He was at a loss whether to laugh or cry for a moment, but in the next instant, he understood: Logan Sullivan had probably heard the last words left by the masked man, which was why he was making these measured, slightly sarcastic remarks. On one hand, it made their relationship feel more relaxed and casual; on the other, it was a subtle way of showing that he wouldn’t jump to conclusions or become suspicious just because of a few words from the masked man.

Soulwarden felt a heaviness in his heart—this man was truly shrewd; he always had the sense that... he wouldn’t be able to hide things from him for long.

Zach Warren let out an “ah,” and asked anxiously, “Then how can we let them out? How can we let them rest in peace?”

The voice coming from the dial finally drew the two’s attention back.

“The lord has already taken away the Terra-Spike, so the yin-gathering array at the mountaintop is naturally broken. Once they figure things out and are willing, they’ll come out on their own. The souls trapped inside don’t come out because they don’t want to—besides themselves, who else could truly keep them trapped?” Logan Sullivan paused, then said with meaning, “In the end, wasn’t what happened back then also because of some grievance in people’s hearts?”

Zach Warren fell silent.

Logan Sullivan took out his phone and glanced at it, then reset the time on the dial that had started moving again: “Aren’t you the same, silly girl?”

Zach Warren: “...I am guilty.”

Logan Sullivan said cheerfully, “That’s right, go back and write me a 30,000-word self-criticism, half a year’s bonus deducted, and take a good look at your ideological awareness, Comrade Zach Warren. The spot for the year-end party school training is yours. Later, I’ll have Holly Harlow find you a corpse to wear, so you can attend class properly for me.”

Zach Warren: “...”

She was silent for a while, then said softly, “So, from beginning to end, there was nothing I could do about this, was there?”

Logan Sullivan suddenly laughed: “You fool, only now you realize it.”

Chapter 42 Terra-Spike …

“There will always be some things you’re powerless to change,” Logan Sullivan said, pulling out that old page about the Forbidden Rites of Robra from his tattered wallet, digging a hole and burying it completely under the snow. He clapped his hands, stood up, and continued, “Either become strong enough to solve everything, or forget it all. It’s no good to dwell on useless things—it just takes up memory.”

This time, Zach Warren was silent for even longer.

Soulwarden walked over and held out his hand: “Come on, I’ll escort the Lord Commander to the flat ground at the mountain pass.”

Logan Sullivan was already exhausted. Since he had a ride, of course he didn’t want to walk. He handed his hand over to Soulwarden without hesitation. Soulwarden gave his arm a sharp tug, pulling him into his embrace. The surroundings went black, and before Logan Sullivan could steady himself, when he opened his eyes again, the world had already shifted.

Soulwarden’s cloak unfurled, and in an instant, they were back at the mountain pass.

Soulwarden let go of him, stepped back, then gathered his robes and bowed, turned, and walked away. In the blink of an eye, he disappeared into a huge black hole.

Logan Sullivan watched his back, rubbing his own chin thoughtfully, not sure what he was pondering, when suddenly Zach Warren’s voice came from the dial.

She said, “By the way, Director Sullivan, didn’t you say you left your wallet in the car? Then what was it you just pulled out?”

The inscrutable expression on Logan Sullivan’s face instantly shattered. He clutched his chest in alarm: “What do you want? I’m short on cash lately—if you’re going to rob me, at least rob my looks, not my money! Where’s your man? Why doesn’t he keep an eye on you? Why are you always after someone else’s wallet?”

“He doesn’t understand,” Zach Warren’s tone relaxed a bit. “I heard you’ve been buying up a lot of antique books lately, planning to become an antique dealer. Besides that, what else have you been spending on?”

“A man has to buy a house and land to support his family.” Logan Sullivan put his hands in his pockets and strolled forward, “Little girl, you wouldn’t understand.”

Zach Warren chuckled softly: “I’ve been dead for three hundred years—who’s the little girl?”

Logan Sullivan immediately retorted, “You’re a three-hundred-year-old hag and you still have the nerve to ask me for New Year’s money? Have you no shame?”

The two bantered back and forth, teasing each other in the vast, snowy field. After who knows how long, Zach Warren finally said softly, “Did I forget to say thank you just now...?”

Logan Sullivan smiled, tapping the dial and grumbling, “Don’t think a few sweet words can replace a ten-thousand-word self-criticism. Email it to me next week. On New Year’s Eve, reading out your self-criticism to all comrades is a tradition for those who made mistakes during the year—don’t think you can get out of it.”

By the time Logan Sullivan strolled back to the mountaintop cabin, it was already evening.

Holly Harlow gave him a questioning look, and Logan Sullivan showed her his watch. Holly Harlow understood, took a small handmade yarn doll from her bag, and, pretending to pass by Logan Sullivan, lightly brushed the doll against his watch. Unnoticed by anyone, two wisps of white smoke quickly slipped into the yarn doll’s body, and the palm-sized little figure seemed to come alive, moving slightly in Zach Warren’s hand.

Logan Sullivan glanced around the room and saw that everyone was present and looked well—Carter Shaw was quietly standing guard at the door, with Darrin Grant lying at his feet. Charles Gray was miserably tending to a small pot of who-knows-what, the students were sitting in a circle, listening in shock and awe as the fake monk Julian West told ghost stories, and William Sherman... hmm, where was William Sherman?

Why did he just think everyone was present?

Logan Sullivan’s expression darkened, and he asked Holly Harlow, “Where’s Mr. Sherman?”

Holly Harlow was clearly stunned, a look of confusion flashing across her face for a moment, but only for a moment. Suddenly, a voice sounded behind Logan Sullivan, and William Sherman walked in carrying an armful of firewood, speaking calmly, “Were you looking for me?”

Holly Harlow seemed to remember, slapping her forehead: “Oh right, Mr. Sherman said since we’re staying another night, he was worried we’d run out of fuel, so he went out to find some firewood.”

William Sherman placed the firewood by the fire to dry: “Just in case. Did you find Miss Xiao Wang?”

Logan Sullivan glanced at him and replied casually, “Yeah, found her. We happened to run into the rescue team on the way, and I had something for her to do, so I let them take her back.”

“Oh,” William Sherman turned and smiled gently at him, “That’s good. You’ve been running around outside all day—come have a bowl of banlangen to prevent a cold.”

Logan Sullivan stared at him for a moment, then smiled as if nothing was wrong, walked over, took the medicine, and drank it in one gulp. He never mentioned a word about what happened the night before, or his own doubts.

Logan Sullivan had been living like a non-human these past few days—first, a hangover with Brother Langston, then driving all day in the freezing snow, then a sleepless night, getting knocked down by Zach Warren, injured by the Terra-Spike, trekking twice across the snowy plateau, and even inexplicably fighting a horde of monsters. The aftereffects of such high-intensity activity hit him the next morning.

He woke up with a stiff neck.

Even with a crooked neck, the boss was still the boss. As soon as he woke up, he had everyone running in circles. The little mountain cabin was in utter chaos under his command that morning—Logan Sullivan ordered Julian West to massage his shoulders, but Julian West used the Shaolin Vajra Finger on his neck and almost broke his boss’s neck. Logan Sullivan was nearly brought to tears from the pain, suspecting Julian West of deliberate revenge. The two of them, instead of doing anything useful, chased each other around the cabin for twenty minutes, only stopping when Holly Harlow finally roared, “Are we leaving or not?!”

Logan Sullivan gave Julian West a couple of hard punches, then found his neck could miraculously move again. He put his hands behind his back, strutted into the house to pack up... and picked up Darrin Grant, hanging him around his neck like a fur scarf.

The female class monitor brought by William Sherman exclaimed, “Eh? When did this cat come out? Is it coming with us? I thought it was a stray.”

Logan Sullivan said cheekily, “Have you ever seen such a well-fed stray cat?”

In response, Darrin Grant decisively slapped him with a paw, successfully assaulting his superior.

The class monitor, full of sympathy, came over and stroked Darrin Grant’s sleek fur. “Poor thing, flown all the way here as cargo—oh, Big Brother Sullivan, our teacher said he’ll drive us back so you can get some rest.”

Logan Sullivan, holding his face where the cat had slapped him, paused and looked back at William Sherman.

He happened to meet William Sherman’s gaze. William Sherman lowered his eyes slightly and gave him a gentle smile.

William Sherman’s expressions and words were always so reserved that every look seemed to hide a thousand unspoken words to Logan Sullivan. Suddenly, his heart fluttered, and he remembered the gaze he’d met the night before when he opened his eyes. It was as if someone had pinched his heart—sour and soft all at once.