William Sherman was in utter turmoil; the words he had just blurted out had clearly slipped, and Logan Sullivan instantly seized on a clue—what did he mean by “ungrateful”? What was the connection between him and the Crow Clan… no, between him and the demon clans?

Logan Sullivan recalled something he’d heard a long, long time ago: “When misfortune descends, the crows are the first to know.”

What had the Black Crow Clan foreseen this time?

On stage, Uncle Seth’s tone remained unchanged. He nodded reservedly to the flock of crows, still calm and unhurried as he said, “I thought the Crow Clan wouldn’t show up.”

The elder of the Crow Clan was a woman, but in this clan, except for the half-demons, every one of them was a short, big-nosed, wrinkled little figure, making it impossible to tell young from old, beautiful from ugly.

Her eyes were a bit askew, as if looking elsewhere, yet she seemed to glance nonchalantly in Logan Sullivan’s direction. A restrained glint flashed in her cloudy eyes. Then she struck her staff heavily on the ground, raised her hand, and the ropes binding the half-demon snapped off on their own. The Crow Clan elder lowered her voice: “Child, come here.”

Uncle Seth tucked his hands into his sleeves, watching this move quietly and indifferently, making no attempt to stop it. The demon market erupted in murmurs.

It wasn’t until the half-demon, stumbling, was about to step down from the high platform that Uncle Seth finally spoke: “If the elder wants to take her own people, I have nothing to say. But is the Crow Clan doing this to break away from the other clans and stand alone?”

The Crow Clan elder replied hoarsely, “That’s right!”

As soon as she spoke, a sudden hush fell over the crowd. The little demons looked at each other in confusion. Springbloom poked her head out from the tangle of flower vines, glancing around in bewilderment.

Uncle Seth looked at her with a faint expression: “No matter how much crows feed on carrion and deal with the dead, you are still demons—not underworld messengers, not ghostly immortals. Elder, before you say such words, you’d better think it through.”

The Crow Clan elder suddenly burst out laughing, her voice hoarse and deep, betraying no emotion—only an ancient grief and scorn. She enunciated each word: “If you didn’t hear me clearly, Fourth Uncle, I’ll say it again—my Black Crow Clan, from this day forth, severs ties with the demon clans, stands alone, and will never look back. Should I break this oath, may heaven strike me down with thunder.”

With that, she waved her hand, and the mass of crows that had come in a dark cloud now left with her just as swiftly.

Their coming and going was as quick as lightning, leaving everyone no time to react. In an instant, it was all over.

The whispers in the audience erupted into a clamor; no one knew what kind of drama had just played out.

Uncle Seth waved his hand, and the little monkey beside him, holding a gong and drum, struck the gong heavily a few times, quelling the chaos. Logan Sullivan took advantage of the confusion to pull William Sherman out from the crowd of demons, and the two of them hurried along the bluestone path toward the exit, where a thick fog awaited at the end.

Beyond the mist, the neon lights of Longcheng’s streets and alleys filled their eyes, the night vast and hazy.

A row of crows landed on the old locust tree at the entrance to Antique Street. A taxi sped by, and the chatty driver said to his passenger, “Look, even the crows are having a New Year’s party over there!”

Meanwhile, a black cat slipped silently out of a corner, its paw pads softly touching the ground as it nimbly leapt onto the wall. Dozens of crows turned their heads in unison to look at it, their rows of crimson eyes like ominous little bulbs.

Darrin Grant stood ten paces away, making no move to approach, showing it meant no harm.

The Crow Clan elder stepped forward, in a place hidden from human eyes, and spoke hoarsely and bluntly: “What do you want?”

The black cat held its pose, emerald eyes like two real cat’s-eye gems, the corners of its eyes slightly raised, a mysterious gleam within. The unique laziness and elegance of a feline reached its peak in that instant, almost making one forget its comically round, fluffy body.

“I have a presumptuous request,” Darrin Grant said politely. “I’d like to ask the elder, why did the bell I lost centuries ago end up in your clan’s hands?”

The Crow Clan elder scrutinized it, replying coldly, “My Black Crow Clan only brings news of death, never joy. We keep away from the living and draw near to the dead. Your question is pointless. Where did it come from? Naturally, from a dead man.”

Darrin Grant’s body tensed for a moment.

After a pause, the black cat asked in a low voice, “When and where did that person die? For what reason?”

The Crow Clan elder let out a sharp, mocking laugh: “The dead are dead. After six cycles of reincarnation, who knows if he’s a pig or a dog in this life? Why do you care when or where he died?”

Darrin Grant lowered its head slightly, remaining silent for a long time.

The Crow Clan elder glanced at it again, then, after a while, said with a hint of impatience, “Twenty-li Pavilion outside Shanhaiguan. If you want to see, go see for yourself. Don’t say this old crow tried to hide it from you. Carrying a dead man’s bell—aren’t you afraid of bad luck?”

With that, she whistled, and the flock of black crows soared into the sky, flying toward the ink-black horizon.

Darrin Grant lowered its head in the darkness, standing there for a while, suddenly looking like a lonely stray cat.

Then, as a car’s headlights swept by, it silently leapt down from the wall and disappeared into the night.

For Emberwyrm, a blink of an eye was a whole day and night, and in a flash, it was New Year’s Eve.

On New Year’s Eve, the Special Investigation Bureau was brightly lit; humans feasted, and ghosts enjoyed incense offerings.

Old Watson finally got to sit down with his colleague from the day shift who loved carving bones, happily offering him a stick of incense—in return, the other man toasted him with a cup of wine in bone china. Old Barnes always had a near-pathological obsession with bones.

By the second half of the night, after the New Year’s bell had rung, the drunken revelers—both human and ghost—began to run wild. Charles Gray lay on the table, bawling his eyes out for reasons unknown. When he finished, he sat alone in a corner, carefully picking up a glasses cloth from who knows where, endlessly polishing his work ID. As he wiped, he rolled under the table and fell asleep, dead to the world.

Carter Shaw, Julian West, Holly Harlow, and Darrin Grant gathered around a mahjong table. On other tables, the chips were regular, but at the cat’s table, they automatically turned into dried fish. Darrin Grant looked grave—it had to keep winning, because it had nearly eaten all its own chips.

Old Barnes somehow produced a giant bone and started pole dancing in front of everyone. Zane Shaw suddenly grabbed Zach Warren’s hand and, catching her off guard, pulled her into his arms, lifting her high by the waist. Zach Warren laughed, humming a tune from a distant time and space, and danced with him in the style of the Hanga people.

Luckily, the door at No. 4 Guangming Road was locked from the inside; ordinary people couldn’t get in.

Logan Sullivan, after being plied with drinks, was unsteady in his seat. He could see a little now, but his vision was still blurry, like being extremely nearsighted. Even though he could barely tell a six-dot from a nine-dot tile, he stubbornly squinted, pressing his face to the table, gesturing behind Darrin Grant: “Pong, pong, pong!”

Darrin Grant batted at him with a paw: “Pong your ass! Mr. Sherman, hurry up and take this braying donkey away—four bamboos!”

Holly Harlow: “Sorry, I win.”

Logan Sullivan smacked Darrin Grant on the head, lamenting, “See? You never listen to your elders, and now you’ve lost your dried fish for nothing!”

Darrin Grant watched in agony as its dried fish was taken away and turned into chips, howling in protest: “Take him away, quick!”

William Sherman walked over with a smile, bent down, picked up Logan Sullivan, and easily dragged him away. Whether it was a tall, strapping man or a hundred-pound lacquer box, in his hands, it was like carrying off a thin, old book.

Holly Harlow lowered her head, deliberately avoiding his gaze.

William Sherman sat on the sofa, letting Logan Sullivan rest his head on his lap, gently massaging his temples as he said softly, “Close your eyes. Your vision hasn’t recovered yet. Don’t force yourself to look; it’ll only tire you out.”

Logan Sullivan closed his eyes in bliss, mumbling, “Warm me another cup of wine, will you?”

William Sherman was clearly distracted and didn’t hear him for a moment.

Logan Sullivan opened his eyes. Through the blur, he saw William Sherman staring blankly at a corner of the table, lost in thought.

Logan Sullivan, sharp as ever, immediately understood. He tugged at William Sherman’s collar and whispered, “What’s wrong, nervous about meeting the in-laws?”

William Sherman snapped back to himself, smoothed Logan Sullivan’s hair, and, in his usual good temper, didn’t argue. He just said softly, “Parents always hope their children will be safe and happy, with a harmonious marriage. You barged in with me like this, not even letting your parents enjoy the New Year—don’t you think it’s a bit much…”

Logan Sullivan gripped his hand and closed his eyes—ever since his sight returned, it seemed his “heavenly eye” had been affected by his mortal vision. He could no longer see the merit characters above others’ heads, but he always remembered what he’d seen that day: those words, like a tide, submerged in endless darkness.