What if he simply didn’t buy that damned book? What if he just threw this roll of blank paper into the River of Forgetfulness?

Logan Sullivan thought this, and did exactly that. He raised his hand and tossed the roll of blank paper into the river. With a “plop,” it splashed, then slowly sank. He waited for a long time, but no one came to fine him for littering.

Logan Sullivan turned and walked toward the big pagoda tree.

He decided to buy a pack of cigarettes to clear his lungs, then check into a hotel for a good meal and a proper sleep, and only after that go find the obsessive stalker William Sherman, to urge him to quickly think of a way to send him back… Logan Sullivan suddenly stopped in his tracks.

Could he really be sure that the William Sherman he saw just now was actually William Sherman?

Perhaps this is why “cleverness” and “wisdom” are two entirely different things. At the moment he threw away the scroll, Logan Sullivan had already instinctively made the right choice—some things just shouldn’t be pursued; sometimes, it’s best to remain in the dark.

Yet, in just the time it took to turn around, he couldn’t help but let his thoughts run wild. Catching even the slightest clue, he would instinctively try to piece them together. It was almost a reflex—he did it without thinking.

Logan Sullivan’s steps unconsciously slowed. He thought, if he really left all this behind and returned to eleven years later…

If it was all fake, then nothing would have happened. He’d need to consider who went to such great lengths to create this environment, and why he was made to hear such a cryptic, fragmented conversation.

But if everything he experienced here was real, then if he didn’t buy that book, the Special Investigation Bureau eleven years later would truly be without the Ancient Secrets Record. He wouldn’t be able to find those clues about Nuwa creating humans, transforming into Houtu, and so on. Maybe, to play it safe, he wouldn’t even go to Kunlun Mountain. Who knows where the merit would end up, or what he’d see in the sacred tree—none of it would happen.

In that case, maybe he’d never go down to the Yellow Springs. Even if by some twist of fate he did return, he wouldn’t know his father had another Embergrower’s Cauldron. Maybe he’d just go home to see his mom, not caring what his dad was up to, and certainly wouldn’t sneakily flag down a taxi to follow him. He wouldn’t be squatting on the Road to the Yellow Springs, pondering the stupid question of whether to buy a book—because that book wouldn’t exist.

According to the famous grandfather paradox, none of this should be possible. Grandpa Einstein with the garlic nose said so—unless he’d entered a parallel universe, starting a completely different world from here on out.

Unless…

Logan Sullivan stopped walking. He closed his eyes, and all he could hear was the gentle flow of the River of Forgetfulness. The ten thousand ghosts were as silent as a bottomless abyss. Suddenly, Logan Sullivan remembered what he’d heard in the Earthwarden’s Seal—that sentence, as if spoken from his own mouth: “Destiny is that moment when you could go anywhere, but you only ever choose one path…”

His breathing gradually slowed.

Of course, Logan Sullivan knew what he was thinking. He was desperate to know whether, eleven years ago, William Sherman and the cauldron possessing his father had met behind his back, whether they’d had that conversation, whether William Sherman really had a contract with Embergrower that he didn’t know about, and whether he had a side completely different from his upright, gentlemanly demeanor.

And… did William Sherman really not know the underworld had been using him all along? If he did, how could he be so unconcerned? Or… did he already have his own plans?

Half a minute later, Logan Sullivan finally turned back without a word, put a leaf in his mouth to mask his living aura, and strode toward Phantom Hollow.

The little shopkeeper at the general store still looked seven or eight years old. She didn’t seem the least bit surprised to see him, so when Logan Sullivan asked for the Ancient Secrets Record by name, she simply quoted a price in ghost money, then brought out a huge ledger and had him write his name in it.

A flash of white light appeared on the ledger, and after the three characters “Logan Sullivan,” the titles “Warden of the Bound Soul Order” and the year appeared.

This time, no one in Phantom Hollow noticed he was alive. Logan Sullivan left smoothly, carrying the Ancient Secrets Record straight home. He concealed his presence, climbed over the wall, and slipped in through his bedroom window.

Eleven years ago, neither Logan Sullivan nor Darrin Grant were there. On the desk sat only a computer and a pile of messy English final exam review materials, beside which someone had scrawled the words “dog shit” in a wild, inhuman hand.

Logan Sullivan couldn’t help but touch the crude words lightly, and involuntarily laughed, as if seeing his own cringey younger self in the mirror.

Then he turned around and gently lifted the bed board—where he used to hide all sorts of shady books and tools like cinnabar and yellow paper.

Logan Sullivan easily found the compartment for his books. To avoid drawing attention, he treated it like any other book: he pulled out a stack of expired calendar pages from the drawer, tore one from the middle, and deftly wrapped the Ancient Secrets Record in it, labeling the white cover with small characters: “Nuwa creates humans, mends the sky…”

He’d meant to write, “Nuwa creates humans, mends the sky, becomes Houtu; Fuxi’s yin-yang and eight trigrams, the great seal; Shennong sacrifices himself to taste all herbs; Gonggong the dragon rams Buzhou Mountain in anger,” to note all the things in the book that would be useful to him later. But just as he’d written a few words, he heard voices in the hallway.

Logan Sullivan hurriedly tossed the book aside, clumsily closed the bed board, and nearly pinched his hand.

The person outside had sharp ears and knocked on the door. He heard his mother’s voice from eleven years ago: “You little brat, are you home? What are you doing in there making all that noise?”

Logan Sullivan’s throat moved, but he didn’t dare answer. The knocking grew louder: “Logan Sullivan?”

Logan Sullivan had no choice but to pinch his voice thin and say, “Meow—”

“Is it the cat?” the woman outside muttered. “Doesn’t it never come home before dark? Why is it back so early today? Could it be pregnant? If I’d known, I would’ve taken it to get fixed.”

Logan Sullivan: “…”

He couldn’t imagine how Mr. Darrin Grant would react if he heard that.

Luckily, he managed to fool his mom. Logan Sullivan had just breathed a sigh of relief and was about to finish writing when he heard a car outside. He peeked through the curtains and saw his split-personality, spendthrift dad had come home.

That was too much to handle. Logan Sullivan made a snap decision, nimbly jumped out the window again, landed silently on the grass, and slipped away in the opposite direction from the car, successfully playing the thief in his own home.

He crossed the neighborhood and reached the main street, not sure where to go next. Suddenly, Logan Sullivan felt the ground shake violently. At first, he thought it was an earthquake, but when he looked closely, all the passersby were calmly walking on, the houses stood solidly in rows, not even a speck of dust falling.

Logan Sullivan realized that only his own world was spinning. Everything around him suddenly crumbled. The ground vanished beneath his feet, and when he looked up, he found himself back on that endless white road, facing the old man who seemed to be Embergrower.

Logan Sullivan strode over and grabbed the old man by the collar. “Tell me clearly, this is—”

The old man finally spoke, interrupting his question with a very strange accent: “Do you know what ‘death’ is?”

Logan Sullivan frowned deeply. After two seconds of eye contact, he could tell from the old man’s gaze that he’d never get any information from him by force or trickery. So he slowly let go, fell silent for a moment, and cautiously gave a textbook answer: “Death is the end of the body’s vital signs?”

The old man’s voice was hoarse: “Then what about the three souls and seven spirits? What about the six paths of reincarnation?”

Logan Sullivan quickly tried another answer: “Then death is the end of one life and the beginning of another.”

The old man laughed loudly and retorted, “Then what about the ghost clan? What about the land of great disrespect?”

Logan Sullivan: “…”

After a while, Logan Sullivan asked, “Then what do you say it is?”

Suddenly, a brilliant light burst from the old man’s eyes, making him seem a bit terrifying. He grabbed Logan Sullivan’s arm, his fingers digging in as if they’d pierce the flesh: “Have you forgotten? Highspire, death is actually…”

The way he said this was just like a dying extra on TV—choking for ages without naming the killer, only managing to spit out a clue before dying—except this time, the old man was split open alive right before Logan Sullivan’s eyes.