The starving ghost suddenly froze, like a gecko nailed to the wall. Darrin Grant's body immediately shrank back to the size of an ordinary cat. It staggered forward a step, like a specimen zombie cat, then fell stiffly from a height. William Sherman quickly reached out to catch it. The black cat glanced at him weakly, rubbed unconsciously against his hand, then closed its eyes and stopped moving.

For a moment, Charles Gray's heart pounded—he thought it was dead. It wasn't until William Sherman smoothed its fur and the black cat's belly rose and fell rhythmically under his palm that Charles Gray realized Darrin Grant was just asleep.

“What do we do now?” Charles Gray asked as he climbed up from the floor.

William Sherman hadn't had time to answer, and Charles Gray hadn't even straightened his leg yet—his hand had just pushed off the ground—when a thunderous roar erupted.

Charles Gray fell right back onto the floor.

Both of them were startled, turning their heads toward the wall. The starving ghost, which had just been flattened against the wall like a dumpling wrapper, was now “inflating” itself again!

Countless shadowy clumps, like black cotton, were drawn from the hallway, all pouring into its gaping mouth. Its belly swelled rapidly, ballooning into a sphere, and it dropped from the wall.

The starving ghost landed on its thin, spindly legs, still a bit unsteady, like a terrifying giant mantis. It shook its big black head, then suddenly opened its mouth nearly one hundred and eighty degrees. Its head split in two like a halved watermelon placed side by side, and a dreadful wind howled from the storage room.

Charles Gray felt his feet slide forward uncontrollably. He turned back in shock and saw William Sherman getting farther and farther away, and panic finally set in.

“I'm being sucked in!” Charles Gray's voice changed pitch. In his panic, he somehow managed to blurt out a metaphor: “It's like jelly in a vacuum bag—I'm being sucked in!”

“I'm going to be eaten!” Charles Gray twisted his body midair, dog-paddling desperately toward William Sherman, reaching out as he babbled incoherently, “I... I'm a police officer! I'm going to be eaten! I'm a police officer...”

He had completely forgotten that “I'm a police officer” was supposed to encourage himself, and there was no logical connection between “police officer” and “about to be eaten.” His mind was a jumble.

Apparently, even the starving ghost found this food too noisy. It opened its mouth and roared again, and Charles Gray felt as if an invisible hand had gripped his throat—his voice cut off instantly.

He shook his head desperately, craning his neck, his hands clawing unconsciously at his throat. The veins on the backs of his hands bulged, and his throat made a chilling, wheezing sound like a leaky old bellows.

William Sherman grabbed his hand, and Charles Gray felt as if he was about to be torn in two by the both of them.

Darrin Grant was still unconscious, Quinn Barnes struggled on the floor with a vacant stare, and in the cramped storage room, the starving ghost and a host of little ghosts eyed them hungrily.

Things couldn't possibly get any worse.

Yet sometimes, when the mountains seem endless, a new path appears.

At that moment, a sharp whistle suddenly pierced the air, like a meteor tearing through the thick darkness of night, stabbing painfully at their eardrums.

The little girl ghost, who had somehow hidden in the corner, suddenly wore an expression of utter terror. She let out a silent scream, dove headfirst into the floor, and vanished.

Immediately after, a pitch-black short dagger, trailing a shadow, flashed by and stabbed straight between Charles Gray and the starving ghost, as if severing an invisible rope. The starving ghost seemed to be shoved, slamming hard into the wall. The force pulling Charles Gray back vanished, and he tumbled into William Sherman by inertia, nearly dragging Professor Sherman down with him.

...But while Charles Gray sprawled on the ground, William Sherman was caught by someone else.

Logan Sullivan wrapped an arm around William Sherman's waist and pulled him half a step aside. In the lighter's flame, his face was revealed—handsome, cold, with sharp, chiseled features, his gaze cutting through the darkness, tiny flames reflected in his eyes.

He managed to hold this cool pose, deliberately lowering his voice like a big bad wolf, looking into William Sherman's eyes, and asked softly, like a movie hero saving the damsel in distress, “Professor Sherman, are you alright?”

Meanwhile, he completely ignored the little intern wailing at his feet.

Chapter 17: The Reincarnation Sundial Sixteen...

For a few seconds, Logan Sullivan thought William Sherman's expression was dazed—but no one could blame him. Compared to Charles Gray, the refined Professor Sherman was the true embodiment of composure and calm.

After a brief daze, William Sherman lowered his eyelids, pried a certain someone's salty hand off his waist, and pushed up his glasses. “I'm fine, thank you.”

Charles Gray had never been so excited to see someone. Still kneeling, he craned his neck and shouted, “Director Sullivan, help!”

His pitiful state was almost comical. Logan Sullivan glanced around the tiny storage room, confirmed that no one was hurt, and immediately relaxed. In the midst of chaos, he even managed a theatrical line: “If you have any grievances, report them at once. Do you have a petition? Bring it here for this official to see—now!”

Charles Gray collapsed face-down on the floor.

William Sherman reached up to rub the bridge of his nose, hiding the smile at the corner of his mouth.

The starving ghost, just knocked down, revived like an automatic respawner and climbed up again. William Sherman looked up sharply, just in time to see it swinging its scythe-like claws, lunging at Logan Sullivan from behind.

“Watch out!”

Logan Sullivan twisted aside, the icy wind of the scythe-claw sweeping past his face. The other claw followed, but Logan Sullivan crossed his forearms above his head, blocked with the short dagger, then grabbed the starving ghost's “wrist.” His movements were swift and powerful, with the precision and efficiency of rigorous training.

He met the starving ghost's gaze, the dimples still on his face, but his smile sent a chill down one's spine.

A deep male voice sounded behind the starving ghost: “Namo Amitabha—”

Somewhere, a bell tolled. The sound seemed to travel through bone straight to the soul. Charles Gray's head buzzed, golden stars danced before his eyes, and the still-struggling Quinn Barnes suddenly stiffened and fell still.

The starving ghost reacted as if shot in the head. It threw back its head and screamed, black shadows tumbling from its body.

When Logan Sullivan let go, the thing had shrunk to human size—skinny, pot-bellied, so weak it looked like it would shatter at a touch.

Only then did Logan Sullivan calmly pull a palm-sized glass bottle from his pocket. A cold gleam flashed at the mouth of the bottle. The starving ghost flinched, as if trying to escape, but Julian West blocked the door, pressed his palms together, and quickly formed a Vajra mudra. In that moment, this otherwise unremarkable man radiated an immovable, mountain-like aura. The starving ghost crashed into the storage room door and was bounced back hard.

Logan Sullivan had already pulled out the cork and aimed the bottle at the starving ghost.

The starving ghost's bald head instantly twisted into a Monet's “The Scream,” its hysteria and terror worthy of a painting, as it was sucked alive into the bottle.

The transparent glass bottle turned black. Logan Sullivan screwed the cork tight, held the makeshift prison to his ear, shook it vigorously, and finally, in a good mood, said to Julian West behind him, “All done.”

Darrin Grant, who had been fast asleep, cracked open an eye and said weakly, “You guys are using excessive force again. You woke me up...”

Logan Sullivan picked up the cat and stuffed it into his briefcase.

Darrin Grant continued to complain in a faint voice, “What took you so long?”

“Traffic jam on the southeast second ring.” Logan Sullivan patted its head. “Good job. I'll give you a bonus later. Go back to sleep.”

Darrin Grant's eyes slowly closed, and it mumbled, “I... I want to eat crispy dried yellow croaker...”

Logan Sullivan: “...”

Charles Gray stared at him blankly. “That's... that's it?”

At these words, Logan Sullivan's face first darkened impatiently, then quickly twisted into a smile. After nearly ruining his act, he recovered his usual top-notch performance and said, “Not quite.”