However, at this moment, Henry Grant didn’t notice, nor did he have the time to.

Gavin Clark held the piece of cardboard between two fingers and moved it an inch closer to Charles Foster.

Henry Grant: "..." One day, when I summon lightning, I’ll chase you down and strike you! Morning and night, without fail!

"This one?" Gavin Clark asked Charles Foster blandly.

Henry Grant: "..." If I don’t strike you, you bald donkey, until you’re charred, I’ll change my name to “four-legged worm”!

"Mm." Charles Foster nodded vigorously, then showed a somewhat foolish smile.

Henry Grant: "..." What the hell are you smiling at!

Just as the fool was about to reach out and take the cardboard, Gavin Clark shook his head, still as calm as ever, and said, "No."

Good, at least you know your place.

After raging in his heart for a while, Henry Grant finally let out a sigh of relief. The cardboard that had been taut instantly drooped, hanging limply from Gavin Clark’s fingertips, going from half-collapsed to fully collapsed.

Charles Foster looked at Gavin Clark with extra seriousness, nodded again, but his expression was a bit regretful. He had no understanding of social niceties, nor did he know what “tact” or “concealment” meant. He just wore his regret plainly on his face.

A simple-minded person’s every move is a bit slower than others, less nimble, but with a bit more strength. Whether staring at someone, enunciating words, or nodding and shaking his head, he did it all with extra effort.

Clumsy, yet somehow it tugged at the heartstrings.

Henry Grant hung from Gavin Clark’s fingers like a limp noodle, his gaze sweeping over Charles Foster’s face before looking away. He felt this fool was probably toxic, able to make others as foolish as himself. He was afraid that if he looked a couple more times, he’d go mad and jump right into the fool’s hands.

Now that would be a real spectacle!

But what surprised him was that the bald donkey seemed even more straightforward than the fool, not only completely ignoring the fool’s look of regret, but also unceremoniously lifting his foot to enter the fool’s room.

Fortunately, before entering, the bald donkey barely remembered the concept of “etiquette and shame,” and nodded at the fool as a gesture.

Henry Grant: "..." Saying one more word might kill you. If this fool understands what a nod means, I’ll take your surname.

Before his mocking snort had even landed, Charles Foster had already returned to the room ahead of them, happily waving at Gavin Clark, saying, "Come in!"—just like a child who’d found a playmate.

Henry Grant: "..."

He curled his lips in toothache, thinking maybe he’d better just keep hanging here.

This wretch in Gavin Clark’s hand bobbed up and down several times before finally settling down, albeit reluctantly.

The half-open door was pushed fully open by Charles Foster, and the scene inside the room was revealed to everyone—those oily yellow paper ingots were far more numerous than Henry Grant had seen before. Not just by the door; at a glance, there was hardly any space to step anywhere in the room.

Mr. Foster seemed quite upset. As soon as he saw the state of his eldest son’s room, he turned his head away with a look of disapproval. He had no intention of entering, standing alone with his hands behind his back a full ten feet from the door, waiting.

He was clearly suffering, hoping on one hand that Gavin Clark would help adjust the feng shui of the house, and on the other wanting to kick this equally socially clueless monk out.

Anyone with a sense of social cues would have toned it down a bit at this point, to avoid making things unpleasant.

But unfortunately, this monk didn’t get it.

Not only did he not get it, he didn’t even spare anyone a glance!

Mr. Foster was about to die of anger.

He could stand wherever he liked; Gavin Clark certainly wasn’t going to care. Even if he stood a hundred feet away, it wouldn’t stop Gavin Clark from entering the room.

Charles Foster’s room was extremely simple, nothing like the room of a grand young master in the steward’s mansion. It could easily be mistaken for a servant’s quarters. There was only a square table, two wooden chairs, and a bed that was a bit too narrow for Charles Foster.

The room itself was tiny, a humble hut with a thatched door, and yet they’d even bothered to put up a partition in the middle, separating the bed from the table and chairs, making it feel even more cramped.

Everything in the room looked like it had been used for years, covered in dust and especially old and worn, dull and lifeless. The only color came from the piles of oily yellow paper ingots scattered everywhere.

Gavin Clark bent down and picked one up, examining it from top to bottom.

Hanging from Gavin Clark’s other finger, Henry Grant, being lower down and facing upward, happened to be able to see the bottom of the ingot clearly.

There were three characters written on it: 父夕夕.

Henry Grant: "..." What kind of nonsense is this!

After cursing, he realized it wasn’t three vertical characters, but actually one character: 爹 (Dad). It was just that the fool’s handwriting was so childish and spaced out.

But seeing such an ingot, he suddenly understood why Mr. Foster had such a poor attitude toward his son. Writing a living person’s name on a paper ingot was basically a curse. But judging by Charles Foster’s clueless look, he was probably just doing it for fun.

But soon, Henry Grant swallowed that thought back down.

Because Gavin Clark picked up several more paper ingots in a row, and each one had writing on the bottom, all equally childish and spaced out.

Bored, Henry Grant counted: seven ingots, two with 父夕夕, three with 女良, and two completely blank.

...