However, speaking of summoning thunder, with just this crumpled yellow talisman, there’s no way it could actually call upon any Southern Dragon Lord—at most, it might summon a couple of wisps of cloud to block out the sun. But when the same talisman falls into Henry Grant’s hands, it’s a different story.

Because the so-called Southern Dragon Lord invoked by this talisman, more often than not, refers to none other than Henry Grant himself.

Although his current paper-thin body can’t stir up trouble in person, he can still give it a try by using the talisman as a medium.

So he pulled out a small porcelain bottle from his robe, popped open the stopper, and a faint, oddly cold and sweet metallic scent wafted out.

Henry Grant frowned; even though it was his own blood, he never found the smell pleasant.

He spread the yellow talisman flat in his palm, then dripped a drop of dark red blood from the small porcelain bottle onto it. The blood bead instantly melted into the talisman.

Henry Grant put away the porcelain bottle and casually tossed the talisman away.

The moment the paper talisman left his hand, a bright flame suddenly ignited from the center of the bloodstain, burning it to ash in an instant.

Suddenly, a fierce wind arose, and surging clouds rolled in from the distance.

The sky darkened abruptly, as if drenched in thick, wet ink. Blinding webs of lightning split the heavens above, and a thunderclap exploded right by the ear, as if it had gone off at point-blank range.

It was unclear whether this bolt of heavenly thunder had struck the boundary of the formation or disturbed its very core.

A deafening crash, like a mountain splitting apart, followed the winding lightning and came crashing down.

Henry Grant sat leaning against the gnarled old tree atop the wall, unmoved by the eight winds, watching as the thunder struck the ground at his feet, shattering a thick slab of bluestone to pieces—yet he didn’t even blink.

The entire courtyard trembled endlessly, only gradually calming down after a long while.

Henry Grant lifted his eyelids and glanced upward, a hint of regret in his expression: with the help of this talisman, all he could manage now was a single strike like that.

Still, that earth-shattering thunderbolt had some effect; it seemed to have split open a narrow crack somewhere in the formation. The previously silent, almost stagnant courtyard suddenly had a draft, and faint, fragmented sounds began to seep in, soon spreading lightly over the whole place.

So it turned out he wasn’t truly alone in this courtyard.

The others must have been dragged into the formation as well, each confined to their own corner, unaware of one another.

Henry Grant casually plucked a curled vine from the old creeper beside him and idly wound it around his fingers as he leaned against the tree trunk. He closed his eyes, tilting his head to listen to the sounds coming through that narrow crack, trying to pick out something unusual from the jumble of faint noises.

After a moment, he really did catch something...

A bell?

“No, that’s not right...” Henry Grant clicked his tongue, frowning.

The sound was faint amid the wailing wind, as if coming from a great distance, or perhaps stretched out by that long, narrow crack.

It sounded somewhat like the four-cornered bronze bells hanging from an ox cart, but with subtle differences.

Bronze bells...

Copper coins?

With that thought, the sound became even clearer—it really did resemble the occasional clinking of a few copper coins striking each other.

“...” Henry Grant opened his eyes expressionlessly, the vine in his hand twisted and tormented until it snapped with a “pop.”

In what seemed like the blink of an eye, the sound of copper coins clinking drew much closer.

Henry Grant listened for a moment, feeling as if it was just on the other side of the wall.

A narrow door in the corridor suddenly creaked open, and Henry Grant, still tormenting the old vine, looked up at the sound.

A young monk, draped in white hemp robes, walked silently toward the wall.

Wearing such thin white hemp in the dead of winter looked cold just to behold, as if the robe itself was draped in the chill of frost and snow. It wasn’t until Gavin Clark stopped beneath the wall and hung the string of copper coins he’d been holding back at his waist that Henry Grant suddenly realized—this bald donkey’s footsteps were always soundless.

So... was that clinking of copper coins just now intentional?

Gavin Clark stood by the wall, his calm, unruffled gaze sweeping briefly over Henry Grant.

The person sitting atop the wall undoubtedly had striking features, like a sword sheathed with its edge pressed close. Yet he looked far too thin, and the black long robe made him appear even paler, exuding a heavy air of sickness that mingled with his sharpness, making him seem both contradictory and mysterious.

When Henry Grant wore a blank expression, he always gave off an especially restrained impression.

He maintained that look, meeting Gavin Clark’s gaze for a moment, then finally couldn’t help but roll his eyes skyward and say, “Why is it you...”

After speaking, he irritably balled up the broken vine in his hand.

Even up on the wall, he couldn’t keep his hands to himself. After shooting Gavin Clark a couple of resentful glances, he tossed the balled-up vine at him.

Gavin Clark shook his head, raised his hand, and caught the “hidden weapon” in his palm. “What was that thunder and cloud just now all about?”

Henry Grant raised an eyebrow at him. “Aren’t you going to ask who I am?”