“I had something come up, so I came here to meet a friend.” Mr. Sullivan Sr. muttered, then awkwardly shifted his gaze to William Sherman, scrutinizing him critically for quite a while. In the end, perhaps because Mr. Sherman’s refined and gentlemanly aura was just too apparent, Mr. Sullivan Sr. couldn’t find any real fault with him. Finally, he could only give a dry greeting, a bit stiffly saying, “I haven’t been a very good host today, Mr. Sherman, please don’t take it to heart.”

William Sherman greeted him with perfect decorum.

Logan Sullivan took out a “spirit-repelling talisman,” secretly folded it into a triangle behind his back, and pushed it in front of Mr. Sullivan Sr.: “Also, I went to the temple a couple of days ago and got you a consecrated safety charm. Don’t open it, just keep it with you.”

Mr. Sullivan Sr. took it without the slightest suspicion.

However, nothing happened—the “spirit-repelling talisman” had no effect. Logan Sullivan immediately frowned—had that wretched bowl spirit escaped, or was it just too powerful, even such a high-level talisman couldn’t do anything to it?

Chapter 81: The Soul Suppressing Lamp …

In the end, before he could manage to extract the “bowl spirit” from Mr. Sullivan Sr., Logan Sullivan was forced to retreat under his father’s overwhelming presence—his dad never felt comfortable around William Sherman, and while the old man could tolerate a bit of discomfort for a while, if it lasted too long, he’d make sure everyone else felt uncomfortable too.

Because of this, Logan Sullivan felt quite embarrassed. Even after getting into the car, he was still complaining to William Sherman: “Other people get possessed by beautiful fox spirits, but with his lousy luck, he ends up with a broken bowl—I suspect the old man was either a beggar in his past life, or a bald monk wandering around with a cracked bowl, begging for alms.”

William Sherman: “It’s fine, don’t worry. The Shennong lineage has always been compassionate toward people and generally wouldn’t harm mortals. Besides, didn’t you already put a mark on him? I’ll help you keep an eye on things too.”

Logan Sullivan gave a dry laugh: “Heh, how could I trouble you like this, making you deal with that damn father-in-law before we’re even married.”

…He must have a short memory for pain, already forgetting how William Sherman had just lost his temper, and started teasing again.

Logan Sullivan had originally wanted to invite William Sherman to see a movie, at least to celebrate Valentine’s Day, but maybe the car’s heater was too high—before he knew it, he’d fallen asleep. As he drifted off, Logan Sullivan was still puzzled, thinking to himself that he hadn’t really done much lately, so why was he so easily exhausted?

Maybe he’d caught a cold.

But his sleep was far from restful, plagued by one chaotic dream after another. It seemed like there was always someone in the white mist, constantly telling him: “You cannot see through eternity, right and wrong, good and evil, nor can you see through life and death…”

The same words repeated so many times that even Logan Sullivan couldn’t help but wonder: life and death, what exactly is life and death?

The endless questioning grew louder and louder. Logan Sullivan knew he was dreaming, but he just couldn’t wake up. The turmoil of these dreams seemed to go on forever, as if he were trapped in a boundless swamp—the more he struggled, the more suffocated he felt.

Until someone shoved a bowl reeking of blood to his lips. Ignoring his attempts to dodge, the person pried his mouth open again and forced the contents down his throat. Logan Sullivan, acting on instinct, refused to swallow and tried to push it out with his tongue. The person then cupped his head, and next, a familiar scent approached—soft lips pressed against his, passing the medicine into him.

Logan Sullivan finally struggled free from the dream, only to find that at some point he’d already returned home and was lying in bed. William Sherman set down the medicine bowl, picked up a cup of perfectly warm tea, lowered his head, and touched his forehead to Logan Sullivan’s, saying softly, “Here, drink some water and rinse your mouth.”

Logan Sullivan looked at him silently, took the tea, his long, thick lashes drooping, a trace of cold sweat from the nightmare still on his brow.

He drained the tea in one go, then said hoarsely to William Sherman, “I don’t know why, but I’ve been so tired lately.”

William Sherman paused before replying, “Maybe it’s because you just came out of the sacred tree—it was too draining.”

“Oh,” Logan Sullivan suddenly looked up, gazing at him with a meaningful expression, deliberately drawing out his words, “I thought…”

William Sherman stiffened along his spine.

Then that fool said in a melodramatic, whimpering voice, “Maybe I’m pregnant with your child.”

William Sherman’s hand shook, nearly dropping both the medicine bowl and the teacup, then he stumbled away, arms and legs moving in sync.

Logan Sullivan pulled out his phone to check the time and found an email in his inbox from Zach Warren. Zach Warren had briefly described the case: in a villa complex themed around convalescence, more than 300 kilometers from Dragon City, an owner out for morning exercise had discovered a corpse in the woods outside the community. The face was purplish, the expression terrified, and the person was clutching the neck of a black dog—both human and dog were already dead.

At the end, Zach Warren very professionally reminded him: “It’s almost the seventh day of the lunar new year.”

Legend has it that the seventh day is “Human Day,” when one can exploit loopholes to borrow lifespan.

According to folklore, black dog blood is used to communicate between the living and the dead. The birth dates and times of both the person borrowing and the person being borrowed from are written in black dog blood on a piece of paper, along with the amount of lifespan to be borrowed. The four corners of the paper are pinned down with incense and candles; if the incense stands upright, it means the underworld officials have accepted a bribe and will turn a blind eye. Then the paper is burned, and the borrower swallows the ashes—then it’s done.

In ancient times, it was usually elderly people who were ill, and their filial children or grandchildren would voluntarily offer their own lifespan, lighting incense and candles to show their willingness. But nowadays, hardly anyone knows these customs; most cases involve people afraid of death, hiring half-baked practitioners to steal someone else’s years.

In the past, if a voluntary lifespan transfer failed and the elder still reached the end of their years, the younger person would simply burn incense and pray, then perform another ritual to reclaim their lifespan. But stealing lifespan is different—if the theft succeeds, the Taoist who performed the ritual exchanges their virtue for money; if it fails, the practitioner might suffer backlash, taking the blame for their greedy client’s misdeeds.

It’s not uncommon for people to die next to black dogs before the seventh day. Special Investigation Bureau handles several such cases every year. Logan Sullivan forwarded the email to everyone in the criminal investigation division, telling them to coordinate among themselves and have whoever was free go take a look.

He hadn’t even finished typing a few words before his eyelids were about to close. Forcing himself to send the message, he practically passed out as soon as he hit send, falling asleep before he could even finish counting a single sheep.

Holly Harlow received the email notification while meditating on the rooftop. She trailed her long snake tail, trying to let the faint moonlight fall evenly over her body—as is typical in northern cities, there are hardly any clear days in winter; it’s always foggy or snowing, so it was rare to have a night with a bright moon and sparse stars, perfect for a bit of meditation.

When Holly Harlow opened her eyes, she ignored her phone at first and instead saw the man sitting across from her. She was startled: “Fourth Uncle?”

Uncle Seth turned around and looked down at her: “Back when you failed your tribulation and were struck by heavenly lightning, I entrusted you to the Soulbound Grandmaster, hoping his pure yang energy would protect you. Now it seems he’s taken good care of you.”

As he spoke, he waved his hand, and a small wind shelter pavilion appeared out of thin air on the blustery rooftop. Inside was a large wooden tea tray, a kettle boiling on a small stove in the center, and a teapot with tea leaves already prepared. Uncle Seth beckoned to Holly Harlow: “Come.”

Holly Harlow’s snake tail transformed into legs. She quickly glanced at Logan Sullivan’s email, then walked over, hesitantly saying, “Our commander says there’s a case right now…”

“Just some petty thief suffering backlash from a failed lifespan theft,” Uncle Seth glanced at it and replied without even lifting his eyelids, “I came to see you this time mainly because I have something to discuss with you.”

Uncle Seth was already the head of the snake clan—a man with a kindly face but unfathomable heart. Whenever something happened, he never really “discussed” it with anyone; if he said so, it usually meant he’d already decided and was just being polite.

Holly Harlow couldn’t help but sit up straighter.

Uncle Seth picked up the kettle and poured tea, speaking leisurely amid the rising steam: “Dragon City isn’t a place for focused cultivation. You see, the few clansmen in the demon market mostly live in the distant suburbs. In the past twenty years, you really haven’t made much progress in your cultivation—you know that as well as I do.”

Holly Harlow glanced at him cautiously, took the teacup, and tentatively asked, “Does Fourth Uncle mean I should move to the suburbs?”

Seeing her feign ignorance, Uncle Seth stopped beating around the bush, smiled lightly, and said bluntly, “I mean you should leave Dragon City.”

Holly Harlow: “But the Soulbound Order…”

“Back then, I only entrusted you to the Soulbound Grandmaster. In return, you served under him, but you’re not bound by the Soulbound Order. Even if you leave now, there’s nothing wrong with that.”

Holly Harlow bit her lip.