there blankly for a moment, then, as if he’d run into a playmate, perked up, clumsily feeling his way along the wall and hurried a few steps to catch up with Gavin Clark.

A man in his early twenties, yet with not a trace of the steadiness expected at that age. He walked with a bit of a bounce, and even when trying to walk side by side with Gavin Clark, he was restless—sometimes a few steps ahead, sometimes lagging a few feet behind. His gaze, however, was intensely focused, fixed from start to finish on Gavin Clark’s waist, as if he’d spotted something fascinating, his eyes never shifting away.

This fool wasn’t looking anywhere else—he was staring right at the opening of the hidden pouch.

Henry Grant, lying there, felt his fur stand on end from being stared at, completely uncomfortable. Unfortunately, he hadn’t dodged in time, and now it was too late to shrink back. He couldn’t just move while the fool was staring, could he? If he startled him into tears, that would be a small matter, but if the fool got overexcited and did something uncontrollable, that would be a real problem.

The room wasn’t far; with Gavin Clark’s height and long legs, he reached the door in no time.

From Henry Grant’s angle, he could just peek through the half-open door and catch a glimpse of the scene inside, and he was immediately startled. Piled up by the door were heaps of yellowish things. At first glance, they looked like gold ingots, but a closer look revealed they weren’t real gold at all—they were folded from paper.

The kind of yellow paper ingots burned for the dead!

Henry Grant was still in shock when Charles Foster, who had been hovering around Gavin Clark, suddenly spoke: “Um... can I play with this?”

As he spoke, he pointed at Gavin Clark’s waist.

Gavin Clark lowered his eyes to glance at his own waist, not immediately realizing what Charles Foster was referring to.

“Yellow paper.” Charles Foster pointed again.

This time, Gavin Clark saw clearly—he was pointing at the paper figure lying at the mouth of his hidden pouch.

Henry Grant: “...” What the hell?! Has this fool eaten a bear’s heart and a leopard’s gall? He dares to play with a real dragon with head, claws, scales, and horns! Does he want to live or not?

What could a fool know? Something made of paper, in his hands, could be torn to shreds in no time, ripped into eight pieces if he wasn’t careful!

Henry Grant imagined the scene and immediately felt an unspeakable pain in an unspeakable place. He couldn’t care about anything else—he drew one hand back into the hidden pouch and, through the white hemp, pinched the bald donkey hard, thinking: If you dare hand me over, I’ll hunt you to the ends of the earth!

Gavin Clark: “...” How can this little fiend be so mischievous?

Chapter 7: Gold Ingots (Part 3)

Henry Grant, afraid the bald donkey was too dull to get the message from just one pinch, took advantage of the moment when the fool Charles Foster looked away to subtly flip over, making the painted face of the paper figure face up, its ink-dotted eyes staring straight at the bald donkey.

A painting could never be as vivid as a real person, and Henry Grant’s painting skills were, at best, “passable”—far from masterful. So the eyes lacked most of the spirit of real ones.

Gavin Clark, pinched rather hard, lowered his gaze coolly, intending to warn the mischievous little fiend. But he happened to meet the painted eyes at the mouth of the hidden pouch—completely unprepared.

That belly-up look, paired with those expressionless black eyes, really gave off a “dying with eyes open” vibe.

Gavin Clark: “...”

Along the way, he hadn’t subdued many demons and ghosts, but it wasn’t a small number either. Most were unruly before being subdued, but respectful and well-behaved afterward, staying quietly in awe until they were redeemed. Henry Grant was the first who, after being subdued, was still so restless, not treating himself as an outsider, always fidgeting and making trouble.

Gavin Clark always felt this little fiend’s every move was “dramatic”—he could put on a whole show by himself.

His gaze barely lingered on the paper face before he reached out with two fingers and pinched the paper figure out of the hidden pouch.

Henry Grant: “...” This isn’t over between us!

Gavin Clark’s fingers were nothing like those of someone who mingled in the streets and alleys—straight and slender, so clean they seemed never to have touched filth. Not like someone raised in a mountain temple, and certainly not like a wild monk, but more like a pampered prince or noble.