As the end of the year approached, Blackstone was teeming with all sorts of people from every walk of life, and lately, public security seemed to be getting worse.

Logan Sullivan strolled over at a leisurely pace, squinting as he looked ahead, and saw three or four small-time thugs surrounding a man. To his surprise, the poor guy being mugged turned out to be someone he knew.

William Sherman.

What was he doing here?

It seemed William Sherman's good temper wasn't reserved just for his students. Logan Sullivan quickly noticed that he treated his comrades as warmly as spring, and even his enemies received the same spring-like warmth. When faced with a mugging, as a normal adult male, he didn't resist at all—not even verbally. He obediently handed over his wallet!

The thugs realized he was an easy mark and immediately pushed their luck: “The watch! If this is a name brand, it’s worth a few thousand at least. Take it off too!”

Without a word, William Sherman took off his watch and handed it over.

“A scholar is useless in practical matters,” Logan Sullivan thought to himself. He sighed, unable to watch any longer, and walked over with his hands in his pockets.

He saw one of the thugs snatch William Sherman's watch and shove him, making William Sherman stumble back and hit the wall, exposing a red string around his neck.

“Hey, look what he’s got around his neck—might be jade,” someone said. “Agate or jadeite would be good too.”

Another thug quickly grabbed William Sherman's collar and roughly yanked it down, revealing a small pendant hanging between William Sherman's collarbones. The thing was no bigger than a fingernail, but even from a distance, it caught Logan Sullivan's eye with a dazzling flash. Who knew what it was made of? Under the streetlamp’s firefly glow, it shimmered with a rainbow of colors.

“Is… is that a diamond?” one of the thugs stared, reaching out his dirty hand to grab the pendant on William Sherman's neck.

At that moment, the always-obedient Professor Sherman finally frowned, raised his hand to clutch the pendant, and spoke: “You’ve got my money and my things. Don’t push your luck.”

Suddenly, his face darkened, as if a clay figurine had come to life. Only then did the thug grabbing his collar notice that this man’s eyes were pitch black, with a cold glint he couldn’t describe. The way he looked at people was inexplicably intimidating, making the thug freeze and instinctively let go, stepping back half a pace.

But they quickly recovered—after all, there was only one of him, and he was a coward. If he wasn’t, would he have handed over his money so easily?

Pfft, what is this, charity?

The one closest to William Sherman raised his hand to slap him on the head—his usual tactic with guys wearing glasses: catch them off guard with a blow to the head, knock off the glasses, daze the guy, then kick him in the legs so he can’t get up.

But just as his hand went up, before he could bring it down, someone kicked him hard in the back. The thug felt a tightness in his chest, almost coughed up blood, and stumbled forward, tumbling to the ground. William Sherman sidestepped, and the thug crashed into the wall.

William Sherman looked up in surprise and saw Logan Sullivan standing there, blowing into his hands and rubbing them together, then speaking in a tone even more thuggish than the thugs: “Who’s out here stretching their muscles in this freezing weather?”

That kick was so powerful it stunned everyone. For a moment, no one reacted. Finally, one of them blurted out, “Who… who are you? Mind your own business, I’m warning you.”

Logan Sullivan cocked his head, his joints cracking audibly. He stomped his feet as if to shake off the cold, and flashed a dimpled, chilly smile: “Do you know where all the punks who dared to warn me are now? They’re waving flags on some monkey mountain.”

Five minutes later, Logan Sullivan called the local police station and told them to come pick up the thugs immediately. After hanging up, he nudged one of the guys he’d knocked down with his toe: “Back when I was running the streets, you little brats were still nursing. Next time you come out, figure out whose turf this is, got it?”

The thug he stepped on yelped in pain: “B-big bro, I… we… ow!”

“Who the hell are you calling big bro? Who’s your big bro?” Logan Sullivan kicked him again. “Trying to cozy up, huh? Your grandpa here is a model police officer, not your buddy. Who do you think you are? Take off your belt, now!”

William Sherman watched as he skillfully tied up the whole gang of thugs to the lamppost, and couldn’t help but laugh.

Only then did Logan Sullivan realize he’d just played out a classic “hero saves the beauty” scene. The coincidence was so perfect, he almost thought he’d arranged it himself.

Logan Sullivan couldn’t help but feel a surge of energy. Suddenly, the world seemed brighter, the air fresher, and even his stomach didn’t hurt as much.

He handed the wallet and watch back to William Sherman: “Didn’t expect to run into you here. Are you alright?”

William Sherman gracefully brushed the dust off his clothes and took his things back. “Thank you.”

Logan Sullivan's gaze lingered on his pendant for a moment. Now he could see it clearly: it was a hollow, transparent little sphere, and the glow came from something inside—probably some kind of phosphorescent material.

But he’d never seen this kind of “glow” before. Logan Sullivan had the illusion that the little sphere contained a spark of fire, its color vibrant and full of life—nothing man-made could ever imitate it. It was almost… alive.

Staring at that dazzling little object, he felt an inexplicable sense of intimacy and familiarity.

But Logan Sullivan quickly realized it was impolite to stare at someone else’s belongings, so he looked away and casually said, “Aren’t you worried about radiation? I heard things that glow that brightly are bad for your health.”

William Sherman tucked the pendant back inside his shirt, letting it rest against his skin, and smiled without saying anything.

Logan Sullivan wasn’t a nosy person. Seeing that William Sherman didn’t want to talk about it, he sensibly dropped the subject, buttoned up his coat to cover the bit of pajamas peeking out: “Those little punks are all bark and no bite. What’s there to be afraid of? Have you eaten? Come on, I’ll buy you a late-night snack to help you recover.”

William Sherman laughed: “How could I let you do that? I should be the one treating you.”

As he spoke, he glanced back at the thugs Logan Sullivan had tied up under the streetlamp, hesitating: “Actually, it’s not easy for them either…”

Logan Sullivan turned around and rolled his eyes with his back to William Sherman. Then, as if remembering something, he asked curiously, “By the way, do you live around here too, Professor Sherman? How come I’ve never seen you before?”

William Sherman's eyes dimmed: “In a city like this, two people can live very close and never see each other. But sometimes, you might suddenly start running into each other every day. I guess that’s fate.”

Logan Sullivan chuckled in agreement, but didn’t take it to heart—as a hardcore homebody, he barely recognized his neighbors on the same floor, let alone just those who lived nearby. Fate was the last thing on his mind.

William Sherman fell silent, dropping half a step behind to follow. Out of Logan Sullivan's sight, his gaze grew strange behind his glasses, dark and unreadable, fixed on the man’s back—full of both longing and restraint.

Chapter 23 Terra-Spike Three …

Even from their few brief encounters, Logan Sullivan could sense William Sherman's repressed “fondness” for him. But for some reason, whenever he tried to show any interest or give a hint, William Sherman would suddenly become as detached as a monk resisting a temptress, eyes downcast, face expressionless, as if nothing in the world could touch him.

Logan Sullivan had never met anyone like William Sherman—gentle and refined, never competing with others, no matter who he met or how he was treated, he never uttered a harsh word. He was like an ancient gentleman steeped in the classics, exuding an old-fashioned independence that didn’t fit the times.

Logan Sullivan really couldn’t figure out what to make of him.

Originally, there was a high-end club outside the apartment complex that served Western food. Logan Sullivan had planned to take him there—after all, Western food was perfect for a date, with all its endless courses and rituals. But first, William Sherman would never agree to go, and second, just thinking about those cold, greasy, half-raw foreign dishes made Logan Sullivan feel sick.

He finally had a chance and wasn’t about to let it slip away. With that in mind, Logan Sullivan put on a casual, relaxed air and took William Sherman to a small restaurant where he’d already ordered some dishes. He added a bowl of wontons and a few signature side dishes, filling the table with steaming food.

At this hour, the restaurant was empty except for the two of them. William Sherman hadn’t even sat down yet and was already starting to look uneasy.