When that bald donkey took him in, he was still just a patch of moss clinging to the ground, later turning into a thin, translucent sheet of paper—never once appearing in a proper human form from beginning to end.

Gavin Clark spread out his palm toward him. In the thin, slender hand still lay the evidence of Henry Grant's earlier mischief—a ball of vine fibers.

By nature, he was a man of few words, his face always cold and expressionless, but the open palm clearly conveyed one message—something in this condition, there’s only one in the world; even if it were burned to ashes, it would still be recognizable.

Henry Grant: "..."

Gavin Clark tossed the vine fibers under the old tree roots, then looked up to remind Henry Grant again, "You still haven't explained about the heavenly thunder."

Henry Grant gave an "oh" and said, "It's nothing, I just wanted to let the others know I was here, to make it easier for them to find me."

Gavin Clark: "..."

That thunderclap was so earth-shattering, so awe-inspiring, it seemed as if it would blast the Liu family estate to ashes.

And in the end, it turned out it was just to make a simple "squeak," to let everyone know someone was waiting here...

The bald donkey, who always wore a frosty face, actually showed the first signs of cracking upon hearing this.

Henry Grant was amused by his look, his expression relaxing as he half-smiled and asked, "Eh? So you really followed the thunder to find me? Looks like it wasn’t a waste after all. Good thing you got here fast—I was just wondering if I should do it again."

Gavin Clark looked at him in silence for a moment, then said coolly, "Then there’d be no need to search for the eight gates’ positions. Charred to dust, you’d even save on coffin money."

"A monk shouldn’t have money on his mind. You bald—" Henry Grant turned his face away, swallowing the word "donkey," and said solemnly, "Aren’t you afraid of disgracing the Buddha?"

Gavin Clark: "..."

A troublemaker who dares to call down thunder from the heavens actually has the nerve to say something like that.

"You mentioned searching for the eight gates’ positions earlier—did you find them?" Henry Grant asked. "If you did, that makes things easier, just take me with you. If not, don’t worry about being struck—I’ll figure out a way to call down another thunderbolt, maybe it’ll break this formation open."

He said this, but inwardly thought: Please, bald donkey, just tell me you’ve found it already. I only have one cloud-thunder talisman—once it’s used, that’s it.

Fortunately, Gavin Clark didn’t disappoint him. He nodded, replying blandly, "You can come down from the wall now."

With that, he turned and walked away.

The white coarse monk’s robe swept by as lightly as a cloud, and in a few steps, he was already far off.

But in no time, Gavin Clark stopped again, turning to look at the still motionless Henry Grant.

Henry Grant patted his own legs with a straight face and said confidently, "They’re useless, I can’t walk."

Gavin Clark frowned, thinking he was up to his tricks again, and replied coldly, "You didn’t seem slow running earlier, troublemaker..."

He’d grabbed the servant’s collar and flipped up in no time, as agile as could be.

"..."Henry Grant sneered, "You must be blind, bald donkey. Was I running on my own legs just now? I was borrowing someone else’s legs."

The unworldly bald donkey and the ever-troublesome mischief-maker stared at each other for a moment, until the former lowered his eyes, turned, and walked back to the wall.

Henry Grant's legs were hidden beneath his black robe, but the outline of his knees was clear and prominent. Most people bedridden for years have unusually thin legs, but Henry Grant was different. Judging by the outline, his legs looked no different from a normal person’s—there was no sign they were crippled.

Gavin Clark glanced over, then reached out and gripped Henry Grant's ankle.

Henry Grant was startled by this move—if he could feel his legs, he’d probably have kicked the bald donkey away on the spot.

Be honest—do you think dragon claws are something you can just touch?! Huh?! Are you tired of living?!

Gavin Clark took in his reaction—if his legs were fine, he wouldn’t have only moved his upper body in surprise, with no response from below.

So, the troublemaker was telling the truth—his legs really were useless.

Gavin Clark looked up, pressed his palms together in a Buddhist gesture, then extended one hand to Henry Grant, the thin, strong palm open. "Come down."

Chapter 9: Golden Ingots (Five)

Henry Grant glanced sideways at his palm, then sized up the bald donkey’s build. The monk’s robe was loose, making Gavin Clark look tall and thin. From the straight line of his shoulders and back, it was clear his thinness wasn’t from frailty, but from lean strength. Still, he was far from "sturdy."

So, Henry Grant raised his chin skeptically. "You can catch me with one hand? Who are you kidding?"

Gavin Clark's expression didn’t change, his palm still held out.

"Fine, but if I get hurt, you’re responsible." Henry Grant said carelessly, pushing off with both hands and leaping down from the wall.

But in the instant he landed, he changed from a slender living person to a paper figure with a soft pop. Perhaps to fit the width of Gavin Clark's palm, he even shrank the paper figure a few sizes, ending up no bigger than a palm, drifting down like a leaf and landing in Gavin Clark's hand...

Spread out in a star shape.

Gavin Clark: "..."