On the Road of the Underflow, living souls do not pass by, but among the three of them, two were not human, and the remaining one carried the Soulbound Order, belonging to a privileged class, so it didn’t really matter. On both sides, the sound of water trickled, carrying a chill so cold it could freeze drops midair. Walking along, no one dared to even breathe loudly, for fear of disturbing the resentful spirits passing by.

The “passersby” they saw all had vacant eyes, herded along by ghost messengers, just like sheepdogs driving a flock.

Logan Sullivan had walked this road before on business, but every time he found it unnerving, always keeping his eyes straight ahead and walking as fast as he could. This time, however, with so many questions on his mind, he couldn’t help but pay more attention.

He saw that the Road of the Underflow was narrow and winding, sloping upward like the legendary road to the heavens. Underfoot were slate tiles of a dark, iron-blue color, and on both sides, the yellow spring water occasionally bubbled, as if something might emerge at any moment. Lining the road were two rows of small oil lamps, like streetlights, one every ten feet, each emitting a bean-sized halo and casting long shadows. Beneath them grew a few clusters of the legendary bi’an flowers, said to belong to the garlic family, blooming in patches of vivid red.

Logan Sullivan studied them for a while before remembering: these were the Soulbound Lamps. He’d read about them long ago in a miscellany, which said the Soulbound Lamps guided wandering spirits along the Road of the Underflow. The number of unforgettable things in one’s life determined the length of the road. All worldly attachments would be washed away by the light of the Soulbound Lamps, and at the end, by the Bridge of Forgetting, a bowl of Memory Draught brewed from Veilwater would be drunk, and then one could reincarnate.

All past lives would be wiped away. The faint light of the lamps, though not scorching, could refine a new soul.

Logan Sullivan couldn’t help but bend down to examine a Soulbound Lamp closely. On its base, four characters were neatly engraved—“Life Begins at Death.”

It summed up the true meaning of reincarnation.

In a daze, something seemed to flash before his eyes. Suddenly, Logan Sullivan felt a sharp pain in his chest, as if his heart had been wrenched out and squeezed. He staggered, and Holly Harlow behind him quickly reached out to steady him, lowering her voice, “What’s wrong?”

Logan Sullivan’s face was deathly pale. He forcibly swallowed the metallic taste rising in his throat, pressed his left chest, and after a moment of silence, shook his head at her as if nothing had happened, then continued walking forward.

They made their way into the Phantom Hollow. Logan Sullivan took a few Spiritleaves from his wallet, and each of the three took one, holding it in their mouths. This would conceal the aura of living souls, preventing the little ghosts in the city from noticing them.

In the Phantom Hollow, aside from ghost immortals and souls waiting in line for reincarnation, there were also some with deep obsessions who could not reincarnate, as well as guilty souls serving sentences. These souls could reside in the Phantom Hollow for hundreds or even thousands of years, and their longing to return to life was beyond the understanding of the living.

When Logan Sullivan was young, he had come here once to retrieve a living soul who had strayed into the Phantom Hollow. He failed to bring the soul back, but instead witnessed firsthand how the living soul was swarmed by the little ghosts and drained alive. Later, a reinforced squad of ghost messengers arrived to suppress the riot in the Phantom Hollow.

At that time, Logan Sullivan was still a child, and the scene left him with a psychological shadow. For the living to write, “What joy in life, what fear in death,” it was probably because they had already forgotten what death felt like.

The dead’s desperate craving for life force was as mad as a drowning person’s longing for air—instinctive and impossible to suppress.

If even humans were like this, how much more so for the ghost clan born in the depths of the underworld?

This was why Logan Sullivan felt for William Sherman. Sometimes, in his eyes, William Sherman was so harsh on himself that it bordered on self-abuse, even to the point of denying his own nature.

Holly Harlow had never been to the Phantom Hollow before. She glanced uneasily at Logan Sullivan, who quietly instructed her, “No matter what happens, don’t spit out the Spiritleaf in your mouth. Otherwise, it’ll be a real mess. Enough ants can kill an elephant, and these little ghosts are even more troublesome than you think.”

Holly Harlow nodded.

Logan Sullivan looked at her, hesitated, and added, “Maybe you should just wait for me outside.”

Holly Harlow shook her head firmly. She didn’t really know what she could do by going in, but sometimes she just couldn’t help feeling that as long as she was watching over him, she could be a little more at ease.

The black cat jumped down from Logan Sullivan’s shoulder and led the way. Black cats and black dogs were both considered powerful omens; little ghosts would instinctively avoid them. With the black cat leading, it was like having a police escort, and the two of them made their way into the Phantom Hollow almost unimpeded.

The fifteenth of every month was the big market day in the Phantom Hollow, but it wasn’t the day yet, so the Midnight Market seemed a bit deserted.

On the short street, at the entrance sat the The Life-Weaver, a small basket at her feet, curled up by the roadside. Her dim yellow eyes followed the occasional passing little ghosts with a pitiful gaze. At first glance, she looked just like an old woman from the mortal world, forced by hard times to peddle wares in her twilight years. Holly Harlow couldn’t help but look at her a bit longer. The The Life-Weaver noticed and immediately grinned, revealing a mouthful of yellow teeth, and said to Holly Harlow, “Buy some lifespan, buy some lifespan.”

Her voice was so hoarse and piercing it sounded like a piece of metal scraping bone. Holly Harlow broke out in goosebumps and was quickly pulled away by Logan Sullivan.

“Don’t look,” he whispered. “That Soul Ledger has a bad reputation. What she sells is all ‘white goods.’”

Holly Harlow couldn’t help but ask, “What are ‘white goods’?”

“The extra life you get from eating her Final Chronicle isn’t natural lifespan. Even lying in bed like a vegetable, suffering, counts as extended life. Understand?” Logan Sullivan pulled his coat tighter, collar up, and lowered his voice. “Just keep walking and don’t look around. This is a no-man’s-land. If you stare too much, they’ll force you to buy, and you’ll get into trouble.”

Holly Harlow immediately kept her gaze straight ahead and walked on without looking around. After passing through the long market street, they saw a small thatched hut at the far end, with a sign at the door in black characters on white paper: “Please.”

The hut was in utter disrepair, but at the entrance, just like that little shop by the old locust tree on the antique street, hung two white lanterns inscribed with the characters “Soulbound.”

“Eight or nine times out of ten, this is where their goods come from,” the black cat said, turning its head. “Their family reincarnates once every sixty years, switching between yin and yang. In the world of the living, they guard the the Underflow entrance by the old locust tree; in the underworld, they run this general store in the Midnight Market.”

Logan Sullivan strode forward, pushed open the door with a creak, and first took a small lens from his wallet, sticking it above the door before stepping inside.

As soon as he set foot inside, a little girl’s voice rang out, crisp and clear: “‘Dawnlight Revelation, little ghosts keep out.’ Do our honored guests have urgent business?”

Logan Sullivan jerked his chin, signaling Holly Harlow to close the door. The curtain to the inner room was lifted, and a little girl with two brush-like braids walked out.

She wasn’t even as tall as an adult’s waist, her face as pale as paper, with two bright red circles painted on her cheeks, her eyes lifeless and black, lips crimson, dressed in an old-fashioned cotton jacket, her expression blank.

Looking at her, one felt not the slightest bit of cuteness, but rather that her child’s voice paired with that face was downright eerie.

Logan Sullivan got straight to the point, taking out the book “Ancient Secrets Record” and placing a Soulbound Order on top. He crouched down to meet the girl’s gaze. “I have something to ask you, little miss. Could you help me?”

The girl’s eyes fell on the Soulbound Order, and she replied in a clear, wooden voice, “So the Lord of the Order himself has come—how is my brother?”

“Not at all—your brother is doing well. Just a few days ago, for the New Year, I had someone send him a few pounds of cured meat,” Logan Sullivan replied politely. “I just wanted to ask, is this book from your shop?”

The girl reached out to take it. Even from a hand’s width away, he could feel the chill radiating from her, frost forming on the book’s cover where she touched it. She flipped through a couple of pages, then nodded, “Yes, it’s from here.”

She turned to the last page, where, in the most inconspicuous corner, there was a gray stamp. Looking closely, one could just make out the characters “General Store.” The girl pointed to it. “This is our shop’s private seal.”

Logan Sullivan: “Could you check who bought this book and brought it to the mortal world?”

As he spoke, he pulled out a stack of spirit money from his bag and lit it with a lighter in front of the girl.

The girl’s eyes flickered, and she gave a stiff smile. “No need to be so polite, Lord of the Order. Please wait a moment and come in for some tea.”

The two of them and the cat followed her into the dilapidated General Store. The girl served them tea. Logan Sullivan lifted his cup, sniffed it, and pretended to taste it—of course, he didn’t dare drink it. Living souls must not eat or drink anything from below the the Underflow; anyone with a bit of common sense would know that from old operas.