He hadn’t yet said what he meant by “but” when a tiny flash of light suddenly flickered before his eyes. Logan Sullivan frowned, immediately shifted to a lower gear, then carefully tapped the brakes, finally bringing the car to a stop.

The class monitor asked nervously, “What’s wrong? Is there something wrong with the car?”

William Sherman waved his hand. “The car’s fine. There seems to be a light ahead. You two stay put, I’ll go take a look.”

Logan Sullivan: “You saw it too?”

William Sherman met his gaze, both of their expressions turning grave.

The girl, sensitive by nature, instinctively sensed something was off. “Is... is it the streetlights?”

“There are no streetlights on this road. Just sit tight.” Logan Sullivan glanced back at her. “There’s chocolate and beef jerky in the back. If you’re hungry, help yourself.”

With that, he pushed open the car door and got out, with William Sherman following close behind.

At some point, the wind had stopped, but the surroundings grew even colder—not the biting chill of ice and snow, but a damp cold that seeped from the inside out, lingering in the bones. Everything was eerily quiet; the sound of wind, the falling snow, all had vanished. Even footsteps were unconsciously muffled.

The light in the distance was cold as well, flickering on and off, like someone carrying a lantern. It inexplicably brought to mind the white paper lanterns used in old-time funerals. Now that they were out of the car, it seemed even closer than before.

Logan Sullivan’s narrowed eyes suddenly widened. He yanked open the car door, shoved William Sherman inside, then turned and waved at the others who had stopped and gotten out to check, signaling from afar for them to get back in their cars and not come out. He then quickly climbed in himself and locked the doors with practiced ease.

In that brief moment, the light had drawn even closer, and they could vaguely make out human figures.

Logan Sullivan turned around and quickly said to the two students in the car, “No matter what you see in a moment, keep your mouths shut. Don’t press your faces to the windows, and don’t make a sound.”

It was so cold that a layer of condensation had formed on the car windows. Only the front windshield, where the wipers had just stopped, remained relatively clear. In the distance, they could see a person carrying a lantern leading the way, followed by a large crowd, all walking toward them. Looking closer, there were men and women, old and young, but all were in tattered clothes, as if they had just fled from a disaster.

So many people... why would they be walking on the road?

“Who are those people?” the class monitor asked in a trembling whisper.

“They’re not people,” Logan Sullivan said quietly. “They’re ghost soldiers passing through.”

The girl clapped a hand over her mouth. By now, she could see their faces—each one dull-eyed, with all sorts of bizarre wounds. The strangest was the one at the front carrying the paper lantern. He—or she—had no face, just a very tall hat that covered everything down to the chin, leaving only a deathly pale tip of the chin exposed. The whole figure was as white as if made of paper.

His feet and shoulders were perfectly still, his body rigid, looking like a ghostly white kite drifting over on the wind.

He didn’t look at the road, but veered around Logan Sullivan’s car in a straight line. Even as he passed by, through the now-foggy window, the girl saw the “paper person” pause for a moment, bowing twice toward the car. Logan Sullivan nodded slightly in return, and only then did the “person” continue drifting forward, the crowd following behind, all heading along the mountain road.

Only when these strange people had disappeared from sight did Logan Sullivan get out of the car, open the trunk, and pull out a flashlight. He said to William Sherman, “Something might have happened up ahead. I’ll go check it out. You look after the kids.”

William Sherman unconsciously frowned again.

Logan Sullivan squeezed his hand, feeling his own lingering warmth being hungrily drawn away by the other, and for some reason, a trace of tenderness welled up in his heart.

“Don’t frown,” Logan Sullivan said. “It’ll be fine.”

Chapter 29: The Mountain and River Awl …

The wind that had just died down in the mountains suddenly sprang to life, turning bitterly cold in an instant, whipping the snow on the ground high into the air and lashing it against their faces like handfuls of tiny knives.

In a flash, Logan Sullivan’s tall, thin figure was swallowed up, the world turning bleak, the flashlight beam as weak as a firefly.

Twenty minutes passed, and he still hadn’t returned. William Sherman finally couldn’t sit still any longer.

“Don’t move around, and don’t get out of the car,” he told the students. “Hand me a flashlight. I’ll go look for him and be right back.”

“Professor,” the class monitor called after him, worried, “do you think something might have happened?”

William Sherman paused. In the dim light, it was as if everything about him was hidden behind the thin lenses of his glasses, impossible to read. After a moment, he spoke in his usual gentle, soft voice: “No. With me here, what could possibly happen to him?”

With that, he wrapped his coat tighter, pushed open the door, and strode out.

The class monitor stared blankly for a while, then blurted to the bespectacled student beside her, “That’s not what I meant. I was asking if something happened up ahead, if the road’s blocked.”

The bespectacled student replied, “…I know.”

The two students exchanged glances. In such a terrifying moment, it felt as if they’d just learned something… well, something they probably shouldn’t know.

A hoarse bird cry sounded nearby. William Sherman wiped the snow from his glasses with effort and looked up, only to see a bird standing in the endless expanse of snow.

It seemed to be a crow, but much larger than usual, with long tail feathers trailing behind it. Its blood-red eyes stared straight at him, unafraid, even regarding William Sherman with a curious interest.

William Sherman trudged forward a few steps. The big bird watched him quietly for a moment, then threw back its head and let out a long, mournful cry. Afterward, it closed its eyes and bowed its head, its beak nearly touching the ground, as if mourning something in silence.

The wind-driven snow was swirling so thickly it seemed to form a film before his eyes. Before long, William Sherman felt numb with cold—not stiff, but truly numb, as if the blood in his veins had stopped flowing and even his nerve endings had frozen.

Yet, miraculously, William Sherman managed to pick up a scent through his frozen senses—a smell that was foul but not overpowering, as if something rotten and filthy was buried deep beneath the snow.

He suddenly stopped, staring intently at a patch of pristine snow ahead. The snow there was subtly bulging, quickly moving toward the mountaintop.

Something was moving underground!

William Sherman’s mind went blank. For a moment, he almost forgot who he was. His hand at his side clenched unconsciously, veins standing out starkly against his pale skin, and a fierce, indescribable anger churned in his dark eyes.

Under his gaze, the whole snowy field seemed to boil, restlessly surging, the movement growing more intense. Whatever was hidden beneath was about to burst forth…

Just then, a voice suddenly called from behind him.

“Didn’t I tell you to wait in the car? Why did you come out?”

William Sherman jolted, the murderous look in his eyes vanishing instantly, leaving him dazed. Before he could turn around, something warm wrapped around him. Logan Sullivan, whether truly unafraid of the cold or just putting on a brave face, had taken off his coat and wrapped it around William Sherman, his body heat seeping through the thin wool sweater.

Logan Sullivan’s face, blue with cold, managed a stiff but warm smile. “Were you looking for me?”

“Don’t answer him, don’t answer him!” a voice screamed in William Sherman’s mind, but he seemed bewitched, nodding involuntarily.

Logan Sullivan chuckled softly, slipped his arm around William Sherman’s shoulders, and all but pulled him into his embrace. The two were about the same height, so walking like this was a bit awkward, but Logan Sullivan simply clipped the flashlight to his collar and took William Sherman’s hand.

William Sherman instinctively tried to pull away, but Logan Sullivan gripped him even more firmly.

“Don’t move,” Logan Sullivan whispered in his ear. “Watch your step, the road’s slippery.”

The big bird that had been standing by the roadside suddenly soared into the sky, circled twice, then flew off into the distance.

Following William Sherman’s gaze, Logan Sullivan looked up. “Don’t look at it. That’s a death omen bird. The elders say crows that are especially big with long tail feathers are called death omen birds. You only see them when disaster is about to strike. They never bring good news, only bad.”