The trunk of that tree stood straight, with few tangled branches except for the one stretching over the wall, so Henry Grant managed to catch the tail end of this east wind.

The paper was thin and light; not only was it easy for it to drift off the branch, but it also didn’t offer much of a vantage point.

So Henry Grant pulled a little trick, suddenly reverting to his original form in the faint breeze. With one hand on the trunk and the other bracing a gnarled branch, he sat steadily atop the wall.

Bathed in daylight, his features appeared even more striking—deep black eyes like two cold pools, a thin layer of mist over them, exuding a sharp and unrestrained air.

The first thing he did after sitting down was to look outside the courtyard wall.

After a quick scan, Henry Grant turned back expressionlessly to gaze inside the courtyard for a moment, then turned again to look outside.

After repeating this a few times, a crack finally appeared in Henry Grant’s expression, like cold white porcelain split by frost.

“……”

What the hell—why does it look exactly the same inside and outside the wall?!

Henry Grant thought this was getting a bit too amusing.

If his guess was right, he’d probably run into a ghost wall.

A ghost wall daring to mess with him—this was a first in his life.

But this sort of thing never happens without a reason; there must be a cause. Henry Grant thought back over what had happened earlier and could only recall that “drawing the river into the sea” formation mentioned by Gavin Clark, that bald monk.

Could it be that this feng shui formation got disturbed by something, went haywire, and dragged them all in?

So, was the utter silence in this mansion due to the ghost wall’s influence, or was he really the only one left?

The view from the top of the wall was a bit broader than from the bluestone slabs below, but not by much. The courtyard was full of firewalls of varying heights, blocking most of the scenery. All Henry Grant could see were white walls, dark tiles, bluestone paths, and a few narrow doors whose passability was uncertain.

He stared at those narrow doors scattered in all directions, then glanced at the uneven wall tops, and started to form a plan.

Running into a ghost wall in such a still, square courtyard, the only way to break out was to follow the Eight Gates of Dunjia.

Open Gate, Rest Gate, Life Gate, Harm Gate, Obstruction Gate, Scenery Gate, Fright Gate, and Death Gate—each gate brings a different outcome. At best, a wrong step means you can’t get out; at worst, it’s a matter of life and death.

This courtyard was square within square, the so-called eight gates layered one within another, so unraveling it would be no easy task.

Henry Grant’s status set him apart from ordinary people; he’d never bothered to study these trivial matters. In the first half of his life, such things had little use for him. He’d never imagined he’d one day be crippled and run into a ghost wall.

So, asking him to sit here and figure out which was the Life Gate and which was the Death Gate—he’d rather just be stabbed twice and get it over with.

“Drag my two useless legs around looking for people?” Henry Grant sneered, thinking to himself: Why do I hate myself so much?

He was used to being proud; unless absolutely necessary, he’d never humiliate himself like this. If it really came to that… he’d rather just die.

This wretched mansion barely had a breeze; he couldn’t even find anything to use for leverage. Even if he figured out which way to go, how was he supposed to get there? Crawl or drag himself?

Just picturing it made Henry Grant’s teeth ache.

Dream on—whoever wants to crawl can crawl; he certainly wouldn’t!

Leaning against the trunk, Henry Grant bit his tongue in thought for a moment, then reached into the hidden pocket in his chest and pulled out a piece of yellow paper.

The yellow paper was a bit crumpled, creased in many places—clearly, it hadn’t had an easy life since falling into Henry Grant’s hands. Henry Grant looked at it with some disdain, pinching one end between two fingers and shaking it open a bit. On the surface of the yellow paper was a scrawl that not even its own mother would recognize.

But Henry Grant recognized it.

He’d picked it up from a fortune-telling Taoist while passing through Raozhou Prefecture.

That Taoist had a pair of crooked mustaches, wore a tattered cloth cap, and had a blue mark at the corner of his eye—whether a birthmark or a bruise, who knew. He spent his days squatting by the bridge, telling fortunes and changing names, selling all sorts of self-made yellow talismans. He was quite a character; if you’re going to sell talismans, you should at least practice your calligraphy enough to fool people. But this old Taoist just scrawled out his talismans in chicken-scratch, shamelessly, and didn’t care if they sold or not.

Henry Grant had hung around his stall for a few days, glanced at the talismans he drew—most were just for show, but a rare few had smooth strokes and could be of some minor use.

And only minor use.

For example, a talisman for warding off evil might only repel bugs; one for longevity might only ease a minor illness.

The one Henry Grant had was drawn right in front of him by that Taoist.

“By the authority of the Southern Dragon Lord, seated on clouds and thunder.” Henry Grant squinted, lazily reading out the words on the talisman one by one. Most of the characters twisted and turned like earthworms, winding every which way—no small feat that he could still remember them.

Just from the wording, it was easy to guess this was a talisman for summoning thunder. Who knows why that Taoist practiced such things when he was bored.