The puppet first lowered its skull, bent at the waist toward Logan Sullivan in a strange gesture, then walked over to William Sherman, transformed into a sheet of letter paper, and floated gently into William Sherman's hand.

Logan Sullivan narrowed his eyes, stood by the window, and looked up at the vast night, always feeling as if a pair of eyes in the darkness were watching him.

After a moment, he drew the curtains, sneered, turned around, and once again became that guy who “shows off whenever possible, and if not possible, creates the opportunity to show off anyway.”

Just then, William Sherman finished reading the letter and frowned.

Logan Sullivan asked, “Something up?”

“It’s urgent, I have to go.” In just a few steps, William Sherman changed from a gentle and refined university professor into the soul-reaping envoy wrapped in a black robe and cold aura. As he hurried toward the window, he didn’t forget to remind Logan Sullivan, “You absolutely must not go to Westplum Village alone, no matter what, wait for me to come back.”

Logan Sullivan didn’t respond.

William Sherman glanced back at him, only to see the man lazily leaning against the wall, half-jokingly complaining, “Seriously, just when the boss finally loosened up, I thought I could at least get a little something tonight. Now I’m left unsatisfied and sleeping alone—sigh, I’ll definitely show up at work tomorrow with two dark circles under my eyes.”

William Sherman realized talking to him seriously was a mistake, so he said nothing more, strode through the window, slipped into a swirl of black mist, and vanished in an instant.

Logan Sullivan leaned against the window, took out a cigarette, and stood motionless, quietly finishing it. Estimating that William Sherman was long gone, he opened his desk drawer, loaded his gun hidden under his pant leg with ammunition, tightened the short knife on his body, took out the folder of yellow talismans, sorted through them and left half on the desk, only taking those related to attack and self-defense.

“Not going?” Logan Sullivan let out a mocking laugh. “If I don’t go, wouldn’t I be letting down the effort someone put into luring you away?”

Then, Logan Sullivan put on his coat, grabbed his briefcase, and, just like a normal person getting off work, greeted his colleagues and walked out unhurriedly. He set the car’s navigation and drove out of the city toward Westplum Village.

The traffic was good at midnight, and it took Logan Sullivan less than two hours to reach Westplum Village as mentioned by Adam Warren. This place was no different from other villages on the outskirts of Longcheng—very quiet, with only the occasional sound of dogs barking.

He drove around the village once, and finally, at the west entrance, found a cluster of large locust trees as thick as several people could encircle.

Logan Sullivan parked the car, walked around the locust trees a few times, and discovered a clue among them—back during the great calamity of the demon clan, the same trick was used: planting the locust trees in the shape of the Big Dipper, with the bowl gathering yin energy and the handle stretching westward, symbolizing the connection between yin and yang. When the yin energy accumulates to a certain level, the entrance to the formation’s core can be found.

And coincidentally, on the mountain opposite these locust trees, there was a patch of wild graves.

The hillside was desolate and cold, dotted with mounds of graves.

Chapter 57: The Merit Brush …

In the hallway, Zach Warren complained discontentedly, “Carter Shaw, I’ve told you before, if you’re not using these talisman papers, you need to clean them up. What’s the cleaning lady supposed to do when she comes tomorrow?”

Carter Shaw frowned bitterly, while Charles Gray, quick to read the room, immediately put his rookie energy to use and hurried over to tidy everything up.

Darrin Grant, however, passed by them without a word and walked straight into the “wall” in the Criminal Investigation Department’s office.

Inside the wall was a world of its own: rows upon rows of hardwood bookshelves, tall enough to almost reach the ceiling, with some old ladders propped up. Between the tops of the shelves and the ceiling, there was just enough space for a cat to squeeze through. Embedded in the walls were large sea dragon pearls, lighting the whole room as bright as day, yet not harming any soul that couldn’t stand the light.

The shelves exuded the scent of old books—a fragrance of ink accumulated over years, mixed with the faint mustiness of pages long untouched by sunlight, creating a damp, refreshing aroma that had aged gracefully.

Zane Shaw was busy organizing. The characters on the books were sometimes complex, sometimes simple, and he barely recognized any, so he had to carefully match the spines to the labels on the shelves, one by one. He worked slowly, but never made a mistake.

After Logan Sullivan released him from the Terra-Spike, he was given full access to the library and assigned this job. The pay was the same as Charles Gray’s, counted as a junior employee, but the benefits were quite good. The only difference was that Charles Gray got bright red bills, while Zane Shaw received stacks of spirit money and top-quality incense.

This was the first dignified job he’d ever had—not a slave beaten and scolded like livestock, nor a false leader worshipped with blind loyalty by people who secretly wanted to destroy him. Even though it came too late—Zane Shaw had been dead for over a hundred years—he still cherished it.

To live peacefully and freely with someone you like—this was something he had schemed for all his life but never obtained.

Seeing Darrin Grant come in, Zane Shaw greeted it solemnly, “Nǐ hǎo, cat.”

Darrin Grant: “Nǐ hǎo, stutterer.”

Zane Shaw was taken aback—Zach Warren was a quiet girl and wouldn’t teach him curse words, so he didn’t understand the term and asked earnestly, “What is ‘stutterer’?”

Darrin Grant walked heavily across the wooden shelves, absentmindedly replying, “Stutterer just means a good buddy.”

Zane Shaw nodded, taking it to heart, and then said enthusiastically, “Oh, nǐ hǎo, cat stutterer!”

Darrin Grant: “……”

Zane Shaw: “Cat stutterer, do… do you want to see something?”

Darrin Grant wasn’t even in the mood to joke, lying on the shelf above his head: “Did Logan Sullivan, Chief Zhao, return the book he took yesterday? Let me see which one it was.”

Zane Shaw, as if doing a listening test, tilted his head devoutly and listened carefully to this “recording,” and only after making Darrin Grant repeat it three times did he more or less understand. He beamed with a big smile and fished out a book from the cart that hadn’t yet been shelved: “This… this is it.”

The cover was already tattered, with a coffee stain on the corner—no need to guess who the slob was. On the cover, in gloomy script, were the words “Soul Codex,” part of which had been torn off, making it look especially dilapidated.

Darrin Grant leapt from the high shelf onto Zane Shaw’s cart, pawed through the book, and found the pages inside were all blank.

Darrin Grant’s heart sank—its cultivation wasn’t enough.

For some reason, its current strength was less than a tenth of its peak, and it could barely take human form. But after all, it was a thousand-year-old cat demon—could it really be weaker than Logan Sullivan, a mortal who’d only lived twenty or thirty years?

That was simply impossible.

Unless… that man’s soul was slowly awakening.

“I’ve never seen this book before,” Darrin Grant said, patting the book with its paw and unconsciously spinning in place, chasing its own tail. “Where did this book come from?”

If even it didn’t know, Zane Shaw certainly wouldn’t. The cat and the ghost stared at each other for a moment, then the black cat slowly lowered its head, jumped off the cart in a depressed mood, and walked out, not even in the mood for its favorite milk-soaked cat food.

It didn’t know whether Logan Sullivan “waking up” was a good thing or a bad thing, but it just felt uneasy.

Logan Sullivan was doing pretty well these days—sharp yet silly, with nothing to do after a good meal but think about carnal desires, living comfortably and smoothly.

Black cats are the kind of creatures that, come winter, just want to find a warm spot to sleep all day, waking only to eat something tasty. By nature, it couldn’t understand humans’ “great ambitions.” Seeing its old master laugh foolishly every day, acting like a happy-go-lucky youth, Darrin Grant felt quite content, and just… didn’t want any new trouble.

But trouble had already arrived.

The biggest trouble of all, William Sherman, closed his eyes and walked straight through the Yellow Springs. Even the countless lost souls and wandering spirits that had soaked in the river for years, long since devoid of joy or sorrow, parted to either side as if swept away by a great wave.

He didn’t know how long he’d been sinking, as if he’d reached the very bottom of the Yellow Springs.

The water grew darker, and below was pitch black. Black energy coiled around him, as if drawn to him, suddenly wrapping him up completely. Further down, there was no more water—only a dead, silent darkness. Anyone walking there would quickly lose all sense of time and space, and feel an overwhelming, solitary loneliness.

No way forward, no way back—so cold it was terrifying, so empty it was terrifying.

This was a place where you could see nothing, hear nothing, smell nothing, taste nothing, and feel nothing—a true void.

So when that low growl shattered the silence, William Sherman’s blade was already at the other’s throat almost instantly.