William Sherman was awakened early the next morning by a strange smell coming from the kitchen. When he woke up, he actually stared blankly for half a minute before remembering where he was. He glanced down at the "evidence" on his wrist, and a faint blush immediately appeared on William Sherman's always somewhat pale face.

Just look at what he did and said last night!

Truly... too embarrassing to recall.

At that moment, someone mumbled, "Morning."

William Sherman looked up to see Logan Sullivan with a pair of chopsticks in his mouth, holding a plastic tray of unknown origin in his hands. The tray was over a meter long, with a row of five grooves, each just big enough to hold a large bowl or a medium-sized plate.

Five spots—if there aren't many people, the standard four dishes and one soup fit perfectly, allowing him to carry everything at once.

...One wonders what kind of person, and how lazy they must be, to invent such a miraculous thing.

And on Logan Sullivan's miraculous tray, there was yet another miracle: from left to right, the tray held a whole row of instant noodle buckets, mixing together into an indescribable smell, each one still steaming.

William Sherman: "..."

Logan Sullivan sat down on the sofa with great flourish and, gesturing grandly, said, "The first on the left is braised beef noodles with hot water, the second is pickled vegetable noodles with hot milk, the one in the middle is mushroom chicken noodles with hot water and a piece of butter microwaved together, the second from the right is seafood noodles—I thought it was a bit bland, so I added a spoonful of sweet bean sauce—and the one on the far right is bacon cream noodles made with hot coffee... This one should be good. Pick whichever you like."

After saying this, he finally felt a bit embarrassed himself: "Well... I can't really make anything else. It's rare for you to come over, and just making two bowls of instant noodles really isn't proper."

So he made five bowls... how generous.

William Sherman's gaze swept over the five steaming buckets of noodles, completely unable to understand why Logan Sullivan hadn't poisoned himself yet.

But fortunately, no matter what he made—even if it were a bowl of arsenic—William Sherman would eat it without changing his expression. In the end, though, Professor Sherman still chose the most ordinary one, and finally gave a roundabout reminder: "These fried things aren't good for your health. You should eat less of them."

Logan Sullivan admitted frankly, "I'm broke lately. If my year-end bonus doesn't come soon, I'll have to go beg my dad for food."

As he said this, he quickly glanced at William Sherman, and a witty remark came to his lips. Logan Sullivan grinned and blurted out, "Looking for a sponsor—I'm good at warming the bed."

William Sherman choked on a mouthful of slightly spicy soup, turned his head, and started coughing violently.

Logan Sullivan chuckled and casually mentioned, "Speaking of which, the end of the year is coming, and it's time to tally up the merits again. Recently, there have been more thieves among humans, and the demon clan and ghost cultivators are all scrambling to do good deeds at the last minute."

William Sherman sat upright, wiped his mouth, and said unhurriedly, "Those who do it intentionally are just chasing superficial cause and effect. True merit isn't so easily gained."

"Hmm," Logan Sullivan, like someone with no sense of taste, drank his concoction of coffee and instant noodle soup, "but you know, there really is someone brazenly breaking the rules."

Of the Four Sacred Artifacts, the Reincarnation Sundial comes first, followed by the Terra-Spike, and the third is the Virtue Quill. Now that the first two have already appeared in the world, William Sherman couldn't help but feel a bit sensitive to the word "merit."

But just as he was about to ask more, Logan Sullivan's phone, which had been tossed aside, started ringing.

Logan Sullivan hurriedly put down his instant noodle cup and checked the caller ID: "Speak of the devil, here it comes again."

In just one night, two more people had been admitted to the hospital.

The symptoms were still the same—no illness, no injury, just rolling on the ground clutching their legs. Family members called the police at five in the morning, dragging the officers in charge of the case out of bed.

Poisoning has a terrible impact on public safety, and with the situation worsening—especially during this crucial year-end period for maintaining stability—the local precinct leaders were at their wits' end and could only keep pestering Logan Sullivan.

Carter Shaw and the others had basically concluded that this case would eventually be handed over to the Special Investigation Bureau. As soon as the workday started, they'd submit the report, so Logan Sullivan couldn't just shirk responsibility.

But with all the procedures, the fastest it could be done was half a day or a full day, so Logan Sullivan could only promise over the phone that he would personally visit the hospital today.

Chapter 51 Virtue Quill …

As far as Logan Sullivan was concerned, he didn't want to bring any third wheels except for William Sherman. But due to the strong protests of the black cat Darrin Grant over the past two days, Logan Sullivan managed to squeeze out a bit of responsibility from his love-struck brain and called Charles Gray before leaving, asking him to come along—partly for fun... oh, no, to give him some on-the-job training in practice.

Poor Officer Gregory, after half a year on the job, still knew next to nothing, and only now was he getting a taste of real training.

Charles Gray was a sincere kid and naturally didn't dare keep his boss waiting. As soon as he got the call, he dashed out at lightning speed, afraid of getting stuck in rush hour traffic. He ran all the way into the subway station, boarded at the most crowded section, got pushed out of the train twice, and finally, on the third try, was shoved in by a formidable auntie just before the doors closed.

Working up a real sweat, Charles Gray arrived at the hospital entrance, only to realize he was way too early. The day-shift doctors were just starting to trickle in, and as for his boss—who knew which land of bliss he was still lost in.

Charles Gray rubbed his hands and hunched his neck, waiting in the freezing winter of Blackstone for over two hours. He went through a whole pack of tissues blowing his nose and was nearly frozen into an icicle before the long-overdue Logan Sullivan finally arrived... oh, and Professor Sherman as well.

Charles Gray was so cold he could barely speak. He opened his mouth: "Director Z-Z-Z-Zhao..."

Logan Sullivan was amused by his appearance: "When did you get here? How long have you been waiting?"

Charles Gray: "A-a-almost three hours."

"Why didn't you call me or find somewhere to stay warm?"—Logan Sullivan didn't ask this, as he was already used to it. If Charles Gray weren't so clueless, would he still be Charles Gray?

Instead, William Sherman asked in surprise, "If you got here early, why didn't you go inside?"

Logan Sullivan locked the car and casually tossed the keys to Charles Gray, snorting, "He didn't dare."

Caught out, Charles Gray sniffled hard and sneaked a glance at William Sherman.

William Sherman noticed and nodded kindly at him. "Good morning. Have you had breakfast?"

Charles Gray nodded while his mind wandered: Why is Director Zhao bringing 'family' during work hours?

It seemed like the boss was the one acting out of line, but Charles Gray still felt like a giant third wheel and was terribly embarrassed. Seeing William Sherman and Logan Sullivan talking quietly ahead, he only dared to follow three steps behind, shoulders hunched and head down, shivering miserably like a little eunuch trailing after them.

But it happened to be flu season, and the hospital was packed. As soon as Charles Gray lagged behind, he was immediately separated by the crowd. He struggled to push his way out, craning his neck to look for the other two. By the time he finally fought his way through, Logan Sullivan and William Sherman were nowhere to be seen.

Luckily, Charles Gray had been here once before and knew to take the stairs up to the sixth floor inpatient ward.

As soon as he reached the sixth floor, a group of doctors and nurses hurried past, pushing a patient. Charles Gray quickly stepped aside to let them through.

As he turned, he accidentally caught sight of the hospital window.

Ever since he'd seen "unclean things" reflected in glass several times, Charles Gray had developed a psychological block. He'd gotten into the habit of drawing the curtains and turning on the TV at home, covering reflective tables with cloth, and only opening his laptop when he needed it.

But even so, with just a casual glance, Charles Gray's eyes were drawn to the glass.

He saw a man outside the sixth-floor window—thin, wearing a tattered wool hat, with rough-skinned ears and graying hair sticking out from under it, and a similarly ragged cotton coat.

Charles Gray instinctively sensed something was off, and his heart started pounding. But sometimes, the more afraid you are, the less you can control your eyes.

As Charles Gray's gaze slowly moved downward, he couldn't help but open his mouth wide in shock—he saw that the man was suspended in midair, and from the waist down, he had no legs!