His fingers were exceptionally nimble—clearly the kind of guy who’d spent his childhood secretly rewiring the school’s electrical circuits. It was easy to imagine: if it weren’t for Logan Sullivan’s spendthrift habits and his tendency to get bored with new things, being with a man like him probably meant you could forget about ever using new home appliances.

The two of them sat in silence for a while. The surge of anger in William Sherman’s heart faded, and he quickly regretted it. Most people put on a front in front of outsiders and only let their true selves show when they’re with someone close. William Sherman, however, was the opposite—he was always careful to suppress himself around Logan Sullivan, terrified that Logan Sullivan might catch a glimpse of his less admirable side. Sometimes, William Sherman didn’t even know how to talk to Logan Sullivan... Maybe it was because he always felt unworthy, tainted, not good enough for someone like him.

Logan Sullivan was fiddling with his little gadget, completely absorbed and silent. At a red light, William Sherman couldn’t help but sneak a glance at Logan Sullivan, and after a moment, he asked nervously in a soft voice, “What are you doing?”

Luckily, Logan Sullivan never held a grudge—he’d already forgotten what just happened. He showed off enthusiastically, “This is a signal transceiver I made when I was a kid. I’m just fixing the loose connection... Stop at the supermarket up ahead for me, I need to buy two batteries.”

Logan Sullivan got out, bought the batteries, and put them into his receiver. With a “whirr—” sound, the tiny screen, less than five centimeters in diameter, lit up. A small dot appeared faintly on the screen, but the brightness was so poor that Logan Sullivan had to cup his hands around it and lean in close to see where the dot was.

He slowly adjusted the frequency, then the size of the dot, and compared it to the hand-carved, mysterious scale next to the screen that no one else could understand. After studying it for a while, he said, “Hmm, not far. Looks like they’re deliberately avoiding me—let’s turn back.”

At the intersection, William Sherman turned the car around. Logan Sullivan, still hunched over his little screen, gave directions: “Turn left at the next intersection—this is a tracker I made when I was young, modified from an old radio’s transceiver.”

“Tracking what?” William Sherman asked, sounding genuinely interested, though he probably didn’t even know what “radio” meant.

“Tracking my dad. I put the transmitter in his phone. I never thought he’d use the same phone for so many years,” Logan Sullivan said. “I hadn’t even graduated high school back then, so my technical skills were limited. The workmanship was pretty rough—it always glitches, takes forever to tune, and if you go too far, there’s no signal.”

William Sherman couldn’t help but touch his own pocket, thinking of his ancient phone that he barely used and sometimes even held upside down when answering calls—if someone tampered with it, he’d never know.

Logan Sullivan noticed, crossed his legs, and leisurely lit a cigarette. “Relax. As long as you don’t go out looking for some pretty boy to cheat on me, I won’t plant anything on you.”

William Sherman shot him a rather exasperated look.

“Turn left, turn left—yeah, that teahouse up ahead. I see my old man’s car.” Logan Sullivan’s tone was light, but his expression was anything but; it was a little grim. “Today, I have to find out who the person who raised me all these years really is.”

The car hadn’t even come to a full stop before Logan Sullivan unbuckled his seatbelt and jumped out, heading straight for the second floor like he’d done it a hundred times.

William Sherman locked the car, adjusted his glasses gently, and followed a step behind. He seemed unhurried, and even nodded to a waitress carrying a tea set as he passed the stairs.

The waitress was a girl in her early twenties. When she saw him, her hand shook for no reason, and a teapot fell to the floor, shattering.

Mr. Sullivan Sr. was sitting with his back to the door. Hearing the commotion, he turned around, his gaze sharp behind his glasses.

That look was calm and distant. Logan Sullivan paused for a moment, then strode over, shook his head at the server performing the tea ceremony, and waited for them to leave. He sat down across from Mr. Sullivan Sr., lowered his voice, and asked, “You’re not my dad. Who are you?”

“Mr. Sullivan Sr.” didn’t answer. He simply looked up solemnly toward the staircase, watching as William Sherman walked up step by step. Their eyes met in midair, and after a brief pause, William Sherman nodded politely. “Uncle.”

“Mr. Sullivan Sr.”’s gaze flickered, the lines on his face tightening, the wrinkles deepening with age. After a moment, he replied coolly, “I don’t deserve the title.”

William Sherman smiled faintly, said nothing, and didn’t sit at the tea table. Instead, he took a seat a few steps away, washed a new cup for himself, made tea, poured water, and refilled it, all without lifting his eyes—making it clear he wouldn’t interrupt or butt in.

Logan Sullivan said, “I was really out of it that day, or I should’ve known you were a fake just by looking at your eyes—my old man’s been ambitious all his life, a real wolf in sheep’s clothing, obsessed with fame and fortune. He’s never had that otherworldly look you do. I’ll let it slide that you took advantage of me calling you ‘Dad’ a few times, but I have two questions: where is my father? And what’s your connection to the Shennong clan? Don’t tell me... you’re Shennong himself?”

“Mr. Sullivan Sr.”’s lips moved, but for some reason, no sound came out. After a moment, he lowered his eyes, glanced at William Sherman, took a sip of tea, and said nothing.

Logan Sullivan’s patience finally ran out. He tapped the table lightly with his finger, raised an eyebrow, and drew out his words: “Sir, I’m only being polite because you might be related to one of the Three Sovereigns, Shennong. If you don’t appreciate it... well, as a son, I have a duty to get some answers from you.”

“I’m not Shennong.” After who knows how long, “Mr. Sullivan Sr.” finally spoke in a low voice. “Your father is fine. I only occasionally borrow his body, and I always leave him useful memories afterward. I’ve never caused him any trouble.”

Logan Sullivan: “Then what are you?”

“Mr. Sullivan Sr.” smiled. “I’m just a stone mortar left behind by the great Shennong for grinding herbs. I hitched a ride during the War of the Gods and, by luck, gained sentience. I’ve offended Warden of Highspire before, and I sincerely apologize.”

“Why are you possessing my father? Are the memory fragments in the sacred tree also your doing?” Logan Sullivan didn’t care at all about what kind of enlightenment he’d achieved. Maybe, in his mind, there wasn’t much difference between gods, humans, and spirits—he interrogated people the same way he’d interrogate a criminal.

“Mr. Sullivan Sr.”’s brow twitched slightly, and he asked slowly, “How did Warden of Highspire know that the memories in the sacred tree weren’t your own?”

“I’m not that melodramatic little zombie under me, and I’m definitely not the Monkey King who made a mess in Heaven,” Logan Sullivan said, downing his tea like it was water. “I might be a bit arrogant sometimes, but most of the time I’m pretty easygoing. If something really forced me to rebel, it would have to be a huge deal, something that made me furious. But when I saw those memories, I didn’t feel any resonance—just a heavy weight.”

“Mr. Sullivan Sr.” nodded in agreement. “Makes sense.”

“Besides, I just can’t see myself doing something as crude as poking a hole in the sky out of rage.” Logan Sullivan continued, “And anyway, Highspire Court governs the world’s mountains and rivers, protecting the creatures of the wild. In every life, I’ve basically been an animal rights activist—I’d never poke a dragon’s eye for no reason.”

“Mr. Sullivan Sr.” smiled but said nothing.

Logan Sullivan’s eyes turned cold. “I still haven’t asked you why you used the sacred tree to mislead me. What’s your game?”

“Mr. Sullivan Sr.” sighed softly. “Maybe when Warden of Highspire sees through the ages, it will all—”

“Cut the crap.” Logan Sullivan interrupted him. “You’d better speak plainly. My patience is running thin. If you piss me off, I don’t care what kind of sacred bowl you are—I’ll still beat you up.”

“Mr. Sullivan Sr.” looked at him, then his gaze shifted gently to William Sherman, who was flipping through a magazine nearby. Suddenly, his body trembled violently. Mr. Sullivan Sr.’s eyes went blank for a moment, and when they cleared again, his entire demeanor had changed... No, his whole aura was different.

This Mr. Sullivan Sr. pressed his temples, frowned at Logan Sullivan, and asked in a slightly confused tone, “What were you just saying? I’ve been a bit tired these past couple of days, zoned out and didn’t catch that.”

Logan Sullivan froze, instantly transforming from a menacing mobster to a sulky teenager behind bars. He deflated completely, and after a long moment, he said in a low, meek voice, “...Dad?”

Mr. Sullivan Sr. frowned. “Hmm?”

That expression was full of meaning, and Logan Sullivan could clearly read all sorts of messages in it: “If you’ve got something to say, spit it out. I’ll give you one minute to state your case since you’re my son, but I’m exhausted and don’t want to hear your nonsense,” and so on.

So he immediately pulled William Sherman over as a human shield. “Nothing, it’s just—you weren’t home when we were supposed to meet, so I brought him over to see you...”