"Attach the talisman with the person's name and birth details," Logan Sullivan said, "or wrap a strand of hair with the spirit-seeking charm, and you can trace the person's past and future."

As he spoke, he casually flipped through the notebook in his hand, and suddenly a thin sheet of paper fell out: "Hmm? A wanted notice?"

It was a blank piece of rice paper. The moment Logan Sullivan's hand touched it, black mist suddenly billowed up on its surface, and then a face emerged from the mist. The figure was vaguely human, with an oversized head, no hair, a hunched back, a shriveled neck, and a head full of fleshy lumps—it was exactly the creature that had been struck down by Soulwarden.

Logan Sullivan's expression didn't change; he simply asked, "What is this?"

The underworld messenger replied, "This thing is human-like but not human, called Netherbeast. It can speak human language, but its temperament is violent and cruel, delighting in eating people and drinking souls. It fears light and fire. If the master encounters it, be extra cautious—just kill it."

Netherbeast...

The underworld messenger went on at length, but never mentioned where this thing came from, what it truly was, or why it needed to be killed. For some reason, Logan Sullivan found the phrase "human-like but not human" particularly subtle.

His gaze shifted, and he very naturally slipped the Netherbeast wanted notice back into his black notebook. He added another handful of spirit money to the porcelain basin and said with a cheerful smile, "Thank you for your trouble."

The paper underworld messenger bowed to him. The flames in the porcelain basin suddenly leapt high, instantly burning the spirit money to ash. With a sweep of his sleeve, the underworld messenger neatly gathered up the ashes and, looking quite satisfied, said, "I take my leave."

The white paper lantern flickered a few times, and the paper figure vanished on the spot. Before leaving, he even courteously locked the window and drew the curtains for him.

Soulwarden, the Four Saints, Netherbeast... and the "master" behind it all. Logan Sullivan lay on his back on the bed, the quilt already cold. He couldn't fall asleep for a while, tossing aside the minor embarrassment he'd suffered from William Sherman, his mind racing through countless thoughts about causes and consequences. As the night deepened and his thoughts grew heavier, Logan Sullivan suddenly had a sense of foreboding.

Logan Sullivan couldn't sleep for half the night. In the latter half, feeling unwell, he got up to take some medicine. Years of irregular living and a disregard for cold or raw foods had left him with chronic gastritis and a mild ulcer, which flared up every now and then to torment him.

So when the doorbell rang a little after seven in the morning, Logan Sullivan, who had only just drifted off, was in a state best described as rabid.

Rabid—meaning, as the name suggests, he recognized no one and would bite whoever he caught. Logan Sullivan struggled out of bed, his joints cracking. Maybe he'd been lying down too long, because his whole body ached. As he moved sluggishly, he mentally subjected whoever was outside the door to a top-ten list of tortures.

But when he opened the door, he found William Sherman standing there, holding several large bags.

Logan Sullivan stared blankly for two seconds before he realized what was happening. He quickly wiped the man-eating look off his face and tried to put on a "joyous New Year" expression. Unfortunately, his mind was still foggy, so his face got stuck somewhere between "man-eating" and "New Year." If you had to describe it...

It probably fit the theme of the "Nian beast" perfectly.

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Chapter 25: The Mountain and River Awl...

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William Sherman freed one hand and touched Logan Sullivan's forehead. "You have a bit of a fever. Why are you still standing here? Go cover yourself with the quilt."

At his words, Logan Sullivan realized his head felt heavy. Dazed, he was pushed back into the bedroom.

William Sherman placed warm water, anti-inflammatory medicine, and stomach medicine on his bedside table, speaking softly: "Take your medicine and sleep a bit more. Don't worry about me—I'll make you something to eat."

Logan Sullivan's mind wandered chaotically: If Pleasant Goat washed himself clean and crawled into Grey Wolf's den, could Grey Wolf still sleep soundly?

That cowardly wolf must have wisdom teeth so swollen his whole face puffed up.

But whether it was the fever muddling his head or the drowsiness from the anti-inflammatory meds, in less than a minute, Logan Sullivan really did fall asleep.

It was quite a while before William Sherman finished putting away all the things he'd brought, filling up most of Logan Sullivan's empty fridge. He checked the kitchen and found that everything was there, from small domestic clay pots to large imported ovens, all brand new with the tags still on.

After a moment's thought, William Sherman took out the small clay pot, washed it, and set it aside. Then, unhurriedly, he prepared the ingredients, brought them to a boil, then turned down the heat and added seasonings to let it simmer slowly.

When he was done, William Sherman washed his hands, warmed them over the radiator, and tiptoed into the room. Logan Sullivan was already asleep. William Sherman gently tucked his exposed arm back under the quilt.

He stood by the bed, head lowered, quietly watching Logan Sullivan for a while. After a long moment, he carefully reached out and touched his hair. Logan Sullivan's hair was very soft, curling obediently around his fingers. William Sherman lightly brushed his face, then quickly withdrew his hand. He let out a deep breath, closed his eyes, and silently kissed his own fingertips, his expression almost reverent for a moment.

William Sherman didn't know how he had left Logan Sullivan's place the night before. He'd wandered out in a daze, not realizing how far he'd gone until his hands and feet were numb. It felt like a moth suddenly realizing its fate, desperately restraining itself from flying into the flame, but the struggle between reason and instinct was so painful it was almost unbearable.

And yet, he had only endured this pain for a single night.

He's sick, and no one is taking care of him. I'm just worried and came to check on him... It's just what a friend should do, William Sherman told himself. But what was really going on, no one knew better than he did.

William Sherman gave a self-mocking smile, bent down to pick up the coat Logan Sullivan had tossed on the floor, folded it neatly, and placed it on a chair. Only then did he notice a porcelain basin on the floor, with a layer of burnt incense ash at the bottom.

William Sherman pinched some ash between his fingers and rubbed it. When it fell to the ground, the brown ash turned white, as if someone had drawn out the essence from the wood.

"Underworld messenger?" He adjusted his glasses, looked up at the tightly drawn curtains, frowned, and lowered his head, lost in thought.

Logan Sullivan slept so deeply it was as if the world had turned upside down. When he opened his eyes again, sunlight was streaming through the curtains. He was sweating, the quilt clinging uncomfortably to him. His head was a bit dizzy. He lay there for a moment, and as his senses returned, he caught the unfamiliar aroma of food. Logan Sullivan jolted awake and sat up abruptly.

He saw William Sherman sitting on the small sofa not far away, quietly flipping through an old book of folk tales. Focused on the pages, his features were strikingly handsome. Logan Sullivan stared at him in a daze for a long while.

Hearing movement, William Sherman looked up and smiled at him. "Awake? Feeling any better?"

Logan Sullivan seemed a bit out of it and nodded. William Sherman reached out to check his forehead. After a good sleep and a sweat, the fever had broken—youth has its advantages. He asked, "How's your stomach? Still hurt?"

Logan Sullivan shook his head. He now noticed that all the clothes he'd tossed around had been neatly folded by William Sherman and placed by his bedside. When he reached out, they felt warm, as if they'd been placed on the radiator.

"I turned on the bathroom heater. You must feel awful all sweaty. Go take a shower and change. I made you something simple in the kitchen."

Logan Sullivan didn't say a word, just quietly gathered his clothes and went to the bathroom.

Even though he usually lived so carelessly, at this moment it felt like a dream, and a subtle feeling welled up inside him. Logan Sullivan had left home too early and was used to rushing out for social events or ordering takeout. He'd almost forgotten the last time he woke up to the smell of food and was urged to wash up by someone.

When he finished showering and changing, he was surprised to find his doghouse of a home had been cleaned. The curtains, which he never opened when home, were now drawn to the sides, and the windows had just been opened to air out the room. The temperature had dropped a bit, but the fresh air felt good.

Logan Sullivan paused, feeling, miraculously, a little embarrassed. He walked into the kitchen and saw William Sherman fishing out the brand-new bamboo chopsticks he'd never used from boiling water, rinsing them in cold water and setting them aside. He lifted the lid of the clay pot and tasted the stew with a small spoon. The rich aroma wafted out, and Logan Sullivan suddenly realized he was hungry.

He felt as if a string in his heart had been plucked—gently, but the resonance lingered.

"I actually booked two tickets to the Grand Theater for tonight. I wanted to invite you to see a play after dinner," Logan Sullivan suddenly said.

William Sherman looked up at him, turned off the stove, and brought out two plates of simple home-cooked dishes, along with rice and soup, then directed Logan Sullivan, "Help me carry these out."