“Mm.” Darrin Grant said, “Sometimes when the Soulbound Order is short on people, the Grandmaster will go to the Underrealm to get prisoners serving sentences. You could call it a kind of labor reform.”

William Sherman nodded, then explained with a slightly displeased expression, “There’s no other way. Most of those who can be caught by the Underrealm are minor ghosts and spirits, not very useful. Those with real abilities won’t be captured so easily unless they surrender voluntarily. Dragging out the years of the Shackles of Merit seems to be their usual trick. In such cases, a delay of a hundred or two hundred years is considered normal.”

Logan Sullivan didn’t say anything, his frown deepening.

After a series of incidents, Logan Sullivan’s misgivings about the Underrealm were nothing new—it just hadn’t reached the point of open conflict yet.

It’s normal for all sides to have their own plans and calculations. Logan Sullivan was no longer a naive youth who didn’t understand the cost of running a household. He was well aware of all these messy twists and turns, but as long as everyone’s main goals aligned, private maneuvering was fine—let everyone rely on their own abilities, nothing much to say about it.

But lately, there had been signs of interference from that side in several incidents. Even if Logan Sullivan didn’t say it out loud, he was definitely annoyed.

At this moment, William Sherman asked, “Why did Carter Shaw get the Shackles of Merit? Is it convenient for you to tell me?”

“I only vaguely know the general idea, not the details,” Logan Sullivan said. “Ask Darrin Grant.”

Darrin Grant sat in the back seat, its cat eyes looking quietly at William Sherman—it knew William Sherman was a master, but at the moment, it couldn’t quite gauge his intentions. The underhanded rules of the Underrealm were so convoluted that even Logan Sullivan might not be able to explain them all. Why did he seem to know them so well?

This made Darrin Grant pause for a moment before, after a while, it slowly said, “Carter Shaw practices the corpse path. Mr. Sherman, you probably noticed that, right?”

Chapter 68 Virtue Quill …

“Back then, he was enlightened by a master and set on this path by chance—he was lucky, but he didn’t formally become the master’s disciple. That’s not unusual; most people on the corpse path are eccentric and unconventional. Carter Shaw is already one of the more reasonable ones. Usually, those people are hard to communicate with, which is why they’re sometimes considered heretics. Carter Shaw was only led through the door back then, so he didn’t know many of the taboos and rules.”

“Mr. Sherman, you’re deeply knowledgeable and well-read, so you probably know this: the core of corpse path cultivation is one’s own tomb. If your cultivation isn’t high enough and your tomb is destroyed, it can even harm your soul. All cultivation is about cause and effect. If someone’s cultivation is destroyed for no reason, revenge is only natural—no rule can stop it.” Darrin Grant hugged its little fish snack, wagging its tail unhurriedly as it spoke. “At that time, someone was chasing a cricket and ended up at the mass grave, had Carter Shaw’s grave dug up, and when they didn’t find it, they got angry and set fire to the woods where his tomb was. Luckily, Carter Shaw had already passed through the earth’s gate and was heading toward the heavenly pass—he could already walk in daylight and leave his grave. His body wasn’t in the tomb, only some burial clothes, so his foundation wasn’t harmed.”

“No wonder. Carter Shaw’s temper is even worse than mine, extremely intense,” Logan Sullivan said, hearing this for the first time. “I wonder if it’s because of practicing the corpse path—dealing with dirt and bones all day, never seeing the sun. He’s easy to talk to if left alone, but if you push him, he’ll turn on anyone. So what did he do to that person? Cut them open or swallow them whole?”

“He hung them up, drained their blood, and ate them like cured meat,” Darrin Grant said. “Originally, it was that person’s own fault, and no one would have interfered. But the problem was, the one who ordered the grave digging was a child from a wealthy family, spoiled since birth. When he did this, he was just a day and a half short of turning seven.”

Here, Logan Sullivan was confused and asked, “Hmm, what’s the issue with not being seven yet?”

William Sherman explained softly, “When little demons can’t take human form or are in the middle of a tribulation, the thing they fear most is encountering a child under seven. If they’re hurt by an adult, they can take revenge, but children are too young to understand. There’s a saying: ‘Heaven’s punishment does not fall on young children, merit is recorded, not faults.’ If a demon is killed by a child, they can only accept their fate. But if they dare to harm a child, it’s a grave crime. This case was decided three hundred years ago and the verdict won’t be overturned, otherwise I…”

Otherwise, with the authority of the Soulwarden, there would still be room for argument.

“Old Chu, really…” Logan Sullivan muttered, not sure what else to say.

Cultivation is, after all, going against the natural order. Only one in ten thousand succeeds, and you need talent, diligence, and luck—especially luck.

If it had been Logan Sullivan, even if he thought the brat was a pain, at most he’d give them nightmares or scare them a bit. Since no one died or got hurt, he definitely wouldn’t take it out on a six- or seven-year-old. There’s a reason why heaven doesn’t punish young children—they’re too naive to understand anything. Most little demons can just avoid them, play dead, or use a trick to get by. It’s not that hard. Those who really can’t avoid it and run into trouble are usually victims of karma, someone’s scheme, or just fate—“destined by heaven,” as the saying goes.

But Carter Shaw is exactly the kind of person who repays every slight and holds nothing in his eyes.

Sometimes fate is irrefutable simply because it comes so quietly.

Logan Sullivan’s gaze turned cold—fine, if fate can’t be defied, so be it. But since when did the Underrealm’s verdicts become unchangeable too?

He took out his phone, tossed it to the back seat, and said to Darrin Grant, “Call Carter Shaw.”

The first call, Carter Shaw hung up.

Logan Sullivan said expressionlessly, “Call again.”

After three tries, Carter Shaw turned off his phone.

Logan Sullivan slammed on the brakes and pulled over, took a Soulbound Order from his wallet, grabbed a pen, and quickly scribbled: “Meet me at No. 4 Guangming Road before midnight.” Then he folded the Soulbound Order into a paper crane.

Before he could send it off, a traffic cop came over and knocked on the window: “Hey, what’s going on? Why’d you stop here?”

Logan Sullivan quickly bent down, rolled down the window with a pained, conflicted expression, and said, “Sorry, man, I’ve got a leg cramp. Give me a minute, just one minute.”

As he spoke, his hand brushed lightly and imperceptibly over the car door, and the paper crane Soulbound Order vanished into thin air like a wisp of smoke.

After that, Logan Sullivan didn’t go home. While it was still light out, he drove to his new apartment near Blackstone University.

It was just a street away from the university’s back gate, in a garden-style building with distinctive architecture. Logan Sullivan took a set of keys from the car’s small box, carefully removed one, and placed it in William Sherman’s hand. “I know you don’t really need a key to get in, but think of this as a kind of ritual.”

William Sherman was stunned, his fingers unconsciously tightening around the key.

Logan Sullivan led the way, talking as they walked: “The walls and ceilings are basically done now. They were working on the floors before the New Year, so it’s a bit messy inside. But I figure after the holiday, give it another week and it should be finished. You can move your things in first, keep your everyday stuff at my place, and after the New Year, once the smell’s gone, we’ll move in together—come on, the elevator’s over here.”

His palm was dry and warm. William Sherman felt as if his heart was soaking in water, aching and swelling.

There were only four floors, one apartment per floor, with underground parking and a private elevator. The elevator still had some construction debris inside.

But the apartment had great lighting. Even as the sun set, the last rays slanted in, gilding the scattered debris with gold. Through the window, on one side was the Republican-era architecture of Blackstone University shrouded in ancient trees, on the other, the community’s man-made winding stream. Though the water was drained for winter, you could still see the marks left by the flowing water on the stone carvings below.

Logan Sullivan: “A golden house is supposed to be for keeping a beauty, but I really don’t have that much money. If I built a golden house, I’d probably get investigated. So just make do for now. I’ll save up, and we’ll get something better in the future.”

Then he turned, smiling, “The master bedroom is the south-facing one with the balcony. Pick any of the others you like for your study.”

William Sherman’s eyes darkened. Thousands of years of suppressed longing and emotion were suddenly, unexpectedly ignited by these casual words, burning so intensely that William Sherman was almost overwhelmed by a fierce, indescribable urge—to crush him in his arms, to break every bone and muscle and let them all melt into his own hands.

But William Sherman knew he couldn’t even bear to touch a single hair on his head.

Of course, with three people, there’s always a third wheel. Some annoying cat always had to make its presence known, successfully preventing the two of them from rolling around together on the debris-strewn floor.