William Sherman slowly lowered his head, meeting his gaze, and felt that the look in that man's eyes seemed just as it always had—once the teasing was gone, all that remained was a tenderness hidden so, so deep. If you managed to catch even a fleeting glimpse of it, you couldn't help but drown in it.

William Sherman felt as if he had been torn in two—one half so happy he could float away, the other sinking deep into the bottomless depths of the Yellow Springs. For a moment, he thought he was about to go mad.

Thousands of years of lonely desolation had never driven him insane, yet just a couple of offhand remarks from that man sent him soaring and crashing, unable to control his emotions.

No wonder the ancients said: The living can die, the dead can live. If the living cannot be with the dead, and the dead cannot return to life, then that is not the extremity of love.

So utterly bewitched, how could he remember what night it was?

Chapter 50: The Merit Brush …

William Sherman was shaken to his core, almost unable to keep his composure.

Only now did he realize that, for a thousand years, he had not passed through life in ignorance or numbness, nor had he been without grievance. The words Logan Sullivan spoke had only ever appeared in his dreams. On one hand, he knew perfectly well that such things were impossible; on the other, he couldn't help but hope.

That hope was like a single thread of spider silk, keeping him alive.

He lived for this person, and because of this person, he had made it this far.

Yet what could break the hardest heart was never the long years of wind and frost, but rather a hand suddenly reaching out halfway, or a gentle voice whispering in his ear: "Come home."

For a moment, he wanted to ask, why did he have to be the Soulwarden? Why could even the mayflies, born and dead in a day, pair up under the sun and rain, and the birds, braving wind and dew, still find a perch among the branches—yet in all the world, he, born unique, had not a single inch of space to call his own?

Everyone feared him, schemed against him with obsequious humility, even went to great lengths to see him dead.

Born of chaos, violence, and ferocity, there were always times when he could not suppress the urge to kill. Murderous intent surged like a tide, and he wanted to cut down every last one of them.

But that... wouldn't do. In the end, he silently kept a promise only he knew, and by now, it had been thousands of years. He dared not stray even a little, because it was almost the only connection left between him and that person.

Logan Sullivan saw that William Sherman's eyes were red, as if they might bleed at any moment.

Who knows how long passed before William Sherman finally, ever so slowly, shook his head.

He heard William Sherman whisper softly, "I am an ill-omened person. I will only hurt you."

Logan Sullivan lifted the corners of his mouth in a playful smile, two shallow dimples appearing on his cheeks: "Alright, do you want to see whether your attack power is stronger, or my blood is thicker? Hey, by your logic, if I want something auspicious, I should marry a lucky cat. Cough... isn't that a bit much?"

William Sherman didn't catch the joke, nor did he intend to respond. His palm was nearly bleeding from his own grip, and at last he couldn't help but blurt out, "How can you... how can you force me like this?"

Logan Sullivan's smile gradually faded. He turned and stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray.

The first time he saw William Sherman, he felt a liking for him. At first, he thought it was just a preference for that type, but he overlooked the innate sense of familiarity. The origins and consequences of the Soulwarden, Logan Sullivan hadn't had time to investigate, but he always couldn't bear to ask.

Because he always felt that William Sherman seemed to carry a lot of pain inside. Otherwise, why did he always bring such a chill with him whenever he appeared in his black robes?

Wasn't he cold?

"I'm sorry." Logan Sullivan was silent for a while, then gently pried open William Sherman's fingers, cupping them in his palm. He bent down and kissed the back of his hand lightly, then casually tossed the extremely valuable house deed aside.

William Sherman closed his eyes, feeling utterly shameless.

If he wanted to hide, why not hide farther away? Why not just stay quietly in the Yellow Springs? Then, even if Logan Sullivan lived ten lifetimes, they would never meet. The other might never even know he existed. But he just couldn't help himself.

He thought he was like a shameless whore, deliberately flaunting himself in the street, waiting for someone to come by, only to then put on a show of chastity and coy resistance.

He had always despised his own heart, and now that feeling was stronger than ever.

Logan Sullivan lay down on the bed, gently rubbing his temples. At this moment, he said in a low voice, "I have other things too, but you probably wouldn't care for most of them. Only this bit of sincerity... if you don't want it, then just forget it."

These words hit William Sherman's heart like a stone. He remembered, long ago, someone had also sighed in his ear, seemingly offhand, but for once lowering their voice, saying word by word: "I possess all the famous mountains and rivers under heaven. It's nothing special, just a pile of rocks and wild streams. All I really have to offer is this bit of true feeling—do you want it? Take it."

Just like before, vivid as ever.

Suddenly, he hugged Logan Sullivan tightly, as if using all his strength, squeezing his bones until they creaked, burying his face in his neck.

When bold people are troubled, they either weep loudly or howl at the sky.

But William Sherman, he simply leaned over Logan Sullivan's shoulder and bit down on his own wrist. He didn't even know how hard he bit, but blood immediately gushed out, the wound nearly to the bone.

Yet he still seemed to feel no pain.

The weight of the underworld pressed down on him, and he could shed no tears. When the pain reached its limit, perhaps all he could do was bleed.

Logan Sullivan smelled blood and immediately sensed something was wrong: "William Sherman! What are you doing! Let go!"

William Sherman only held him tighter.

A human life lasts only a few decades, passing in a flash, like a fleeting shadow. William Sherman suddenly wondered, was he not even worthy of this sliver of time?

"William Sherman!" As William Sherman was lost in thought, Logan Sullivan finally struggled free from his grip and sat up abruptly, discovering that the bedsheet was already stained red. He was instantly furious, almost cursing William Sherman as if he were Charles Gray, "Are you out of your mind?! Even if I were Pigsy, I wouldn't go around snatching men in broad daylight! You shook your head—did I say anything? Did I? Was it necessary to go and bleed all over the place?!"

Then, in a fit of irritation, he wanted to jump up and rummage for the first aid kit, but William Sherman suddenly reached out and grabbed him.

"I've accepted it."

Logan Sullivan heard William Sherman say softly.

Logan Sullivan was stunned for a moment, and William Sherman smiled, in a tone completely different from before—almost calm—as he continued, "I've accepted it. In this life, through life and death, I will never let go of you again. Even if one day you get tired, annoyed, or want to leave, I will never let you go. Even if I have to strangle you, I'll hold you to death in my arms."

Logan Sullivan: "..."

He blinked, finally seeming to understand what William Sherman meant.

Only then did he finally catch a whiff of something belonging to the Soulwarden from this person who usually seemed just like "Teacher Sherman".

And then Logan Sullivan made no comment on these sweet yet ruthless words. He simply, without a word, dragged a first aid kit out from under the bed, pulled out some disinfectant wipes, sat down on the edge of the bed with a frown, took William Sherman's bloody wrist, wiped away the blood—his touch gentle, though his words were not: after a long while, Logan Sullivan finally sighed and commented, "You really are a pain in the ass."

When it was all over, Logan Sullivan was truly exhausted. The Special Investigation Bureau was full of all sorts of inhuman things, none of whom could be relied on. He never got a moment's peace, as if he was born to toil. After such an emotionally draining night, even the mood for lust was gone. He changed the bloody sheets, then collapsed onto the bed, and within moments, his breathing was steady.

This time, he really fell asleep.

William Sherman raised his hand to look at his wrist, now neatly and tightly bandaged. He gently lifted the other side of the blanket, moving with breathless care, and slowly lay down on the half of the bed Logan Sullivan had left for him.

He opened his hand, took hold of Logan Sullivan's, and pressed it to his own chest before closing his eyes.

William Sherman never expected that one day he would be able to sleep through the whole night. He had never been favored by sweet dreams, and almost never knew what it was to have a dreamless night.

For him, this was a happiness he had not felt in a very, very long time.