Logan Sullivan slept all the way down the mountain in the passenger seat. By the time he was jolted awake by the ringing of his phone in his pocket, it was already past noon and the sun was starting to dip westward. The car had long since left the snowy mountains, and there were now scattered houses on both sides of the highway.

The caller was Brother Langston. Brother Langston apparently really needed something from Logan Sullivan, because as soon as he heard they were down from the mountain, he enthusiastically arranged a place for them to stay and insisted that since they hadn’t had enough fun last time, this time they absolutely had to drink until they dropped.

After hanging up, Logan Sullivan immediately looked miserable—he was neither a drunkard nor a superman, and what he wanted most right now was a bed to sleep on until the end of time, not to force himself to drink and shoot the breeze with a chubby old man acting like brothers.

This sudden bad news hit him like a bereavement, leaving him in such low spirits that he didn’t even feel like teasing William Sherman. He put down the phone and squeezed in as much sleep as he could, hoping to rest up before the tough battle that awaited him that evening.

William Sherman waited until his breathing was steady before reaching out to pull the blanket over him properly.

When Brother Langston picked them up at the intersection of the main road downtown, Logan Sullivan, who had been listless all day, seemed to come back to life, turning once again into a lively, energetic man.

When the two of them got together, it was all wild talk and tall tales, boasting about everything under the sun. In no time, they’d finished off half a bottle of baijiu. Brother Langston’s tongue was already thick, but his spirits were still high as he excitedly shouted to open another bottle.

Logan Sullivan kept a straight face, looking as if half a jin of liquor was nothing more than water to him, but his complexion was starting to turn pale.

Brother Langston, in his booming voice, directed the waiter, “Fill them up! Fill them all up for us!”

Logan Sullivan couldn’t very well refuse, so he had to put on a show of generosity and nodded to the waiter. But when he lowered his head, his bold smile turned a bit bitter.

Brother Langston stood up and declared, “Me, I’m not educated, can’t talk fancy, just a rough guy. The luckiest thing in my life is meeting good brothers like you. What’s that saying, ‘A friend from afar, isn’t it…’ how does it go? Eh, whatever, you know what I mean—cheers!”

Logan Sullivan had no choice but to pick up his glass at the “how does it go” part. Just then, William Sherman, who had been silent at the side, suddenly pressed down on his hand.

Both Brother Langston and Logan Sullivan were taken aback.

William Sherman picked up Logan Sullivan’s glass and stood up, nodding politely to Brother Langston before saying, “Chief Zhao caught a bit of a cold from the wind at the mountaintop, and he’s not feeling well right now.”

Logan Sullivan immediately played along, lowering his head and coughing a few times.

William Sherman smiled. “It’s us who have shamelessly enjoyed Mr. Langston’s hospitality all the way, but we’re just poor students from the ivory tower, with nothing to repay you. So, let me drink this toast to you.”

With that, he clinked glasses with Brother Langston and downed the whole drink.

Brother Langston was a bit surprised and let out an “Aiya”—he knew what kind of person he was, and being drinking buddies with a rascal like Logan Sullivan was fine, but when it came to these high-minded intellectuals, he knew they looked down on him, so he never tried to force himself on them.

He hadn’t expected William Sherman to suddenly do this, and it was a brand new experience in Brother Langston’s drinking career. Without another word, he gulped down his own drink, and then, as if discovering a new continent, he turned his attention, a bit tipsily, to William Sherman.

Logan Sullivan glanced around the table—he saw the fake monk Julian West, who was avoiding trouble by claiming “cultivators don’t drink,” chanting sutras while gnawing on a big bone, grease all over his mouth. Holly Harlow, pretending to be pure, said, “Girls should drink red wine,” but was happily eating away. Carter Shaw had barely touched his half glass of wine before playing dead, and Charles Gray… Charles Gray, the honest kid, had already been knocked out—he probably wasn’t faking, he was really “dead” drunk. In short, not a single one of them stepped up to help him out.

Logan Sullivan secretly ground his teeth, made a mental note against each of them, and while chatting, kept piling food onto William Sherman’s plate to keep him from drinking too much. Then, using his own skills at toasting and talking circles, he teamed up with William Sherman to finally drink Brother Langston, the troublemaker at the table, under the table. Only then did he feel relieved.

William Sherman was clearly not used to this kind of socializing. His cheeks were already flushed, his eyes a bit dazed. When he tried to stand up, he lost his balance and plopped right back down. Logan Sullivan quickly caught him and whispered in his ear, “Hey, are you okay? Can you handle it?”

William Sherman swayed without answering, but took the opportunity to wrap an arm tightly around his waist.

Well… clearly, he was not okay.

Chapter 43: The Mountain and River Awl …

Logan Sullivan had no choice but to support William Sherman by the arm, half-carrying, half-dragging him up. Fortunately, William Sherman held his liquor well—when drunk, he just went quiet and did whatever he was told, without any drunken nonsense.

Logan Sullivan pulled himself together, quickly settled the others, and finally, supporting William Sherman, swiped open the door to the room next to his own. He hesitated for a moment, but for once decided not to take advantage of the situation.

He sat William Sherman down on the bed, letting him sit up on his own. Looking at Professor Sherman’s blank, expressionless face, he couldn’t help but reach out and ruffle his hair. “Can’t hold your liquor but still take drinks for others—who else is as silly as you?”

William Sherman looked up at him as he did, staring without blinking.

“Wait, let me get you a towel to wipe your face.” Logan Sullivan said, heading into the bathroom. He took two hotel towels, soaked one in cold water and one in hot, and was about to bring them to the drunken cat when he turned around and got a shock—William Sherman had, at some point, silently appeared behind him, leaning against the doorway, not making a sound, just staring at him intently.

His gaze was so deep it was almost oppressive.

Logan Sullivan handed a towel to William Sherman. “Here.”

William Sherman seemed slow to react. After a long moment, he finally raised his hand, but instead of taking the towel, he grabbed Logan Sullivan’s wrist and, using brute force, pulled him toward himself.

Logan Sullivan had already sensed something was off with William Sherman, and the atmosphere was unusual, but he was more than happy to go along with it. He didn’t resist at all and let himself be pulled over.

William Sherman pressed him hard against the wall, sealing his lips in a near-biting kiss.

Logan Sullivan immediately tasted blood, which excited him. Unhurried, he wrapped his arms around William Sherman’s back, his nimble fingers slipping under William Sherman’s shirt, caressing his back with a hint of mischief. He noticed the skin under his hand was a bit cooler than normal, like warm, smooth jade… except this piece of “jade” was currently tearing at his clothes rather roughly.

Logan Sullivan indulgently tilted his head back, letting him tear away, while one hand continued downward, slipping into William Sherman’s waistband with ill intent.

But before he could get any further, he was suddenly lifted up by the waist. Caught off guard, his feet left the ground, he spun quickly in the air, and then was thrown heavily onto the bed.

The big bed creaked under the strain, but luckily the hotel’s pillows were soft and the comforter thick, so it didn’t hurt. Logan Sullivan half-jokingly cried out, “Ouch,” then wiped the blood from his lips with his finger and chuckled, “Babe, you’re really something.”

William Sherman looked down at him, his dark eyes swirling with intense, indescribable emotions that seemed about to overflow.

A faint blush spread across his face, making him even more attractive in the dim light. Logan Sullivan felt his heart skip a beat, reached up to take off his glasses, half sat up, pulled William Sherman’s waist into his arms, tugged down his collar, and slid his hand down his shirt, unbuttoning it as he went, revealing a pale but not weak body.

Logan Sullivan’s eyes darkened as he kissed his chest slowly, murmuring with a hint of a nasal tone, “I was planning to let you off, but you’re the one throwing yourself at me.”

Before he finished speaking, William Sherman suddenly grabbed his shoulders and pushed him away a bit, then leaned in and bit Logan Sullivan’s throat, pinning his wrists firmly to the bed.

Logan Sullivan could feel the man on top of him breathing harder and harder, as if he wanted to swallow him whole.

His passion and initiative surprised Logan Sullivan, and being bitten a bit hard made him laugh softly. He struggled a little and said, “Alright, babe, don’t be in such a hurry, you…”