Logan Sullivan forced a smile and reached out to help him lift his luggage. “Let me take you home. It’s already so late, and if I take you, it’ll be more…”

What he actually wanted to say was “safer,” but before he could get the words out, he unfortunately recalled that day in the alley when he’d helped William Sherman beat up some thugs. Beating them up was one thing, but he’d even deliberately shown off and acted cool, like a dumb peacock strutting around with its tail fanned out, not realizing its own ridiculousness.

The smile on Logan Sullivan’s face almost slipped.

Really… some memories are just too embarrassing to revisit under the moonlight.

“Logan Sullivan,” he turned around and strode resolutely toward the parking lot, saying to himself in his heart, “Just how much of an idiot are you!”

Logan Sullivan drove in silence all the way toward his own home, stopping precisely downstairs from William Sherman’s building. “We’re here.”

William Sherman looked up at the apartment building, remained seated in the car, and asked in return, “How did you know it was here?”

Logan Sullivan was at a loss for words and could only give an awkward laugh.

William Sherman glanced at him, then suddenly said, “Actually, there are still many things you want to ask me, aren’t there?”

Logan Sullivan didn’t reply, and their eyes met in the rearview mirror.

After a moment, William Sherman gently lowered his gaze. “Then why don’t you ask?”

Logan Sullivan was silent for a while. “You’ve taken on this identity in the human world, not just for ordinary duties, right? Is there some other important reason?”

“No,” William Sherman said. “It’s just my own selfishness, just… for one person.”

At this point, who that person was, Logan Sullivan no longer needed to ask.

Chapter 45: The Mountain and River Awl …

William Sherman had barely finished speaking before he regretted it. He didn’t know what meaning there was in saying this to Logan Sullivan, nor did he know what he was secretly hoping for. It was just, in that fleeting moment, he felt truly pathetic and laughable.

William Sherman was used to being reserved, and that sentence was almost like cutting open his chest and laying his heart bare before the other. Yet he didn’t want to know Logan Sullivan’s response; he just felt that he was being indecisive, and that he wasn’t worthy of saying such things to him in the first place.

All his life, he had been decisive and ruthless, never this hesitant. Thinking about it… it was probably because he’d never met someone who could tug at his heartstrings with every joy and anger.

After a moment of silence, William Sherman lowered his head, turned sideways, and pushed open the car door. “Thank you. I’ll head up now.”

Logan Sullivan felt like he was about to split in two. He’d gone to every length to pursue William Sherman for nearly half a year, practically holding him in the palm of his hand. To describe the process: “shameless, would ask for the stars if not the moon.” He figured that even a straight man would be bent by him—yet he would never dare treat Soulwarden that way.

He’d known Soulwarden for years—not close, but at least on good terms—yet no matter what, he couldn’t get truly close. Anyone with a bit of sense and self-awareness would show enough respect to someone as powerful as Soulwarden.

His strength wasn’t just in his power—Soulwarden’s power was innate, that went without saying—but in the person himself.

In places of extreme darkness, only monsters are born, not immortals. There’s a reason for that. When you have nothing, it’s easy to fall; let alone when these shadowy beings are born already holding sharp blades.

Since ancient times, Soulwarden was the only one to rise from filth to divinity. Without a heart as hard as iron, it would be impossible. Logan Sullivan had no doubt that someone like Soulwarden… William Sherman, even if one day he was shattered to pieces and fell into the mud, would still be noble and untouchable.

When William Sherman lowered his head to open the car door, his usually handsome profile looked inexplicably dim. Logan Sullivan himself didn’t know what he was thinking at that moment. Suddenly, he reached out to press the car door. “I’ve never been to Soulwarden’s place before. Aren’t you going to invite me up?”

William Sherman’s eyes seemed to light up for a moment, but in the end, he only nodded politely to Logan Sullivan. “Please.”

Logan Sullivan locked the car and followed William Sherman upstairs, feeling a bit complicated. William Sherman’s home was extremely tidy, especially compared to Logan Sullivan’s own disaster of a doghouse—there were dust covers on the phone and TV, the trash can was spotless, stacks of documents were neatly arranged on the table, and the bedroom door was locked, hiding whatever was inside.

For some reason, though, it felt a little lacking in warmth.

William Sherman: “Have a seat.”

Looking at the perfectly unwrinkled sofa, Logan Sullivan almost felt embarrassed to plop down, so he sat with extra care.

William Sherman turned on the water dispenser with a kettle, filled it with cold water, but didn’t heat it with the machine. Instead, he took the kettle out, and after holding it in both hands for just a moment, the water inside began to boil. He silently took out teacups and a tea canister, brewed the tea, and pushed a cup in front of Logan Sullivan. “I only use this place as a stopover, don’t stay here often, so there’s no fresh tea. Hope you don’t mind.”

Logan Sullivan didn’t mind at all—he couldn’t even tell the difference between fresh and old tea. He picked up the cup, feeling the scalding heat with his fingers, and suddenly asked, “Why did you always keep it from me?”

William Sherman paused. “If I told you, it would just be awkward.”

Logan Sullivan almost laughed in exasperation. “Yeah, you get to avoid the awkwardness, and just watch me be awkward, right? Do you find it fun watching me make a fool of myself? I admit I’m an idiot, but honestly, you weren’t exactly playing fair either.”

William Sherman didn’t argue, just smiled good-naturedly, then changed the subject. “That Masked Wraith we ran into the other day—if you see him again, you must be careful.”

Logan Sullivan lowered his head and blew on the tea leaves floating on top. “Is he after the The Four Saints?”

William Sherman: “Yes.”

“So what happens if the The Four Saints are brought together?” Logan Sullivan asked.

William Sherman: “The The Four Saints were born at the foot of Pangu, before the great order of heaven and earth, at the dawn of time. Back then, there were souls but no spirits, life but no death. Humans were gods, and gods were like ants. The The Four Saints carry the power of primordial chaos. If someone with ill intent gathers and uses them, it could overturn everything. It’s my duty not to let them fall into that person’s hands.”

Logan Sullivan fell silent at this, which made William Sherman a bit uneasy—he wasn’t afraid of Logan Sullivan asking questions, but rather of him not asking. This man was always measured, never overstepping, never asking what shouldn’t be asked, but always having his own guesses. What William Sherman feared most was not knowing how much he’d already guessed.

After a long while, Logan Sullivan finally asked slowly, “Masked Wraith wears a mask. That day, I saw you were wary of his mask. Is it because I know his face?”

He’d noticed it at the time—so that whip aimed at Masked Wraith’s mask was intentional!

William Sherman’s face turned pale. It didn’t really matter what Masked Wraith looked like. Both of them walked between the worlds of yin and yang; a body was just a body, and they both knew that. But the entanglements involved were something he absolutely didn’t want Logan Sullivan to know. Yet William Sherman was too much of a gentleman to lie; he couldn’t make up a story, nor could he bring himself to speak, so he froze, not knowing how to answer.

Unexpectedly, Logan Sullivan immediately cut him off. “Alright, you don’t have to say it. I know who it is, and I won’t ask again. You… don’t frown.”

His last few words unconsciously softened, as if echoing that person’s usual, barely noticeable gentleness. William Sherman felt as if his heart had been gently scratched, his throat dry, unable to say a word.

Logan Sullivan downed the whole cup of tea in one gulp, feeling he’d overstepped, and was a bit apologetic. He stood up and said, “We’ve been running around for so long and a lot has happened. You should rest early. I won’t bother you anymore.”

With that, he headed for the door. He was already outside when William Sherman suddenly called after him, “That day when I was drunk and out of control, besides leaving my body, did I do anything else disgraceful?”

Logan Sullivan paused mid-step.

William Sherman looked a little nervous.

Logan Sullivan turned back and smiled at him. His smiles were usually either cold or mischievous, rarely like this—gentle and full of reassurance. He pointed at himself, half-jokingly, “Of course. You threw yourself at me, and to this day I still feel flattered.”

William Sherman couldn’t tell if he was joking or not, but he could hear the teasing tone, so he could only look at him with a helpless expression. “Everyone else avoids me like the plague, but you’re really bold.”

Logan Sullivan grinned cheekily, though his heart was heavy.

After saying goodbye to William Sherman, he went downstairs. Before getting in the car, he couldn’t help but look up. The lights in William Sherman’s apartment were still on. The floor wasn’t high, and Logan Sullivan had good eyesight—he could see a figure standing at the window, quietly watching him leave.