Charles Gray carried a small notebook with him, just like the “New Employee Workplace Code of Conduct” online advised, trailing eagerly behind Carter Shaw, not daring to say a word too much, wanting to jot down everything he saw.

As soon as the two entered the hospital, they saw a young police officer waiting at the entrance. Both sides showed their IDs and walked together toward the ward.

The one receiving them was called Little Adam. As they walked, he said, “Our supervisor is inside too. We just communicated with Director Sullivan on the phone. This case is particularly nasty. The family called the police, saying someone maliciously sold toxic food. The poisoned person is lying inside, and up to now, the hospital still hasn’t figured out what kind of poison he took.”

Carter Shaw asked, “Food poisoning? What kind of food?”

“Fruit,” Little Adam said. “Apparently, the victim got off work late the night before and hadn’t had dinner yet. According to the family, he just gnawed on an orange he bought by the roadside. As soon as he finished eating, he collapsed and was rushed to the hospital— I’ve heard of poisoning water or adding additives to food, but this is the first time I’ve seen someone poison fruit.”

As he spoke, he pushed open the ward door, and a deafening scream erupted from inside. Charles Gray was startled, tiptoed, and peeked out from behind Carter Shaw.

On the hospital bed lay a man, probably in his thirties or forties, struggling nonstop. Several doctors and nurses were working together to hold him down, and beside them was a weeping woman, probably a family member.

The man on the bed clung tightly to a doctor’s hand, nearly peeling the skin off, wailing in an abnormally neurotic voice, “My leg, my leg is broken… my leg! Ah! Ah!”

He cried and howled, the veins on his neck bulging.

“Help! Save me… my leg is broken… it hurts so much, help… it hurts!”

“His leg?” Carter Shaw turned to ask Little Adam, “Didn’t you say it was food poisoning? What’s wrong with his leg?”

“He’s perfectly fine,” Little Adam said. “Not even a bruise. They took X-rays and found nothing wrong— that’s what’s so puzzling.”

Carter Shaw walked over, patted a young nurse on the shoulder to make room, then lifted the man’s eyelids, stared at his pupils for a while, checked behind both his ears, then muttered something under his breath, made a grabbing motion with his hand, and pressed his clenched fist firmly against the man’s chest and abdomen.

The man, who had been struggling, suddenly calmed down.

Carter Shaw leaned over and asked, “Does it still hurt now?”

The man finally caught his breath, looked at him gratefully, and shook his head.

The doctors and nurses nearby looked at them as if they were members of a cult.

So Carter Shaw let go without a shred of sympathy, completely ignoring the renewed screams behind him, turned to Charles Gray and said, “We’re done here. Let’s go back and write the report.”

Charles Gray: “……”

That’s it? Um… what exactly just happened?

William Sherman’s elective class that day was in the evening. Watching the last group of students leave, he packed up his things and returned to his residence in the human world, unable to resist checking his phone a few times along the way… as if he really cared about the time.

His phone only had three functions: making calls, sending texts, and checking the time. The games were pre-installed, and he had never played them.

William Sherman didn’t like this thing. He always felt that letters were more convenient. For urgent matters, he could write a note; if it wasn’t urgent, he could take his time, and writing a longer letter was no problem. Unlike phone calls— whenever he remembered that calls were charged by the minute, he felt as if someone was watching him speak, which made him very uncomfortable.

And opening a letter was itself a joy full of anticipation, especially when the sender was someone very special to him. Only the other person’s handwriting could stir the deepest longing, and those letters could be treasured for a long time.

Unfortunately, Logan Sullivan never wrote letters. He even found signing for packages troublesome because his name had too many strokes, so he would just scribble a messy “赵” and send the courier away. For Soulwarden, he would have a puppet deliver a verbal message; for “William Sherman”, it was endless text message bombardment.

The cold, printed characters of text messages looked no different from the balance notifications from the telecom company. Although William Sherman hadn’t deleted a single one, he always felt uncomfortable… But now he didn’t have to get used to it, because since returning from the snowy mountains, Logan Sullivan hadn’t bothered him again.

That was fine too, William Sherman thought. A mortal’s life lasts only a few decades, which to him was just a fleeting moment. After death, all the events of this life would be insignificant, and by then, Logan Sullivan would forget him all over again.

William Sherman turned and pushed open his always-closed bedroom door. As soon as the door opened, the lights inside automatically came on.

Inside, there was no bed, no table, and no chairs. There were several portraits on the wall, their frames showing their age. Each depicted a man— front view, side view, back view— his clothing and style changing with the eras, but the person was always the same, even the subtlest expressions between his brows meticulously captured, unchanged through lifetimes.

Later, the old, space-consuming portraits were replaced by photos of various sizes: as a teenager, as an adult… some smiling, some frowning, some chatting and joking with others, and one where a cat had leapt onto his head, and he was ducking and cursing.

All of them were Logan Sullivan, and only him.

William Sherman felt that some things were best left for him alone to know and remember. When the time was right, he would disappear alone as well, preferably without anyone noticing— because he was someone who shouldn’t exist in the first place.

Until then, the only indulgence William Sherman allowed himself was to secretly steal a few more glances at that person when he wasn’t aware.

He would sneak into Logan Sullivan’s house late at night, but that man was very alert, so he never dared stay long. Fortunately, Logan Sullivan had many dinner engagements recently and usually came home half-drunk, so William Sherman dared to get a little closer.

Coming and going without a sound.

William Sherman took a lingering look at the wall full of photos and portraits, then turned and disappeared into a swirl of black mist.

He swiftly crossed the Road to the Underworld, where at the head of the Naihe Bridge, Grand Arbiter and a group of ghost messengers—Reaper Twins, Oxhead and Horseface, and others—were waiting to greet him.

Judge was a fair-skinned, slightly plump middle-aged man with kind eyes and a gentle face, not at all frightening. When he saw William Sherman, he greeted him with utmost respect and a beaming smile: “Sir, the Ten Lords of the Underrealm have requested your presence.”

By the desolate, wailing Naihe Bridge, William Sherman’s delicate features looked a bit cold. He nodded slightly to the ghost messengers, not even lifting his eyelids, and replied politely, “Thank you for your trouble.”

Judge, reading the mood, said cautiously, “Last time we delivered the Ledger of Fates to Grandmaster, it was indeed thoughtless of us, and we nearly exposed your whereabouts. We are truly deeply sorry.”

William Sherman glanced at him impassively, nearly making Judge break out in a cold sweat.

The old man immediately tried to curry favor: “But all records related to Warden of Highspire from back then have been thoroughly cleaned up. I guarantee there’s not a trace left, not even a clue. Now that Grandmaster is in the human world, as long as that Spirit Mask keeps his mouth shut, he absolutely won’t find out anything. Besides, Grandmaster is so upright and pure, someone as filthy as Spirit Mask probably wouldn’t dare ‘wake’ him.”

William Sherman gave a faint, indescribably mocking smile, but said nothing— he really had nothing pleasant to say.

Judge gave a dry laugh and wiped his sweat with his sleeve.

He himself felt that the underworld had been far too blatant in delivering the Ledger of Fates to Logan Sullivan, but what could he do?

It wasn’t his decision to make.

Above him were ten great deities, who even hinted that he should secretly probe what Soulwarden was thinking, whether his stance was wavering— but Soulwarden, though always silent and seemingly gentle and accommodating, was as clear-minded as a mirror.

No one was a fool. He was old and had no desire to find out just how sharp that Soulcleaver was.

Besides, if they really woke that great deity, would he ever sit on the same bench as them?

Wasn’t it because he was too unconventional that he was punished and demoted back then?

Chapter 48 Virtue Quill …

“After going out to investigate, we need to write a routine briefing. I type slowly, so you do it.” Carter Shaw poured himself a cup of tea and lounged comfortably in the recliner. “I’ll dictate.”

Charles Gray immediately sat up straight at the computer, as if he were about to take charge of a major project.