At that moment, William Sherman seemed to look up, but the night was too dark for Carter Shaw to see his expression. In the next instant, the man vanished into thin air.

Carter Shaw's expression turned grim. "It's here."

Charles Gray: "Huh?"

"Huh what!" Carter Shaw strode over, and just like before, slapped a yellow talisman onto Charles Gray's face. "Shut your mouth! Not a sound."

That peculiar smell grew stronger and stronger. In the northeast corner, Julian West stuffed his phone back into his pocket, his face expressionless as he unscrewed a small medicine bottle in his hand. A cloud of foul black mist shot skyward. Julian West looked up, formed a Buddhist mudra with his hands, his face solemn, almost exuding an aura of sanctity. Yet, instead of following Logan Sullivan's advice to destroy it outright, he began to chant a sutra for the dead in a low voice.

After all, this was once a soul born of heaven and earth, a gathering of the essence of all things, three souls and seven spirits. Perhaps it was new to the world, or perhaps it had been tempered through countless cycles of reincarnation. To enforce the law with violence, as Logan Sullivan did, Julian West couldn't quite bring himself to do it.

However, the low chanting was like playing music to a cow. The resentment was too deep to be soothed, and it couldn't take in such rambling recitations. Instead, it grew larger and larger in the air, unfurling like a monster, roaring skyward. The once clear, starry sky suddenly turned gloomy.

Just then, the silence of the night was shattered by three gunshots. That small mass of resentment instantly broke apart and, within moments, dissipated into the air.

The window on the sixth floor was pushed open from inside. Julian West saw a flicker of firelight. He could almost picture Logan Sullivan frowning, looking down at him from above, and grumbling, "Chanting sutras until you're stupid."

Not everything in this world can be laid to rest. If it could, there would be no need for the Soulbound Order or the Special Investigation Bureau. You might be willing to ferry them across the river of the dead, but they might not be willing to take even a single step.

In the distant wind came a loud roar. Julian West pressed his palms together and silently recited a Buddhist name, then leapt onto a leafless, withered tree. A huge mass of black mist shot like a cannonball toward where he had just been standing, shattering the neatly laid tiles and sending debris flying three feet high. Accompanied by a foul wind came a gigantic human figure, standing four or five meters tall, only the upper half remaining, bones exposed below the waist, black blood dripping as it walked, sizzling as it hit the ground, even melting the stones.

"This really is 'kill gods if gods block the way, kill Buddhas if Buddhas block the way.'" Julian West gave a bitter laugh, but didn't hesitate. He vaulted up to the second-floor window, climbing the hospital's exterior like a giant spider, barehanded, gripping cracks and protruding ledges, moving even faster than an elevator, with the black shadow in hot pursuit.

Julian West climbed all the way to the sixth floor and shouted to the black cat near the window, "Catch it!"

Darrin Grant shot out like a black ball of fur, and the six bells hanging in the corner all rang at once. A woman's sharp cry sounded, and a giant python suddenly darted out from the corner, flicking its tongue to swallow a mass of black mist.

The black shadow chasing Julian West crashed around wildly. The bells rang ever more urgently as the black mist was continuously sucked into the python's mouth, and the half-human shadow began to shrink.

Then, the black shadow suddenly floated in midair, revealing the clear face of a man—the very one Charles Gray had seen before, hair white, eyes blood-red.

Logan Sullivan suddenly stubbed out his cigarette on the windowsill. "Holly Harlow, get out of the way!"

At that moment, the six constantly ringing bells suddenly stopped, falling silent together.

The black cat pounced on the giant python, and as it landed, the python transformed back into a woman. The glass of the sixth-floor window shattered, and the half-bodied man instantly swelled several times in size.

Logan Sullivan bent down, pulled up Holly Harlow, and stood at the window, only two or three meters from the hovering vengeful spirit.

"Soulbound Order." He spoke coolly, as if it were just routine. "You died and didn't find a proper place to reincarnate. It's the New Year—why come out to spread poison?"

The words "New Year" seemed to provoke the spirit. It suddenly stretched out a massive hand, shrouded in thick black mist, reaching for Logan Sullivan's neck.

The whip formed from the Soulbound Order lashed out like a living vine from the man's coat sleeve, instantly wrapping around the giant hand. Man and ghost struggled atop the shattered glass.

Holly Harlow gave Julian West a hard shove. "Are you blind? Go help!"

Julian West, having just played Spider-Man while being chased by the spirit, had sore fingers and was still catching his breath. He pulled a long face. "Help? Help... help with what? That thing is huge! You think too highly of me. What can I do?"

Holly Harlow: "Ring the bell! If you're a monk for a day, ring the bell for a day, got it?"

She shouted so loudly that Julian West's ears buzzed. He couldn't help but say, "Miss, please calm down. I'm just a lay disciple. Have you ever seen a lay disciple ring the bell every day? Besides, Buddha is merciful and deals with dark things. This was a human soul in life—the big bell doesn't have much effect on him. If you can't handle the resentment, do you really think my broken bell can?"

Holly Harlow: "I don't care, just think of something!"

Julian West glanced over at Logan Sullivan, sighed helplessly, and muttered, "Buddha, why couldn't you have made your disciple a bit more handsome?"

With that, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small flask, palm-sized. He opened the lid, and a whiff of oil fragrance wafted out. Julian West looked inside with great reluctance, raised his hand to pour, but Logan Sullivan, as if he had eyes on the side of his head, waved him off. "Save your lamp oil. We don't need it for this."

Just then, the vengeful spirit suddenly broke free from the Soulbind Whip. The whip flicked up high, then silently retracted into his sleeve. The spirit roared, tearing open the window frame, and a massive black mist forced its way in, as if to burst the window apart.

At the same time, Logan Sullivan stepped back, stretched both hands out in front of him, palms forward, fingers spread. In his right hand he held a short knife, and without a sound, he drew the blade across his left palm. Bright red blood immediately flowed into the groove of the knife, then seemed to congeal, unmoving.

A smile suddenly appeared on the man's face.

Darrin Grant, watching nearby, had his fur standing on end and instinctively backed away, leaping into Holly Harlow's arms. That smile was nothing like Logan Sullivan's usual expression. In that instant, his eyes seemed especially deep, his gaze especially cold. The high bridge of his nose cast a large shadow over his face in the black mist, and the upturned corners of his mouth were chillingly sinister.

For a moment, it was impossible to tell who was the real ghost—him or the vengeful spirit in the shadows.

"Nine Hells, heed my command," the voice didn't sound like Logan Sullivan's either—low and hoarse, with an indescribable rasp, as if a dull saw was scraping at your ears. "By blood I swear, by cold iron I prove, I borrow three thousand ghost soldiers—heaven, earth, man, and gods, all can be slain—"

The last few words were spoken one by one, chillingly arrogant. The blood on the blade suddenly turned black, and countless empty suits of armor burst through the pale wall behind him, riding skeletal warhorses, dragging decayed weapons, surging forth like a tidal wave, forcing the vengeful spirit back out the window and severing one of its hands in an instant.

Only then did Logan Sullivan stagger back several steps, as if drained of strength, slumping against the wall. Ignoring the horrified stares around him, he slid down to sit on the floor, letting his bleeding hand hang down, shaking it, and said, a little out of breath, "Damn, still got it on my sleeve. Can dry cleaning get this out?"

Darrin Grant cautiously edged closer, stopping less than half a meter away, and asked carefully, "Yunlan?"

Logan Sullivan raised an eyebrow. "Hmm?"

The black cat was familiar with this expression—all the faces that made a cat want to smack someone, it knew well. So Darrin Grant didn't hesitate to reach out a paw and give him a slap, roaring, "What the hell was that just now! I never taught you that kind of dark magic!"

Logan Sullivan replied smugly, "Humans can read, stupid cat."

Darrin Grant nearly lost it, leaping onto him, bracing its front paws on his upper arm. "What book did you take from the library last time?!"

Using his uninjured hand, Logan Sullivan patted its head. "The 'Book of Souls.' Relax, I was just trying to verify something and happened to see it. I just remembered it in the moment—wasn't planning anything. Don't you trust my character?"

The black cat roared, "Do you even have something called character?!"

Logan Sullivan was sprayed in the face with cat spit.