Logan Sullivan thought for a moment, and after a while, two dimples appeared on his cheeks as he lowered his head and chuckled softly. “Maybe I’m just a bit slow-witted—if you put it that way, you’re not much better off either. Look at me: a chain-smoking, hard-drinking man of the new era, foul-mouthed and cheap, with a lousy temper. I can’t keep up a gentle and considerate act for more than three days before my true colors show. I’m a real spendthrift, totally useless at household chores, but when it comes to making trouble, I’m a natural. Even my own mother couldn’t stand me and kicked me out early on. You’re a gorgeous woman—what could possibly be bothering you?”

Holly Harlow looked at him through tears. “Don’t you dare give me that ‘good person’ card!”

“Seriously, you have no idea,” Logan Sullivan slowly savored the last cigarette in his hand, “you really don’t know. I’m even too lazy to wash my socks. I buy seven or eight pairs and rotate through them. After one round, I pick them up, shake them out, rank them by how bad they smell, then go through another round, and then just stuff them into the laundry bag with my clothes. I keep shoving them in, and always end up losing one or two. It wasn’t until William Sherman moved in that I finally started wearing matching socks.”

As he said this, he couldn’t help but smile a little, a hint of deep tenderness showing through. “Sometimes I can’t even figure out how he puts up with me, and you probably can’t imagine how good he is to me either. In the future, whether you go back to your clan or decide to come back someday, you’re always welcome. But let’s make a deal—let’s not talk about this anymore, okay? There are plenty of better men out there than me. Why hang yourself on a crooked tree like me? Isn’t that just silly?”

As he spoke, he stubbed out the cigarette butt, and, taking advantage of his height, placed his hand on top of Holly Harlow’s head and gave her long hair a good rub. “I’m just a shameless dead gay guy—what kind of future could you possibly have with me? Come on, goddess, go ahead and spit on me to get rid of the bad luck. I’ll even give you a chance to vent—slap that ‘scumbag’ card right on my face and just say you don’t like me, you don’t want me, okay?”

Holly Harlow finally couldn’t hold back her tears anymore; they streamed down her face all at once. Choking up, she said, “Pah, you dead gay guy, only a ghost would like you, only a ghost would want you.”

Logan Sullivan thought about it and realized her angry words actually made sense—it was almost like she was wishing him and William Sherman a long and happy life together. He started to laugh. “Exactly, only a ghost would like me.”

With that, he nudged Darrin Grant’s belly with his foot. “You two head back together. Be careful on the way.”

Then, without looking back, Logan Sullivan walked up to Bridge of Forgetting, climbed right over the railing, and nimbly jumped onto a ferry boat. The faceless ferryman on board was startled, and Logan Sullivan patted him on the shoulder. “Hey, brother, let me ask you something. I want to go to the sealed-off Blighted Grounds. How do I get there?”

The ferryman’s face turned as white as a sheet. Making a “scared stiff” expression was probably too much for him, so without a word, he jumped off the boat and dove straight into Veilwater. Maybe he didn’t need to breathe, because he didn’t even make a single bubble for a long while.

Seeing that he’d scared a ghost into diving underwater with just one sentence, Logan Sullivan couldn’t help but touch his nose and sat on the ferry boat, thinking for a moment.

“A thousand fathoms below the Yellow Springs, a thousand fathoms below…” Logan Sullivan stared at the calm waters of Veilwater beneath his feet, folded William Sherman’s coat neatly, and placed it on the ferry.

Faint spirits in the river poked their heads out, tentatively reaching out to touch it. Without turning his head, Logan Sullivan said, “That’s the clothing of Lord Soulwarden—you dare touch it?”

The spirit was so frightened it dove straight into the water and disappeared.

Logan Sullivan rolled up his sleeves and pant legs, and, with utter nonchalance, jumped into the waters of Veilwater. In the distance, the startled cries of a woman and a cat rang out, scaring off a whole group of wandering spirits in the water.

The water of Veilwater was icy cold, as if everything in the underworld had just come out of a refrigerator. Logan Sullivan’s watch glowed softly underwater. He glanced down, planning to dive as deep as he could and only come up when he couldn’t breathe anymore. But just then, the Aquadrake Orb hanging around his neck suddenly emitted a white light, forming a huge bubble that enveloped him completely. Logan Sullivan tentatively let out his breath and, to his delight, found that he could breathe again.

“This is freaking awesome.” Holding the legendary water- and fire-repelling Aquadrake Orb, Logan Sullivan exclaimed, then relaxed and boldly continued swimming downward.

He had no idea how long he kept going. The white glow from the ferry above had completely disappeared; above and below was nothing but pitch-black water. The Soul Mirror Dial on his wrist seemed to have turned into a flashlight—emitting light but no longer ticking, as if his time had come to a complete stop.

The wandering spirits around him gradually vanished as well. After a while, even the water itself seemed to become still and unmoving.

No light, no sound, nothing at all. Logan Sullivan found the sound of his own heartbeat unbearably loud, like a drumbeat—covering his ears didn’t help. The more he focused on it, the more intense it became.

After a while, even the glow of the Soul Mirror faded, and everything around him was plunged into darkness. Logan Sullivan had no idea how long he kept sinking in the dark. He almost had the illusion that it wasn’t that there was no light, but that he had gone blind again.

Chapter 86 Soulbound Lamp …

Carter Shaw hadn’t expected the first person he’d run into upon returning to Blackstone would be Charles Gray.

He had just taken off his shackles and reclaimed the things the underworld had forcibly taken from him years ago. In a good mood, he took advantage of the Spring Festival holiday to find a wild graveyard and seclude himself for a few days. It wasn’t until he received an email from Zach Warren saying that Holly Harlow was planning to resign that he hurriedly bought a standing-room-only train ticket and rushed back to Blackstone.

The train station was packed with people. Carter Shaw walked forward a bit, looking around for a taxi, when he spotted the familiar figure of Charles Gray—the young man was lugging a huge woven bag, his body nearly bent into a question mark, inching along with great difficulty.

You could tell at a glance that Charles Gray wasn’t used to manual labor; he probably hadn’t done well in PE at school either. Carrying that big bag, he looked like a snail with a heavy shell, drawing glances from passersby.

At first, Carter Shaw was afraid of mistaking someone else for him, so he looked twice. He watched as the supposedly sturdy nylon bag was pulled so hard it tore a small hole. A kind auntie selling boiled corn by the roadside called out, “Hey, young man, your bag’s about to break!”

Charles Gray turned his head in response, but the load was so heavy that when he turned sideways, he didn’t watch his step and tripped over the little wheel of a girl’s rolling suitcase. Flustered, he hadn’t even had time to apologize before the young man next to the girl shoved him hard, full of aggression. “Watch it! Where are you stepping?”

Charles Gray was already unsteady on his feet. He staggered, and the “city wall” behind him collapsed with a crash. The bottom of the nylon bag burst open, and a pile of bizarre items tumbled out—pots, pans, bowls, clothes and food in smaller plastic bags, and, strangest of all, a wooden chopping board about sixty centimeters in diameter and eight centimeters thick. It was as if he was carrying a miniature Walmart on his back.

The guy who pushed him had probably just fought his way out of the crowded train station and was in a foul mood. Seeing Charles Gray in his drab old clothes, he took him for a migrant worker returning to the city, and his annoyance was tinged with a strange sense of superiority. Pulling the girl along, he complained sharply, “You know it’s crowded, why bring so much stuff? Are you crazy? If you break someone’s suitcase, can you afford to pay for it?”

Charles Gray apologized repeatedly, but seeing his things scattered everywhere, he nearly panicked. He quickly squatted down to pick them up, then looked at the torn bag, scratching his head in confusion and distress.

Just then, a somewhat thin hand reached over, deftly tied both ends of the nylon bag into a tight knot, turning it into a makeshift sack. Then, gathering all the odds and ends into the middle, the person hefted it up as if picking up a sponge—one hand was enough to scoop up all the heavy, awkward items.

Charles Gray: “Brother Carter!”

If he had a tail, he’d be wagging it like an electric fan. He instantly forgot that the man in front of him was the zombie king—in Charles Gray’s eyes, Carter Shaw was nothing short of a savior descending from the heavens.

Carter Shaw ignored him, holding the big nylon bag in one hand as he turned to the young man who hadn’t gone far, his face darkening. “Hey, you up ahead—I suggest you come back and apologize right now.”

Normally, Carter Shaw didn’t seem that intimidating, but when he got serious, he was downright scary, exuding a natural air of ruthless menace. The young man, who had just been so fierce, looked at him and faltered a bit. “What do you want?”

Carter Shaw was about to walk over when Charles Gray grabbed him. “Brother Carter, Brother Carter, let’s just go. It was my fault for not looking. I’m sorry.”

He looked up nervously and smiled at the other guy, holding onto Carter Shaw’s cold hand. “My fault, my fault.”