"Yo," Logan Sullivan looked him up and down, "then why don't you tell me, just how high and thick is it?"

He reached for his cigarette case, flicked his wrist, and a cigarette was already between his lips. The lighter tumbled deftly between his fingers, sparking a little show of flame before it clicked on. The faint scent of menthol smoke made the man lean back, coughing and gasping.

Logan Sullivan held the other end of the Soulbind Whip, not bothering to untie him, and asked, "Were you the one hawking just now?"

The man snorted coldly, "That's right. Do you have something to sell?"

Logan Sullivan ignored him, squinting as he asked, "So, the Virtue Quill really is in your hands?"

The man said nothing, his shifty little eyes staring at Logan Sullivan like a snake.

Logan Sullivan flicked his ash, grabbed the little guy by the collar, and hauled him up to eye level: "I don't believe it. The Four Relics are being pulled out like radishes with the dirt still on them. Who sent you? And who told you to use a fake Virtue Quill as bait to lure me here?"

A sinister smile appeared on the man's face, making him look even more like a big bird. He rasped, "Someone you can't afford to cross."

Logan Sullivan wasn't angry at all; instead, he laughed, cigarette dangling at an angle from his lips, and drawled, "The only people I can't afford to cross are my mom and my wife. Do you really think you could meet either of their standards?"

He didn't wait for a response, let go, and tossed the man to the ground, then stomped hard on the short man's body. The smile vanished from his face, replaced by a chill: "I'm running out of patience. Don't wait until I lose my temper and kill you. Speak!"

The man under his foot looked up at him with a strange expression and rasped, "The Xu position of the Western Sea, the Hai position of the Northern Sea, thirteen thousand li from the shore. Surrounded by Weak Water... Passing through Changhe, falling through Heaven's Gate, what grandeur and might—do you still remember?"

Logan Sullivan replied expressionlessly, "You should ask my wife about that. I always failed Chinese class as a kid."

The man let out a cold, raspy laugh, awkwardly moved his deformed arm, and reached into his clothes to pull out a small golden bell: "And this—do you not remember it either?"

The moment Logan Sullivan saw the bell, he got goosebumps. The bell was spiritual, usually used to summon souls and gather spirits. He was missing a soul fire in his left shoulder, so his three souls and seven spirits were less stable than most. Without hesitation, he stomped and crushed the man's arm, then bent down to pick up the little golden bell.

But as soon as his hand touched it, he found he couldn't lift it no matter what. The tiny bell, no bigger than a fingernail, felt as heavy as a thousand pounds, making his wrist ache. He couldn't even lift it a millimeter.

The short man suddenly burst out laughing: "A great man... can't even pick up a bell! Hahahaha! Is there anything more absurd in this world than righteousness?"

At that moment, a demonic wind suddenly rose. The bell hanging from the short man's broken limb gave a faint, almost weightless ring. Logan Sullivan's nerves instantly tensed. He whipped the Soulbind Whip back, sweeping away a huge ball of ghost fire. The ghost fire landed on the treetop of a large tree, and the trunk, thick enough for two to embrace, withered and blackened at a visible speed. In the blink of an eye, it was sucked dry and became a dead husk.

Immediately, more and more ghost fire came with the wind. By the time Logan Sullivan lashed out three times, he had already retreated twenty meters.

He felt that this year, except for his luck in love, everything else was a disaster. He was broke, and even the troublemakers he ran into while enforcing the law seemed to get more outrageous each time.

From the burial mounds in the mountains, skeletal claws reached out, climbing up from underground. The short man he had just stomped floated up into the air, surrounded on all sides by dense ghost fire, three hundred and sixty degrees around him. The little golden bell hanging from his broken finger swayed gently in the wind, making a barely audible tinkling sound, as if summoning all the yin energy in the mountains. Thick white mist poured from the tops of the dormant winter trees, which then withered completely. The crows nesting in the trees let out a long "caw" and flew into the bottomless night sky. At some point, the moonlight had turned blood red.

Logan Sullivan knew that tonight would not end peacefully.

He stubbed out his cigarette and ran toward the edge of the woods, calling out, "Hey, don't just attack without asking questions! You still haven't told me why you lured me here."

At this point, Logan Sullivan was all about maintaining public order and seeking peace—never mind that he was the one who'd just stomped on someone else's arm.

"You can't be so bored that you just wanted to pick a fight, right?" Logan Sullivan said. "I'm always stuck in the office, never get any exercise, so I'm no good at fighting. We could look for a more civilized solution, don't you think?"

The short man only sneered at him.

Chased by a ghost fire, Logan Sullivan grabbed a tree branch and swung himself up, flipping in midair and landing in a crouch, facing the short man. "Life and death, moving bones, commanding ghost fire—are you a ghost cultivator or an earth immortal? As far as I know, ghost cultivators avoid dealing with the living, lest they taint their pure yin bodies or recall memories from life and develop inner demons. So, are you an official from the Underrealm? Which department do you work in?"

This time, the short man hesitated, then flatly denied it: "Underrealm? I wouldn't bother associating with them!"

"Ah," Logan Sullivan nodded, "so that means you're from the Nightkind, right? Which clan?"

Realizing he'd slipped, the short man clamped his mouth shut.

Logan Sullivan's eyes twinkled, a dimple appearing on his face: "Even if you don't say, I know. Judging by your looks, you're from the 'Black Feather Crow Clan' that 'hears the voices of the dead,' right? I'll have to ask the Nightkind elders about this. I've always had a good relationship with the Nightkind—maybe not brothers, but at least polite when we meet. So what's the meaning of this?"

The short man knew he couldn't let Logan Sullivan keep guessing. Suddenly, he shook the golden bell violently. At that moment, Logan Sullivan smiled and brought his hands out from behind his back.

At some point, he'd pricked his finger and used the blood to draw a complex pattern between two yellow talismans—each half on a separate talisman, forming a whole when put together.

The two talismans had already burned silently, more than halfway gone—one pointing to the sky, one to the earth.

Logan Sullivan suddenly let go. Thunder exploded out of nowhere, a fire dragon sprang up, and heaven's thunder drew up earth's fire. In an instant, the wild grave slope was scorched black. Countless ghost fires were swept up and swallowed without a sound. The flames caught the crow clan dwarf's clothes, but the unremarkable Nightkind stood motionless in the midst of it all.

He was small, but in that instant, his ugly face was filled with awe-inspiring dignity.

Logan Sullivan met his gaze and was momentarily stunned.

But he could only summon thunder and fire; controlling or stopping them was far beyond his ability. Logan Sullivan reached out, as if to pull the other up, or perhaps to say something.

But just then, the dwarf in the flames suddenly revealed a half-human, half-bird face. Black crow feathers sprouted from his body, his shriveled, deformed wings spread wide, and the feathers instantly caught fire, curling behind him like a pair of overcooked chicken wings—pitifully ugly.

The dwarf threw his head back and howled, then suddenly turned into a cloud of black mist in the flames and dove into the golden bell.

The fire around the bell suddenly changed color, as if a hundred thousand beams of light had converged in one spot. Logan Sullivan hurriedly shut his eyes, but it was too late. A sharp pain shot through his eyes. He raised his arm to shield himself and retreated blindly, unable to see anything. Then the soul-piercing sound of the bell followed, like an awl driving into his ears.

In a daze, he seemed to hear the sound of a mountain collapsing, a giant pillar to the sky breaking in half, jagged boulders tumbling down in an endless roar, as if even the heavens were falling.

Logan Sullivan suddenly felt someone behind him. Who knew how long this person had been lurking, waiting for the right moment to swoop in and reap the benefits. A hand reached out to grab his shoulder.

Logan Sullivan, fighting off dizziness that nearly knocked him over, staggered sideways and swung the Soulbind Whip back at the person. But he could barely see or hear, so he had no idea where the whip landed. He only heard a soft sound, then felt a powerful force at the tip of the whip, as if trying to drag him over.

Logan Sullivan didn't hesitate to let go of his whip, not caring about it at all—his reaction was lightning fast.

But just then, a ghostly hand brushed the back of his neck, taking full advantage of his weakness. The person caught the now-unconscious Logan Sullivan.

A huge, ghostly robe sleeve swept over the dying embers on the ground. The fierce flames were instantly snuffed out, and even the thunder faded away.