Pinned to the cloud tiles by the tip of Grandpa Fu’s [Rank 9 Jade-Abacus Cane], the Orphan-Maker General stared in disbelief at the ten-yard-long golden scroll unrolled in front of his bruised nose.
Every inch of the parchment was covered in neat, tiny black calligraphy and stamped with the official red seal of the Frost-Pine Gu Household Accounting Office.
Gu Changsheng strolled over with his hands clasped behind his apron, accompanied by seventeen-year-old Ye Xiao and Auntie Qin Wan’er.
Killing a first-floor gatekeeper is what a brainless protagonist does, Gu Changsheng thought, looking down at the shivering nine-foot giant in polka-dot boxer shorts. If we kill him, his soul-lamp upstairs goes out, the Chief Author locks all nine floors at once, and I have to waste my afternoon prying open doors. Much better to bankrupt him legally and put him on the payroll.
“Hold on! What receipt?!” the Orphan-Maker General sputtered, trying and failing to pull his boxer shorts free from under Grandpa Fu’s cane.
“You’re the ones crashing the Heavenly Script Pavilion! And you just slapped my divine armor into scrap metal! Why are you billing me?!”
Grandpa Fu didn’t even raise his voice. He adjusted his monocle over his one good eye and tapped the top line of the ten-yard scroll with a bamboo pointer.
