“Driver, stop here, stop here!” Logan Sullivan kept his eyes fixed on his father’s back, fumbled for his wallet, and was just about to pull out some money when the driver righteously refused.

Logan Sullivan: “Please, just take it, don’t waste time, I’ll lose him if I don’t hurry.”

The driver gave a heroic salute, then gripped his hand firmly and said with conviction, “Comrade, go ahead, I won’t take your money. I serve the people!”

Logan Sullivan: “……”

He was speechless for a second, then decided not to be polite anymore, and jumped out of the car to give chase.

Eleven years ago, the antique street wasn’t as regulated as it would later become. It was a rather narrow alley, lined with street stalls selling everything from jewelry and jade to antiques and calligraphy—real or fake, it didn’t matter, the place was bustling, making the road even narrower and perfect for tailing someone.

Logan Sullivan swallowed a talisman for breath-holding and concealing his presence, drawn by Carter Shaw. Carter Shaw was so poor he had nothing left but his confidence, always boasting about his skills, claiming that this talisman was more than enough to investigate even the love affairs of ancient deities.

Although Logan Sullivan thought he was full of hot air, he couldn’t help but pin his hopes on it at this moment—he just didn’t dare to follow too closely.

So, as soon as he turned a corner, he lost his target.

Logan Sullivan carefully peeked into the entrances of every shop, but saw no sign of the person. His gaze finally landed on the big locust tree said to connect to the underworld. He knew the person he was tracking was, at his core, not his cocky biological father, but a scumbag who dared to use a living body to descend into the Yellow Springs.

Logan Sullivan took a deep breath—his second trip to the underworld in one day—and wished he could kick that damned, spirit-possessed bowl into oblivion.

William Sherman had good reason to urge him to leave quickly; for the living, walking the path of the Yellow Springs was far from a pleasant experience. Even someone as tough as Logan Sullivan, who would go barefoot in the dead of winter, could feel the bone-chilling cold seeping into his very marrow.

“Mr. Sullivan Sr.” waited on the Yellow Springs Road for a while, rubbing his hands together, his frown deepening as if he were waiting for someone.

The Yellow Springs Road was a narrow path, where it was impossible to hide whether you were human or ghost. Logan Sullivan didn’t dare to show himself, so he curled up, aggrieved, hiding inside the big locust tree, feeling as if he were stuck between the worlds of the living and the dead.

Just as he felt he was about to cramp up from crouching, a familiar figure appeared at the far end of the Yellow Springs Road. The person was strikingly conspicuous—wherever he went, not a single ghost remained, and even the grim-faced, stoic underworld officers couldn’t help but lower their heads and retreat, as if he were parting the sea like Moses.

Logan Sullivan’s mood instantly became complicated—anyone would feel a bit weird discovering that their “wife” had secretly met their future father-in-law eleven years ago.

William Sherman, draped in the long cloak of the Soulwarden, kept his face hidden. He stopped five paces in front of Mr. Sullivan Sr., silent, the chill radiating from him even more oppressive than the desolation of the Yellow Springs.

Mr. Sullivan Sr. also stopped moving and rubbing his hands. The two of them stood there, locked in a silent, tense standoff.

After a long while, Mr. Sullivan Sr. finally spoke: “On the evening paper that Yunlan brought home, there was your aura.”

William Sherman didn’t bother to explain, only let out a soft, cold laugh.

Logan Sullivan had never heard William Sherman laugh like that before. For a moment, he wondered if the person wrapped in black before him was really William Sherman, or that strange and sinister Spirit Mask.

Even though Mr. Sullivan Sr.’s body was possessed by a powerful soul, it was still mortal flesh. After a short time on the Yellow Springs Road, his lips turned pale with a hint of purple, and if you looked closely, he was trembling slightly. Yet his voice remained strong: “Don’t forget what you promised the ancestor when you insisted on sending Warden of Highspire’s soul into reincarnation.”

“Oh?” William Sherman finally spoke, slowly. “I only looked at him from afar. When he came over, I left. Even if the venerable ancestor doesn’t trust my character and fears I’ll break my word, surely he trusts the sacred Gilded Pact of Embergrower?”

His tone sounded as gentle and polite as ever, but Logan Sullivan, used to reading between the lines, could detect a deep sense of mockery and disdain in that brief reply.

Mr. Sullivan Sr. frowned: “But what about the Great Seal? Why is the Earthmother’s Seal loosening?”

This time, William Sherman was silent for a moment, then his voice grew a little lower: “If the venerable ancestor remembers, the original Faelan’s Seal lasted only a few hundred years before it was toppled by the Celestial Pillar, destroyed and then rebuilt. Since Lifesmith, the newly established Earthmother’s Seal has lasted for thousands of years. Even water can wear through stone. Now that the Great Seal is loosening, no one can stop it. I truly am powerless.”

“The Earthmother’s Seal was paid for with Lifesmith’s life, and also with Warden of Highspire’s devotion. Of course I’m not saying you’d do anything to harm it. But if the Great Seal completely collapses, what will you do?”

“Indeed,” William Sherman paused, then added lightly, “what will I do? I am quite dull, but now I finally understand what the ancient sages meant by ‘no death, no destruction, no godhood’—but in truth, I was never some naturally born, worshipped deity anyway.”

“Don’t think that when the Great Seal breaks, the Pact of the Embergrower will no longer bind you. If my son…”

Mr. Sullivan Sr.’s words suddenly cut off, as if the film’s audio had broken halfway through. His mouth opened, but no sound came out.

William Sherman’s face was hidden behind a shroud of black mist, but Logan Sullivan could sense that he was smiling.

He heard him say unhurriedly, “Son? Venerable ancestor, you’re too deep in the role. If your ‘son’ knew that you, instead of enjoying your immortal life, chose to possess a mortal—and not just any mortal, but his own father—would he acknowledge you or not?”

A choking sound came from Mr. Sullivan Sr.’s throat. He clutched his neck, eyes wide with rage, but couldn’t utter a single word.

William Sherman watched him calmly for a while, then finally let out a soft laugh. With a wave of his hand, Mr. Sullivan Sr. staggered back several steps as if struck, barely managing to stay upright: “You…”

William Sherman gathered his long sleeves, nodded slightly in greeting: “So, venerable ancestor, please be careful with your words. Some things are better left unsaid, don’t you think? The ancient sage Embergrower Line was highly respected, and I, too, hold him in great esteem. But respect is one thing—if he were still alive, I would still be his sworn enemy. I didn’t even fear the Three Sovereigns of ancient times; as for you, as the Embergrower’s Vessel, I’m afraid… you haven’t yet attained the great powers of the ancient sages, have you?”

Mr. Sullivan Sr. was trembling all over, but William Sherman only said blandly, “I have no wish to do anything uncivilized. I’d rather reason with you peacefully. I hope you’ll also know your limits—don’t reach too far, or meddle too much. If there’s nothing else, I won’t see you out.”

With that, he didn’t spare Mr. Sullivan Sr. another glance, turned, and walked down the Wangchuan, heading deeper into the Yellow Springs.

Logan Sullivan was almost stunned by what he’d heard. William Sherman and Embergrower… sworn enemies?

No wonder that day the Embergrower’s Cauldron had spoken so cryptically and then fled—it was because William Sherman was there!

How had his gentle, scholarly, seemingly easy-to-bully lover turned into someone who could silence his own dad with a single word?

And what was the deal with Embergrower’s Gilded Pact?

Right… if Embergrower Line was the one who borrowed the soul fire from his left shoulder, if the events in the Stonebound Seal were real, then why did the soul fire end up with the Wraithborn later?

What happened in between?

If the memories in the Primewood were fabricated by Embergrower, what was he trying to hide?

Seeing that Mr. Sullivan Sr. was about to come up, Logan Sullivan quickly climbed up the big locust tree, hiding among the thick branches. Only after Mr. Sullivan Sr. had gone far did he poke his head out again.

He descended once more into the Yellow Springs, staring for a long time in the direction where William Sherman had disappeared, still feeling as if it were all unreal. Having been deceived so many times, Logan Sullivan was almost developing paranoia, doubting everything.

At that moment, a sudden thought struck Logan Sullivan. He remembered the 《Ancient Secrets Record》 he’d stuffed into his coat. He hurriedly took it out, only to find that the book had turned completely blank—cover and pages, all empty, not a single word left.

Logan Sullivan’s gaze darkened—eleven years ago, that is, 2002, the legendary Renwu year.

If what he’d just witnessed was real, then if he went to the general store at the end of Phantom Hollow now and bought a copy of 《Ancient Secrets Record》, would it be the very same one that would appear at No. 4 Guangming Road eleven years later?

Chapter 89 Soulbound Lamp …