Who could have known that this small movement of his would be like triggering some kind of mechanism—William Sherman's actions immediately shifted from slightly rough to utterly frenzied. One hand suddenly slid under his chest, forcefully twisting Logan Sullivan's resisting arm behind his back, gripping the nape of his neck as if intending to strangle him.

Logan Sullivan was forced to tilt his head back, feeling his old bones give a sharp "crack."

William Sherman leaned in, his cold fingers gripping Logan Sullivan's chin, and a barrage of possessive kisses rained down on him. The room's light went "pop" and switched off by itself, plunging them into darkness where only the low, desperate gasps of a man could be heard—like a beast starved for years.

The shirt, which already had only a few buttons fastened, was ripped open with a tearing sound.

"Ugh... that's enough, that's enough, baby... William Sherman!"

Although Logan Sullivan was burning with desire, he had no intention of indulging William Sherman's drunken recklessness. He deftly shifted to the side, nudged the other with his shoulder, and pulled his arm free.

At his low shout, William Sherman's every movement abruptly stopped. Then, without a sound, he collapsed headfirst into Logan Sullivan's arms and went completely still. The hotel room lights, as if someone had flipped a switch, suddenly flickered back on.

The sudden brightness made Logan Sullivan squint. He reached out to flex his painfully twisted shoulder, caught William Sherman, and, with his earlier mood almost entirely gone, gave a wry smile: "Your drunken rampage is really something el—"

He didn't finish the sentence. Logan Sullivan's words cut off abruptly, his eyes flying wide open. The alcohol seemed to evaporate from his pores in an instant—he was shocked completely sober.

In the silent room, he couldn't hear William Sherman's breathing!

Logan Sullivan immediately pressed his hand to William Sherman's neck. For a good ten seconds, he felt no heartbeat.

The flush on William Sherman's face hadn't faded, but he looked just like a corpse.

"William Sherman, William Sherman!" Logan Sullivan turned him over, slapped his face hard, and when William Sherman didn't respond, he pressed down on his chest and performed CPR over and over.

But the man lying on the bed was like a dummy, showing no sign of change.

"Shit!" Logan Sullivan jumped off the bed, grabbed the phone he'd tossed aside, hurriedly shoved the battery back in and turned it on, dialed emergency services, and after a brief explanation, rushed to search through William Sherman's luggage at the doctor's prompting—if he had any chronic illness, maybe he'd have medicine with him.

It was then that Logan Sullivan happened to glance at his own torn shirt.

From his left shoulder to his lower right abdomen, a long diagonal rip had split his thick winter shirt clean in two. The cut was neat and sharp, definitely not along the seam. Logan Sullivan gathered the ragged fabric and recognized the mark of a sharp object.

William Sherman's hands were empty—he didn't even have a nail clipper. Where did the "sharp object" come from?

Logan Sullivan was already half-drunk and a bit lightheaded, and after the shock just now, his mind only now began to clear—people don't just stop breathing and lose their heartbeat at the exact same time without warning. Even a sudden heart attack comes with symptoms. But William Sherman, like the lights in the room, seemed to have a switch: once pressed, he was simply out of power.

Logan Sullivan glanced back at the man lying on the bed, frowned, then pulled a black leather notebook from his computer bag. He slowly walked to the bedside, drew a yellow talisman from the inside cover, picked up a strand of William Sherman's hair, silently wrapped it in the talisman, and held it above the notebook to burn. The fine ashes fell onto the pages, like salt dissolving in water, and vanished instantly.

Moments later, a line of writing appeared on the yellowed page: "Great Calamity, a man without a soul."

Logan Sullivan's expression didn't change, but his face suddenly took on a grave seriousness. He pressed a hand to the page and asked quietly, "Where did this person come from?"

The writing flickered, then disappeared. This time, it took longer. After a while, another line slowly emerged.

"A thousand feet beneath the Yellow Springs, unspeakable."

Logan Sullivan's face tightened.

After a moment, he quietly tidied up the scene, then somehow produced a few small safety pins, fastening his torn shirt from the inside, and put his outer coat—discarded earlier because of the alcohol smell—back on.

The ambulance arrived soon after, causing another round of chaos as everyone was startled awake, and finally William Sherman was carried away.

The students, one by one, looked lost and panicked, not knowing what to do. Logan Sullivan was firm and decisive, insisting they all stay put, giving Julian West a look to take care of things, and then followed after the ambulance himself.

William Sherman's heartbeat still showed no response. The doctors worked frantically inside, while Logan Sullivan waited silently on the side, knowing full well that there was nothing wrong with the body itself. Most likely, whatever was inhabiting this body had passed out drunk and was now dormant or had left the body, resulting in such a terrifying symptom.

Behind his back, he rubbed open a talisman for summoning spirits. The yellow paper burned silently in his palm. Logan Sullivan lit three or four in a row, but William Sherman still showed no reaction.

Time ticked by, and the doctors were starting to think they were dealing with a corpse.

Logan Sullivan steadied himself and lit a fifth talisman, silently chanting, "Wandering soul, heed my call."

After three repetitions, the nearly burnt-out talisman suddenly flared. The corpse-like William Sherman convulsed violently, and Logan Sullivan heard someone shout, "There's a heartbeat! He's got a heartbeat!"

Only then did he let out a breath, quietly gathering the ashes into his palm and hiding them in his pocket.

William Sherman showed no sign of waking up for the time being.

In the middle of the night, the ambulance delivered William Sherman to the hospital, where a flurry of tests revealed nothing. Logan Sullivan, still not fully sober and having called emergency services in a moment of panic, could only shiver through the cold winter night, keeping vigil.

Even Brother Langston was alarmed in the end. He hadn't expected someone to actually drink themselves into the hospital, so he anxiously rushed over to keep watch, only to be persuaded to leave by Logan Sullivan. The poor guy was so scared his face turned cucumber-green, looking like a trembling autumn cucumber.

When William Sherman woke up, he was covered in tubes. He stared blankly for a moment, seemingly unable to recall what had happened, then sat up and began removing the equipment from his body.

"I'm afraid you'll need to stay for a couple more days of observation," a voice came from the corner. Only then did William Sherman notice Logan Sullivan sitting there, wrapped in a military coat of unknown origin, holding a steaming cup.

"Hospital?" William Sherman was momentarily confused, then his expression changed. "Did I... drink too much?"

Logan Sullivan said, "More than just too much—you drank yourself into cardiac and respiratory arrest."

"I..."

William Sherman hadn't realized his alcohol tolerance was that bad. As he racked his brain for an excuse, Logan Sullivan gently set his cup aside: "But honestly, it's partly my fault. I was a bit out of it, and you startled me. I didn't see clearly and called emergency services in a panic. So, I’m afraid you’ll have to cooperate with the hospital for a few days..."

William Sherman felt more and more that something was off.

Then Logan Sullivan paused, finishing his sentence: "...my lord."

Chapter 44: The Mountain and River Awl …

For several minutes, William Sherman didn't say a word, and Logan Sullivan didn't rush him, sitting motionless in the corner. The hospital room was so quiet you could almost hear the ticking of a watch.

After a long while, William Sherman finally sighed. With a wave of his hand, the hospital gown fell away, and in the blink of an eye, he was seated in a massive black robe. The Soulcleaver appeared in his hand out of thin air, and William Sherman tucked the seemingly ancient weapon at his waist... This time, he didn't bother to cover his face.

"How did you know?" William Sherman asked quietly.

Logan Sullivan looked at him, lost in thought for a moment before finally speaking: "Actually, I wasn't sure. I was bluffing just now."

William Sherman's expression was, for a moment, beyond words.