What kind of fetish is this?

However, judging from the few paper ingots Gavin Clark picked up, Henry Grant could more or less tell: this Charles Foster might be dumb, but he actually knew how to sort things. The pile by the door was probably all for his father, meaning written for his dad Mr. Foster. The pile by the four-immortal table was all for his mother. The scattered ones on the floor that hadn’t been stacked yet were likely those he hadn’t had time to write on.

So... whose pile was by the bed?

Obviously, Henry Grant wasn’t the only one who noticed this. After briefly flipping through the piles in the outer room, Gavin Clark stepped into the inner room where the bed was.

As soon as he entered, Henry Grant was choked by a wave of yin energy and sneezed.

Charles Foster: "..."???

He stared at the expressionless Gavin Clark for a while, then looked blankly at Gavin Clark's hand, as if he couldn’t figure out why the sneeze came from between his fingers.

But neither Gavin Clark nor Henry Grant had time to pay attention to Charles Foster's actions. Both were startled by the heavy yin energy in the room, and their gazes simultaneously turned to the pile of paper ingots by the bed.

Gavin Clark frowned and walked over, picking up an ingot to take a look.

This time, the bottom didn’t say “father” or “mother,” but was instead a big blur of smeared ink. It seemed to be something more complicated than “father” or “mother,” so much so that it had turned into a blotch.

Gavin Clark picked up two more; they were the same.

But one of them was a little less smudged, and Gavin Clark could just barely make out most of the character “劉”.

Gavin Clark knew very little about this Mr. Foster's family. Seeing the character, he could only think of Mr. Foster and his two sons, but judging from the big ink blot, it wasn’t “Lucas Foster”, nor was it “Charles Foster” or “Jack Foster”.

Just as he bent down to pick up another one for a look, something rolled out from the secret pouch at his waist.

That thing let out an “Aiyo!” and, landing right on the pile of paper ingots, suddenly inflated like a cowhide bag being blown up, turning into a living person.

——

This person had pale skin, bluish shadows under his eyes, and looked like a tired scholar. It was none other than Nathaniel Sullivan.

He probably hadn’t expected to suddenly turn from a paper figure into a person, and said blankly, “How did I roll down?”

Seeing that even this magic trick hadn’t scared Charles Foster into tears, Henry Grant dropped the act and replied, “Because the yin energy is too strong.”

After all, ghosts like yin. The reason Nathaniel Sullivan couldn’t move during the day was because the yang energy was too strong. The yin energy in Charles Foster's room was even stronger than the flavor of an old graveyard, which naturally benefited Nathaniel Sullivan.

But for the yin energy to be this heavy and for Charles Foster to still be alive and well was odd in itself.

“Then why didn’t you roll down?” Nathaniel Sullivan asked in confusion.

Henry Grant replied irritably, “Sorry, I haven’t died before, so I’m not the same as you, old man.”

“If you’re not dead, why are you clinging to a piece of paper skin?” Nathaniel Sullivan thought this guy named Xue must be sick.

If you’re not a ghost, your body must still be around. If your body’s still there, how bored do you have to be to pull your soul out and live off a piece of paper? Isn’t that an illness?

Henry Grant, hanging from Gavin Clark's fingertip, lazily replied, “Why do you care? If you have time to talk, you might as well get up.”

This sickly scholar had turned into a living person, and even though he was as skinny as a stick, he wasn’t light. The paper ingots couldn’t bear his weight at all; as he rolled over them, most were flattened, and the golden mountain was instantly leveled.

When he glanced around and realized what he was sitting on, he hurriedly cupped his hands to Charles Foster in apology: “My apologies, my apologies.”

As he scrambled to get up, the stunned Charles Foster finally reacted, albeit a beat too late. Seeing the flattened paper ingots all over the floor, he immediately let out a loud “Ah—!” and, without hesitation, shoved Nathaniel Sullivan aside, then knelt and crawled on the ground, carefully refolding the squashed paper ingots.

A fool’s strength is much greater than a normal person’s, so Nathaniel Sullivan's frail body couldn’t withstand the push and he tumbled, crashing into a five-drawer wooden cabinet.

The cabinet was knocked a few inches aside and banged against the wall with a “thud”.

Nathaniel Sullivan ended up in a sorry state, awkwardly propping himself up, wanting to help Charles Foster refold the ingots to make amends. But as soon as he put weight on his hand, he gasped in pain and quickly pulled it back.

Looking at his open palm, there was a hole in it, making him grimace in pain, though no blood came out.

That’s how it is with a paper body: it lets a wandering ghost walk the earth and touch real things, almost like half a living person, but it’s also very easy to get hurt.

“Why is there a nail under this cabinet?” Nathaniel Sullivan complained gloomily, then turned and muttered quietly in Henry Grant's direction, “Next time... if there is a next time, could you use cowhide instead of paper?”

Henry Grant: “Why not just use human skin?”

Nathaniel Sullivan: “...”

Gavin Clark's face remained calm, but his fingers moved, pressing precisely on Xue’s mouth to keep this troublesome scoundrel from saying anything else outrageous.

Henry Grant: “...”