William Sherman responded with a sound, forcing a slight tug at the corner of his mouth, unable to understand what there was to be so proud of.

William Sherman parked downstairs at Logan Sullivan's place, repeatedly instructing him not to move around. But as soon as he finished parking and turned around, he found Logan Sullivan had already stepped onto the curb, practicing walking in a straight line like he was on stilts, groping his way forward.

His straight line was pretty steady, except he was heading straight for a lamppost.

...This big guy was about to get himself into trouble.

William Sherman rushed over before he could knock himself out, scooped Logan Sullivan up around the waist, and set him down. Logan Sullivan's ribs landed right on his shoulder.

Apparently, being suddenly lifted off the ground while unable to see was quite a sensation. When William Sherman put him down, Logan Sullivan even let out a cheerful whistle.

"I've discovered my sense of balance is pretty good. I can walk in a straight line now," Logan Sullivan said, then his voice dropped, "Maybe I could even..."

Could even what, William Sherman didn't catch. He only saw him seem to smile faintly.

William Sherman patted his arm and bent down: "There's a step ahead, it's hard to walk. I'll carry you up."

Logan Sullivan stood to the side, smiling without saying a word.

William Sherman turned back and asked gently, "What's wrong? Get on."

Logan Sullivan found his hand, gave it a gentle squeeze, then lifted it and kissed the back of his hand: "How could I bear to let you carry me? I'm so heavy—what if I crush you?"

William Sherman: "..."

He probably still hadn't figured out who carried him home the night before.

After saying this, Logan Sullivan slowly walked forward. If he hadn't lightly nudged his foot at the step, William Sherman would have almost thought he'd regained his sight.

He watched as Logan Sullivan walked up the stairs with his chest out and head held high, each step almost exactly the same distance, all the way to the elevator. He felt for the button, pressed it, then turned slightly to wait for William Sherman.

William Sherman deliberately made his footsteps heavier: "How did you know the elevator was here?"

Logan Sullivan shamelessly replied, "Someone as observant as me—how could I not know my own place? How many steps on the stairs, how many steps from the hallway to the elevator—I know it all without even looking."

William Sherman knew he was talking nonsense. Counting the steps on the stairs—if he didn't rummage around, he couldn't even find his own teacup or slippers.

He must have quietly memorized it when William Sherman took him downstairs that afternoon.

Maybe it was just his nature—no matter what happened, Logan Sullivan always gave people the feeling that "it's no big deal." Sometimes, even when others knew it really was a big deal, they couldn't help but be influenced by his attitude.

That's just the kind of person he was—always needing to save face.

As soon as Logan Sullivan opened the door and stepped inside, he heard a voice from underfoot: "If you dare put your stinky foot on my tail, you're dead meat."

"Darrin Grant?"

Logan Sullivan bent down and felt around. Darrin Grant immediately sensed something was off, climbed up his arm, stood on his shoulder to observe him closely, then asked, "What happened to your eyes?"

Logan Sullivan groped his way inside, answering casually, "My abilities are frozen."

William Sherman grabbed him: "Careful."

Logan Sullivan nearly bumped into the doorframe.

Darrin Grant was startled, quickly jumped off him, and bounced onto the sofa: "What happened!"

Then it glanced at William Sherman, clearly questioning him—since William Sherman had already been to No. 4 Guangming Road with them, Darrin Grant didn't bother hiding the fact that it was a talking cat.

William Sherman immediately said, "It's my fault."

Logan Sullivan couldn't help but laugh: "How is it your fault again?"

He reached out and grabbed at thin air. Darrin Grant looked at his hand hanging in midair, then, with a reluctant face and narrowed eyes, forced a "I'm only doing this because I pity you" expression, tilted its head, and rubbed its face against his palm.

Logan Sullivan laughed, saying meaningfully, "Don't worry, maybe there's a blessing in disguise."

With that, he groped his way to the sofa, pulled out a cigarette from his pocket, and grandly held it out to Darrin Grant: "I can't see—light it for me!"

Darrin Grant: "..."

After a moment, it silently curled itself into a ball, turned its back, and ignored him.

William Sherman took his hand, clicked the lighter to light his cigarette, and pushed the ashtray to his side.

"Last night I met a little crow spirit," Logan Sullivan thought for a moment, then briefly recounted the events of the previous night, and then, stretching the truth, said, "He told me something about... hmm, somewhere in the West Sea, somewhere in the North Sea, how far from the shore, I didn't quite catch the rest, probably talking about a mountain."

Darrin Grant was stunned for a moment, but William Sherman reacted first, his face darkening: "Let's not talk about that. How did your eyes get hurt?"

"Don't mention it." Logan Sullivan waved his hand, described his final string of bad luck, and made it very clear how much he hated bells.

Darrin Grant suddenly stood up: "What kind of bell?"

"It's with me." William Sherman reached into his pocket and pulled out a dusty little golden bell. "Is this the one you're talking about?"

Darrin Grant's pupils contracted. Before Logan Sullivan could answer, it suddenly interrupted, "How did this end up with you?"

William Sherman glanced at Logan Sullivan, paused, then said obscurely, "It was... given to me by the person who brought you home last night."

Darrin Grant circled William Sherman's hand a few times, stared blankly at the little bell for a moment, then suddenly said in a low voice, "That's mine."

"That's my... first owner," Darrin Grant glanced at Logan Sullivan, "put it on my neck with his own hands. A hundred years ago, because of some accident, I lost it."

Logan Sullivan reached out: "Let me see."

William Sherman pulled his hand back: "You probably can't pick it up for now."

Reminded of his embarrassing episode the night before, Logan Sullivan gloomily exhaled a smoke ring. Not being able to pick up his own cat's bell... how impressive did that sound!

At that moment, Darrin Grant lowered its head, took the bell from William Sherman's hand in its mouth, and, without saying a word, turned and jumped out the window.

Given its usual easygoing and chubby demeanor, it was rare to see it so weighed down.

Logan Sullivan listened intently: "Darrin Grant?"

"It's gone." William Sherman closed the window, bent down, and gently stroked the corner of his eye. "I'll find a way to cure you."

Logan Sullivan seemed to think of something and suddenly smiled: "Actually, there's no need to rush."

William Sherman instinctively sensed nothing good was coming, and sure enough, even blind, Logan Sullivan couldn't behave for a moment. He leered, "But I can't see—it's really inconvenient. Can you help me shower tonight?"

William Sherman slapped away the salty hand that had somehow found its way to his backside.

Without a word, he turned and went into the kitchen.

Logan Sullivan put away his smile, closed his eyes, leaned back on the sofa, and listened to the clattering sounds from the kitchen. In the darkness, he actually felt a rare sense of peace. He almost enjoyed this moment. As he relaxed more and more, Logan Sullivan suddenly felt as if there were some strange shadows before his eyes.

He snapped his eyes open, but still couldn't see anything—the shadows were gone.

Logan Sullivan calmed himself, closed his eyes again, focused on his breathing, and after a moment, the shadows reappeared. He saw a patch of green to his left, faintly glowing, very subtle, but with a strange beauty as it flowed... The shape looked familiar.

After a while, Logan Sullivan realized that was the direction of the windowsill, where a friend had just placed a potted plant.

This was... the Heavenly Eye.

So the Heavenly Eye between the brows wasn't dependent on eyesight.

Logan Sullivan focused his mind between his brows, and the surroundings became clearer and clearer. He "saw" more and more things: first the flowers on the windowsill, the cat hair on the sofa, then some old books on his bookshelf... and a supposedly expensive ancient painting hanging on the wall.

But things without any spiritual energy, like the sofa, coffee table, or bed, he still couldn't see.

Logan Sullivan "looked" down at his own body and saw a ball of white light flowing over him, a radiant orb of light on his right shoulder, and nothing on his left.

That light looked familiar... He felt like he'd seen it somewhere before.

Suddenly, Logan Sullivan stood up, banging his knee hard on the coffee table, but he didn't care. He staggered into the kitchen.