William Sherman was searching for something while reaching out to cushion his forehead, preventing him from bumping his head on the coffee table. He even tucked a pillow behind his head. “I have to go out for a bit, I’ll be back soon, you…”

“I want to sleep for a while.” Logan Sullivan’s words were almost as heavy as his eyelids.

William Sherman asked softly, “Do you want some water?”

“Mmm…” Logan Sullivan turned his head away, gently brushing off his hand. “No.”

There seemed to be a glimmer in his eyes, his thin lips a vivid red, long brows arching almost into his hair. With his head slightly tilted back, a taut line appeared along his jaw, and the undone buttons of his shirt revealed a slender neck—he exuded an indescribable charm and elegance.

William Sherman’s breath caught. He carefully brushed aside the hair on Logan Sullivan’s forehead, pulled a blanket over him, and his thumb gently traced Logan Sullivan’s lips, lingering for a moment. He leaned in and kissed his forehead, then picked up the items the director needed and his car keys, and turned to leave.

A moment later, Logan Sullivan heard the soft sound of the door closing.

Just moments ago, Logan Sullivan had been drunkenly sprawled out, but now he sat up straight as if resurrected, pulled out his phone, and sent a text: “stall him a bit longer,” then called the moving company he’d already contacted.

The moving company guy probably had never received such a bizarre order and hesitantly asked, “So… if the owner isn’t here, should we…”

“Should my ass, just move it,” Logan Sullivan said domineeringly. “He’s been living off my household registration for ages—are there supposed to be two addresses on one registration? Just looking at all his disposable stuff pisses me off. Get here in five minutes, you hear me?”

Logan Sullivan hung up, then took out a stack of sticky notes from his bag and started quickly making lists—which things to take, which could be thrown away, and which he planned to buy new for him.

Suddenly, Logan Sullivan’s pen paused, and a rather indecent idea popped into his mind—he started to wonder, where did William Sherman keep his underwear? Especially the ones he’d already worn… Even though, under Logan Sullivan’s relentless pressure, William Sherman had half-reluctantly moved into his tiny apartment for a while, he still managed to maintain his “let feelings guide, but stop at propriety” tradition in such a cramped space where they saw each other day and night.

Logan Sullivan had been nearly blind for over half a month. Although he’d always had ulterior motives, he just didn’t have the energy. Living under the same roof with the one he liked, unable to see or touch, he could only rely on his imagination… Over time, he felt he’d cultivated himself enough to become a monk.

“I really have no choice here.” Logan Sullivan rubbed his hands together, chuckled to himself, and then went out onto William Sherman’s balcony. It seemed no one had lived there for a long time—the clothes rack was still there, but nothing was hanging on it. Unwilling to give up, Logan Sullivan opened the big wardrobe in the living room, but found only the usual shirts, trousers, jackets, and a few pairs of similar-looking shoes—not even a single pair of socks.

Logan Sullivan’s eyesight wasn’t great at the moment, so he didn’t notice a small storage box hidden under a long trench coat. He just added “clothes” to both the “take” and “need to buy” columns on his list, and then, still unwilling to give up, set his sights on William Sherman’s perpetually closed bedroom, which seemed to hide another dimension inside.

That door had no handle and no visible lock. Logan Sullivan took out a small flashlight and shone it along the crack and hinges, but found neither.

He felt a bit puzzled, and tentatively pressed his palm against the door. Using Sky-Eye, he saw faint patterns on the door, as if some kind of energy was flowing within the pitch-black wood. The flow was calm and upright, exuding an indescribable, majestic aura—seamless and meticulous.

Logan Sullivan pressed his hand to the door for a moment, suddenly feeling a sense of familiarity. The next moment, he remembered: “Lock of Highspire?”

These days, he’d been secretly researching Highspire with Zane Shaw’s help, but aside from learning it was a legendary, ancient mountain and the namesake of various schools and strange techniques, he hadn’t found anything useful.

Lock of Highspire was something he’d come across by chance in a book he’d scanned with Sky-Eye.

Legend had it that Lock of Highspire was round on top and square on the bottom, symbolizing heaven and earth, with fourteen layers in the middle, corresponding to the eight directions and six realms. At that time, the sixty-four hexagrams hadn’t yet come into being—there was only the interplay of yin and yang, without the later complexity. In a way, it was even more mysterious and unpredictable, harder to grasp.

What in this room required the use of Lock of Highspire?

No… what was the connection between Soulwarden and Highspire? Why was William Sherman so familiar with this ancient seal?

Logan Sullivan stood at the door for a moment, uncertain, then tentatively reached out, gathering spiritual power in his palm, and touched the Lock of Highspire. Instantly, the Lock of Highspire was activated—fourteen seals rose and fell, yin and yang intermingling, dazzling to behold. Logan Sullivan’s mind was too scattered and fanciful, so he wasn’t as skilled with such intricate things as Carter Shaw.

Yet, facing the Lock of Highspire, he inexplicably felt a natural familiarity. Every change was clear to him, as if each step matched a rhythm deep in his heart.

Logan Sullivan’s fingers moved swiftly over the door, almost as if someone was guiding them.

Heaven’s Gate, Earth Union, circle and square, following the thirty-six pillars, until…

With a “click,” the pitch-black door slowly slid open, revealing a narrow gap. No light shone from within. Logan Sullivan stood at the threshold, suddenly hesitating.

For some reason, he regretted opening this door.

Yet after a moment’s hesitation, he removed a small flashlight from his keys and carefully stepped inside.

The walls were covered with things. Logan Sullivan squinted in the light, and was instantly stunned.

The entire wall, filled with big and small, angry and laughing faces—all of them… Logan Sullivan’s hand trembled, nearly dropping the flashlight. His drunkenness vanished in an instant.

After a while, the beam of the flashlight slowly landed on an ancient painting on the south wall. It was a huge painting, almost covering the entire wall, made of some unknown material, thin as a cicada’s wing, smooth and snow-white. On it was a portrait of a person.

The figure was drawn with exquisite detail and vivid spirit, long hair trailing to the ground, dressed in the simplest of blue robes. His head was slightly turned, lips seemingly smiling… making Logan Sullivan feel as if he were looking in a mirror.

Beside it was a line of small characters—not modern simplified, nor traditional, nor any script he recognized. He’d never seen it before, yet somehow, Logan Sullivan understood at a glance what it said: “First met Warden of Highspire in the shade of the Denglin woods, a fleeting glimpse that disturbed my heart’s melody. Written by Wei.”

Ten minutes later, the moving company guy knocked on William Sherman’s door, only for a strange man to come out.

He offered no explanation, just said there was no need to move anymore, then took out his wallet and paid the full moving fee, saying it was compensation for their wasted trip.

Chapter 66 Virtue Quill …

In fact, when William Sherman saw their director, he immediately realized someone was deliberately trying to get him out of the way. His expression darkened at once. The moment the director turned around, he slapped his shoulder heavily from behind and asked coldly, “Who told you to come find me?”

There was an indescribable pressure in his voice. In the blink of an eye, he pinned the director’s soul inside his body, rendering him motionless. The director’s eyes instantly went blank, like a soulless shell, staring dazedly ahead.

William Sherman’s grip tightened abruptly. He turned the director around and barked, “Speak!”

No one could deliberately hide the truth before the Soulcleaver, but the director’s expression only grew more confused, unable to utter a single word. William Sherman’s heart sank—he knew this mortal’s memory had been tampered with.

William Sherman let him go and turned to leave without looking back. The director came to his senses, staring in bewilderment at Mr. Sherman’s hurriedly departing figure—fortunately, he didn’t think to check the other’s electronic devices. William Sherman never got used to those things and wouldn’t have thought of it at a critical moment… Besides, anyone bold enough to go against him wouldn’t care for a mortal’s flashy gadgets.

…Of course, with William Sherman’s upright and gentlemanly mindset, he could never imagine that someone would go to such lengths, flawlessly luring him away, just to move house and steal a few pairs of underwear.

William Sherman rushed back to his apartment, flung the door open, and found the living room empty—his heart instantly sank halfway.