Spirit Mask was momentarily stunned, the blankness on his mask lingering for an instant, as if he hadn’t quite understood what Logan Sullivan was asking. Suddenly, he threw his head back and burst into loud laughter: “Hahahahaha, I thought he was so pure and innocent, with the face of a saint, but it turns out…”

His words were abruptly cut off—because the Soulcleaver came slashing down from above, carrying a murderous intent as if to split him in two. Spirit Mask darted away to dodge, and even Logan Sullivan was forced to take a step back by the force of the blade’s wind.

Logan Sullivan: “William Sherman?”

William Sherman reached out to grab him: “Coming to a place like this alone, you must be crazy!”

But before he could touch Logan Sullivan, Spirit Mask suddenly sprang out from between them, raised a hand to block William Sherman’s arm, turned into a mass of black mist, and crashed straight into Logan Sullivan’s arms, just in time to pin down the long whip in his hand.

Then, Spirit Mask transformed into countless streams of black smoke, wrapping Logan Sullivan from head to toe, laughing loudly all the while.

Yet in the next moment, his laughter abruptly stopped. The black smoke dispersed and reformed into Spirit Mask, but there was no one left at the spot.

Spirit Mask paused, seeming a bit surprised as well, and muttered in a low voice, “Someone took him away. Who?”

Chapter 88 Soulbound Lamp …

At that moment, Logan Sullivan felt as if someone had thrown a sack over his head. Just as he struggled free, he inexplicably found himself teleported.

First, his vision went black, then white. When he opened his eyes, he had no idea where he was, but he was definitely no longer beneath Veilwater. Annoyed, he twirled the tip of his whip and looked around. Suddenly, in the blinding whiteness that nearly triggered his snow blindness, he saw a solitary figure walking ahead in the distance.

With his long legs, Logan Sullivan quickly caught up and saw that the figure was a short, elderly man.

Even standing straight, the old man would probably only reach his chest. His back was hunched like a boiled shrimp, and he carried on his back one of those huge bamboo baskets commonly used by people in the Yunnan-Guizhou region, big enough to move house with. Logan Sullivan peeked inside the basket—it was empty, nothing inside. Yet the old man seemed to be carrying hundreds of pounds, so weighed down he couldn’t even lift his head, trudging forward with his face to the ground and back to the sky.

Logan Sullivan reached out to support the big basket and muttered, “Is it really that heavy?”

The old man finally stopped, wiped the sweat streaming down his forehead, and looked up to reveal a weathered, dark face, reminiscent of the old man holding a bowl in the famous oil painting “Father.” He glanced at Logan Sullivan and gave a weary smile: “Come, follow me.”

“Wait, where is this? Who are you?” Logan Sullivan asked, frowning.

The old man didn’t answer, just bowed his head again and trudged forward like an old ox pulling a plow, his shoulders deeply sunken under the weight of the empty basket, his collar revealing a pair of protruding, withered collarbones.

“Was it you who brought me here? Hey, what’s all this about? I finally managed to catch my wife, didn’t even get a word in before you barged in and ruined everything.”

The old man listened to his complaints with a faint smile, neither explaining nor replying.

Logan Sullivan asked again, “Where are you taking me? What are you carrying in that basket?”

Suddenly, the old man began to hum a tune in time with his steps: “Living Soul Anchor, Heart of the Fallen, Redemption of the Living Sin, Unfinished Cycle——”

He dragged out the words, half-singing, half-chanting, syllable by syllable, repeating the same two lines over and over, his deep, winding voice and mysterious lyrics reminiscent of the old funeral processions, where the pallbearers would scatter paper money and shout, “The family rewards you with a hundred and twenty strings of coins.”

Seeing that he couldn’t get any answers, Logan Sullivan fell silent. The whip in his hand turned into the red-letter, black-paper Soulbound Order, which he rolled up like a cigarette and held in his mouth to stave off hunger, listening to the old man’s voice while calculating silently in his mind.

Suddenly, he had the illusion that he was walking on a heavenly Sky Path.

Wait, Sky Path… isn’t that Mount Severance? But didn’t Mount Severance already collapse?

As this thought crossed Logan Sullivan’s mind, he suddenly stopped. Somewhere in the void, a sigh echoed. Logan Sullivan seemed to realize something, stared intently at the old man’s back, and blurted out, “Could you be Embergrower?”

The old man stopped again, slowly turned his head, and looked at him in silence.

Instantly, every muscle in Logan Sullivan’s body tensed.

Ever since he realized that the so-called “memories” inside the Primewood were fabricated, he’d harbored a vague suspicion—after all, not just anyone could reach the summit of Summit of Highspire, let alone tamper with the Primewood; you could count the possible culprits on one hand. Later, Logan Sullivan had replayed those memories in his mind countless times. The part about the fate of his left shoulder’s soul fire was extremely vague, and the section about the fall of Mount Severance felt especially forced.

Who was deceiving him?

Looking at it this way, Embergrower Line seemed the most suspicious. In those memories, Embergrower always appeared with just the right amount of detached indifference. At first glance, it seemed righteous, but on closer inspection, something was off.

That memory was a complete story. If you removed any other character, the ending would change, meaning every action had a logical cause and effect. Only Embergrower—even if he wasn’t in the story, the beginning and end would be the same, making no difference at all.

Later, when he saw the Embergrower’s Cauldron attached to his father and heard Spirit Mask accidentally let slip, “Embergrower borrowed your soul fire,” it all seemed to confirm his suspicions.

And in the Binding Stone, Lifesmith’s ambiguous remark, “Embergrower was wrong,” had also struck a nerve in Logan Sullivan.

Logan Sullivan clenched his fists. “So, was it you who tampered with the Primewood?”

The old man didn’t answer, but a worried look appeared on his face. For a moment, Logan Sullivan thought he heard the sound of the Wind of Severance.

Before he could finish speaking, the snowy white world suddenly shattered, blinding light pouring in. Logan Sullivan quickly covered his eyes. After a while, he cautiously lowered his hand, and through tear-filled eyes, he realized he was back in the mortal world.

Logan Sullivan looked around in a daze, and a strange, both familiar and unfamiliar feeling suddenly welled up inside him.

It took him a long time to remember, until he saw an ice cream shop on the street corner.

Logan Sullivan’s eyes widened in shock—this was near his home, except the ice cream shop across the street had closed down long ago, five or six years ago, and had been renovated into a hotpot restaurant.

He was momentarily bewildered, hesitated for a bit, then strode over, used the little cash he had to buy a bowl of shaved ice, and, like an idiot, sat among a group of little girls by the window, staring at the huge “2002” on the calendar hanging on the wall, expressionless, eating the shaved ice with a look of deep bitterness, making loud crunching noises.

He looked just like a thug collecting protection money and smashing up the shop.

Logan Sullivan felt as if he were dreaming, or watching a badly edited movie with jarring scene changes—one moment in the sky, the next underground. After finally making it back to the human world, he’d somehow ended up eleven years in the past.

Halfway through his snack, Logan Sullivan caught a glimpse of someone out of the corner of his eye. He immediately sat up straight, stretched his neck like a meerkat, and peered out the ice cream shop window. Because the sight of a “fierce-looking handsome guy gnawing on shaved ice” was so striking, the girls nearby kept sneaking glances at him, and now couldn’t help but follow his gaze, craning their necks to look outside as well.

The result was a whole basketball team of meerkats.

Logan Sullivan saw a familiar car driving out of his apartment complex—the old sedan that had carried countless childhood memories, which his dad had later mercilessly replaced!

Logan Sullivan immediately tossed his unfinished food onto the table and dashed out at breakneck speed, flagged down a taxi, pulled out his battered work ID, and flashed the police badge at the driver: “Please, follow that car in front!”

The driver, never expecting to get a real-life 007 moment in his lifetime, was instantly excited. He slammed the gas pedal, and the car shot off like a bucking bronco. In a second, the old taxi turned into an F1 racer, and the terrifying acceleration nearly flattened Logan Sullivan against the passenger seat.

Mr. Sullivan Sr. drove all the way to Antique Street, and further in was a narrow alley lined with shops where cars weren’t allowed. From a hundred meters away, Logan Sullivan watched as his dad parked by the roadside, put on a pair of oversized sunglasses like a celebrity dodging paparazzi, and walked inside.