Having grown used to seeing this fiend in its living form, suddenly catching sight of this “unable to rest in peace” portrait—even if it was a bit smaller—was still quite an eyesore.

Gavin Clark silently averted his gaze. Following the principle of “out of sight, out of mind,” he imitated what he’d done before and put the fiend back into the hidden pouch at his waist. This time, though, he showed a bit more humanity: instead of letting it sink to the bottom, he let the fiend poke its head out, so it could lie at the edge of the pouch and catch a breath now and then.

Who would have thought the fiend would still be dissatisfied.

“Excuse me, move me somewhere else.” Henry Grant said “excuse me,” but his tone was anything but polite.

Gavin Clark never expected that, in just a few short exchanges, this fiend had already forgotten it was the one being captured, and was now acting like it was about to turn the world upside down.

Have you ever seen a prisoner in a dungeon righteously demand an upgrade to a premium bunk?

“How do you want to move?” Gavin Clark lowered his gaze.

The paper figure, naturally boneless, easily tilted its whole face up, rolling its eyes at Gavin Clark as it demanded, “I want to be on your shoulder!”

Gavin Clark: “……”

The paper man surnamed Xue continued to complain, perfectly justified, “The view from this lousy place is too low, I can’t see anything. I want to be on your shoulder!”

Gavin Clark: “……”

Why don’t you just ask to go to heaven?

“Not afraid of falling now, are you?” Gavin Clark replied coolly.

Without missing a beat, Henry Grant shot back, “Do you have sloping shoulders? Do you bounce when you walk? If you don’t slope or bounce, how would I fall?”

This fiend always had a ready retort. Gavin Clark couldn’t out-argue him, so he just shook his head, seemingly helpless, and said, “Go ahead.”

With that, he ignored Henry Grant and started walking.

Henry Grant waited at the mouth of the hidden pouch for a while, but when Gavin Clark didn’t reach out to help him move, he immediately complained again, “Where’s your hand?”

Gavin Clark replied indifferently, “Climb up yourself.”

Henry Grant: “……”

For someone of Henry Grant’s status, crawling around on the ground was beneath his dignity—he’d rather die than do it. But climbing up like a monkey using his arms, that he could reluctantly accept. So he looked up to gauge the bald donkey’s height, then, lowering himself to the task, stretched out his two dragon claws and hooked onto the monk’s robe.

Gavin Clark’s monk robe had a strange texture: it didn’t feel like raw hemp, nor like processed hemp. It wasn’t exactly fine, but it was quite soft, and bleached snow-white, without a speck of dust. In short, it wasn’t something an ordinary monk could wear.

And it had a… hard-to-describe scent.

Like a pine forest on a snowy mountain.

The paper man was truly light and small; with just a few grabs, Henry Grant climbed from Gavin Clark’s waist all the way up to his collar.

Normally, flipping over from the collar to the side would get him onto the shoulder—a shortcut, really. But Henry Grant refused to take it. He clung to Gavin Clark’s collar, looked at both shoulders, then tilted his face up.

From this odd angle, he could see Gavin Clark’s thin jawline, but nothing above that.

Henry Grant adjusted his posture, then suddenly swung himself up to Gavin Clark’s chin, and, as if his tail was on fire, scrambled up to the bridge of his nose, then, using the strength of Gavin Clark’s brows and lashes, dropped down onto his shoulder from the side—demonstrating, quite literally, what it means to “climb up someone’s nose and onto their face.”

Gavin Clark: “……”

To raise such a fearless, unruly creature, it couldn’t possibly be some ordinary little demon. Yet the original aura on Henry Grant was so faint that Gavin Clark still couldn’t determine the fiend’s origins.

Speaking of the original body…

Gavin Clark glanced at the paper man sitting on his shoulder and asked in a deep voice, “Earlier, you told that wild ghost scholar your lifespan isn’t up yet.”

Henry Grant shifted around, found a comfortable spot, and lazily replied, “Yeah, so you taking me in is hardly justified.”

Gavin Clark didn’t respond to that, but instead asked, “Then where is your original body?”

There are always some people who are especially good at hitting where it hurts, always bringing up the most awkward topics.

Nathaniel Sullivan, that reed stick, was one; this bald donkey was another.

Where exactly was the original body?

Even Henry Grant himself wasn’t quite sure.

He recalled that day on the coast of Huameng County, Guangdong. After his tendons and bones were ripped out alive, a torrential rain fell and the sea surged. A huge wave swept him entirely into the ocean. The pain was unbearable, and he lost consciousness. When he regained a sliver of awareness, he found his primordial spirit had already left his body.

Such a massive body, without the support of the spirit, couldn’t maintain its original form. As before, it shrank into a golden bead.

He’d intended to retrieve the bead and, after restoring his spirit, return to his original form. But fate played a deadly trick on him. Before his consciousness was fully clear, a big wave washed the golden bead ashore. Through the seawater, he vaguely saw someone dressed as a fisherman pick it up.

By the time he fully regained his senses and tried to chase after it, that person had already vanished without a trace.

Thinking of this, Henry Grant grew irritated, and answered in a surly tone, “Aren’t I looking for it right now!”

Gavin Clark glanced at him again: to even lose your original body—this fiend was certainly something else.