Ghostface suddenly asked, “Since your... Mountain Sage is determined to get it, why not just ask?”

Logan Sullivan managed to maintain his pretentious expression in the gale that made it hard to stand in the war capital, and said meaningfully, “I’m afraid someone is waiting to reap the benefits.”

The judge, who had a big bump on his head, lowered his head and didn’t even dare to speak.

Ghostface sighed, “You once lent us fire, and I really don’t want to do this.”

After speaking, he whistled, and the unnerving ghost beasts surged up from underground, surrounding them in the center. The Soul-Slaying Envoy immediately stood by Logan Sullivan’s side, hand on the hilt of his blade.

“Oh.” Logan Sullivan said coldly, “So my tree has grown worms.”

As soon as he finished, he suddenly scattered something from his hand, as if pouring a large amount of concentrated sulfuric acid onto the ground. The ghost beasts emerging from the earth let out human-like, piercingly sharp screams. The judge’s face turned deathly pale, and he retreated quickly to the side, barely caring if the strong wind would blow him away, muttering as he went, “Blackbrew Tonic, it’s—it’s Blackbrew Tonic...”

Blackbrew Tonic is a concoction made from the blood of a black dog, black cat, black donkey, black pig, and a black-boned chicken. It must be born at a yin hour in a yin month, with not a single stray hair, and a black heart and black belly. None of these are precious items, but it’s rare to gather them all. It’s a secret recipe to restrain the underworld spirits.

It was obvious who this stuff was originally prepared for.

Before they could make a move, each unwilling to yield an inch, at that moment, Virtue Quill suddenly contracted, and in a flash of lightning, shot straight toward Primewood. Before anyone could react, it plunged directly into Primewood.

Everyone was stunned for a moment, not expecting this sudden turn. Ghostface flicked his sleeve, sending the judge flying, and immediately reached to grab into Primewood, but Logan Sullivan instinctively blocked his hand.

Ghostface’s arm was frighteningly hard; Logan Sullivan felt as if his wrist had slammed into an iron plate. Even without rolling up his sleeve, he was sure it would be bruised.

But he didn’t show it. For some reason, Ghostface also didn’t dare to clash with him head-on, so he changed tactics and reached into Primewood from Logan Sullivan’s side.

There was a tooth-grindingly sharp screech as Ghostface’s hand was mercilessly bounced back by Primewood. He had used too much force, and two of his iron-hard fingernails actually broke, oozing black blood.

Logan Sullivan withdrew his hand and stuffed it into his pocket, as if he had expected this, and said with a grin, “I stopped you because I was afraid your hand would hurt, and you don’t even appreciate it.”

Ghostface’s teeth ground audibly. He spun around and turned into a cloud of black mist, vanishing without a trace. The ghost beasts, however, were not taken with him and continued to surge toward Logan Sullivan and the others, all cut down by the Soul-Slaying Blade within three feet.

Only then did Logan Sullivan breathe a sigh of relief, revealing a sly smile. Then, he tentatively reached out to touch the trunk of Primewood, feeling as if there was a force pulling him inward.

What a wonderful tree, Logan Sullivan thought in delight.

“You...” William Sherman’s hood was blown off by the wind when Virtue Quill emerged, and the black mist around him was scattered, faintly revealing the face Logan Sullivan knew so well. His expression was extremely complicated—hopeful, worried, and a little nervously cautious. “You remember everything?”

“Of course it’s all a mix of guessing, bluffing, and nonsense. You guys are such idiots, you even believe that.” Logan Sullivan winked at him and shook his wrist hard. “Ow, that really hurt. Ghostface is like a steel gourd kid.”

William Sherman: “...”

He felt his heart leap to his throat, then get shoved back down into his stomach, making his chest ache.

“Hold them off for me. Primewood seems to be calling me. I have to go in. If I can trick Virtue Quill, even better.” As Logan Sullivan spoke, he leapt into Primewood. Half his body was already inside when he suddenly remembered something, turned back to William Sherman and said, “If you get home first, leave the light on and the door unlocked. Love you.”

With that, his figure disappeared into Primewood.

Chapter 74 Virtue Quill …

Ghostface was gone. William Sherman cleaned up the ghost beasts on the summit of Kunlun Mountain, and in the blink of an eye, the rest—those with any sense—had already scattered. Only Ox-Head and Horse-Face were left, each supporting the judge from one side, watching him from a distance, as if wanting to say something but not daring to approach. William Sherman reached out to Darrin Grant and said simply, “Let’s go. I’ll take you home.”

Darrin Grant jumped onto his shoulder. In fact, William Sherman was about the same build as Logan Sullivan, his shoulders neither wider nor narrower, but standing on the Soul-Slaying Envoy’s shoulder always felt awkward. So it curled itself into a ball of black cat, clutching his clothes tightly with its claws.

Only then did the judge seem to muster up his courage and called out to them, “Sir...”

William Sherman put away the Soul-Slaying Blade, didn’t pause his steps, and said coolly, “Get lost. Don’t make me say something nasty.”

Dawn finally broke, letting in the belated daylight.

When William Sherman returned to Logan Sullivan’s little apartment, it was already past noon. All the TV stations were running rolling coverage of the morning’s strange phenomena. The major media had nothing else to report, so they all invited various experts to spout nonsense.

William Sherman did only one thing—wait by the door.

He really did wait by the door, moving the little sofa to face the entrance and sitting there motionless.

Darrin Grant silently crouched on the windowsill, pretending to be a cat ornament, acting as if it didn’t exist.

He sat there for a full three or four hours. When the afternoon sun was about to set, William Sherman’s phone, lying on the table, finally vibrated several times in a row.

At first, William Sherman didn’t react. After a while, he remembered to pick it up, and as he moved, it was as if he suddenly “came back to life.”

When he opened it, there were three text messages in a row.

The first: “Finally got signal. Nothing’s wrong, I’ll be home soon.”

A minute later, the second: “Damn, the boss is calling. There’s a dinner tonight I have to attend. Just saw it, don’t wait up.”

Another minute later, the third: “Go to bed early, be good.”

Darrin Grant jumped down from the windowsill, landed on the floor, circled the sofa half a turn, and finally, as if summoning all its courage, cleared its throat and respectfully asked, “Sir, is that our Lord?”

“Mm,” William Sherman nodded, “He said he’s got something to do and will be back late.”

Darrin Grant let out a sigh of relief, hesitated, then said, “Then... I’ll take my leave and head back to 4 Guangming Road.”

William Sherman lowered his eyes to glance at it. Under his gaze, Darrin Grant instinctively lowered its head—as if it couldn’t recall ever calling him “Teacher Shen” or speaking so freely.

William Sherman nodded slightly, “Take care.”

Darrin Grant, as if granted amnesty, darted up, unlatched the door, and scampered out. Sharing a room with the Soul-Slaying Envoy was just too terrifying. If it weren’t for worrying about that coward Logan Sullivan, it would never have left its own fridge full of fish snacks to come suffer this nerve-wracking ordeal.

Logan Sullivan didn’t actually go to any dinner. In fact, he didn’t go anywhere. After sending those texts, he just wandered aimlessly through the streets of Blackstone.

Winters here are usually dry, but for some reason, this winter was full of snow and fog. A thin layer of ice crystals covered the ground. Occasionally, a car would pass by, always driving cautiously, not daring to speed up. Some small shops along the street had already closed, and there were far fewer pedestrians, making the place seem rather desolate.

His eyes were vacant, as if he didn’t know where to go. There were bloodshot lines in his eyes, making him look haggard.

He didn’t know how long he’d been walking before his phone finally rang. Logan Sullivan answered in a hoarse voice, “Hello, Dad.”

“Mm.” The voice on the other end replied, “Why have you been out of service?”

“...” Logan Sullivan stopped at the side of the street, right in the path of the wind. The dry, cold wind made his eyes red. He stood there for two seconds, then replied, a beat too late, “Bad signal, I guess.”

Father Zhao asked, “Where are you now?”

Logan Sullivan couldn’t really say. He looked up and carefully identified the street name before roughly describing his location.

Father Zhao: “Wait there, I’ll come get you.”

Logan Sullivan squatted by the roadside for a while. About twenty minutes later, a car pulled up next to him. The driver poked his head out and looked at him with disdain, “Why do you look like a beggar? Get in.”

Logan Sullivan rolled his eyes weakly, stomped his numb feet, climbed into the passenger seat, and slumped down like a dead dog, arms crossed, shoulders hunched, radiating an aura of “I don’t want to talk to you or explain anything.”

His dad stepped on the gas and glanced at him, “Where did you go, dressed like that?”

“The Qinghai-Tibet Plateau,” Logan Sullivan said expressionlessly.