They drove in utter silence, the atmosphere between them strange and tense, all the way to the main entrance of the convalescent villa town.

The imposing marble relief of the words “Springwater Retreat” stood tall amidst a stylishly designed flowerbed. Whether due to the material or the weather, the carved characters on the stone had an indescribable dullness to them.

There were two security booths at the entrance, two gates, and both driveways were blocked off, preventing passage. Nearby was a card reader for residents to open the gate automatically, but it wasn’t lit up, as if the power had been cut.

Logan Sullivan parked the car at the entrance and checked his phone again. The signal was barely there, just a faint bar, and after shaking it slightly, it disappeared completely.

The window of the security booth was somehow open, and on the windowsill sat a small delivery package, next to a notebook, with a pen lying on top, its cap missing.

Everything, from the windowsill to these items, was covered in a strange layer of dust.

Logan Sullivan put on gloves and picked up the notebook to examine it carefully. He found it was a record of packages collected on behalf of residents—security would receive the parcels, register them, and then deliver them to the owners, who would sign at the end.

The last entry was dated just the day before, and read, “Owner of 10A, Mr. Barnes, packa…”

The word “package” was only half written, the final stroke left unfinished, abruptly cut off.

Logan Sullivan could almost picture the scene with his eyes closed: the courier handing the package through the window, then taking the register and carefully writing down the package details. The word “package” was only half written when, for some reason, he was suddenly interrupted.

Interrupted by what?

The items were still in place—where had the person gone?

At that moment, William Sherman, who had at some point also gotten out of the car, walked over and wiped a finger across the slightly odd-colored fine dust on the windowsill.

William Sherman rubbed the dust between his fingers, examined it closely, and then said offhandedly to Logan Sullivan, “It hasn’t been here long.”

Logan Sullivan was so impressed by his forensic skills he almost wanted to kneel: “Dust? You can even tell that? How?”

William Sherman brushed his hands clean. “You can’t usually tell with ordinary dust, but this is fresh cremains, just recently settled. Personally, I’d say it’s no more than two or three days old.”

Logan Sullivan: “……”

William Sherman’s tone was as casual as if he were saying, “The milk was just freshly squeezed.”

Logan Sullivan closed the notebook mechanically, found an evidence bag, and sealed it up tightly, feeling extremely grateful he’d sent Charles Gray away—otherwise, the poor guy would have been so scared he’d have lashed out indiscriminately with his Vengeful Spirit Rod.

“But what did you say? Cremains? It doesn’t look like it to me.” Logan Sullivan couldn’t help but think of the kind that’s stored in little boxes after cremation, and was a bit doubtful.

William Sherman patiently explained, “Not the kind from cremation. You know the phrase ‘grind the bones to dust’? The person was probably standing right here, and in an instant, their body disintegrated, the bones crushed to powder, which then settled on the windowsill.”

Carter Shaw, who had also come over at some point, asked incredulously, “What about the flesh and blood?”

“Dissolved,” William Sherman adjusted his glasses. “Flesh and blood can’t withstand what bones can, so it’s hard for any trace to remain.”

Carter Shaw carefully chose his words: “So, from what you’re saying, sir, you know what happened to the people here, right?”

William Sherman nodded politely, replying with humility, “I don’t know much, but I do know a little about this.”

Then, under the gaze of the two men and a cat, he began to explain in the calm, measured tone of someone giving a lesson on classical Chinese: “In ancient times, after Gong Gong knocked down Buzhou Mountain, the sky collapsed and the earth split open. When the underground ghost clan descended for the first time, all living things within a ten-mile radius—people, livestock, beasts—were reduced to powder in an instant, and within a hundred miles, not a blade of grass survived.”

He pointed to the flowerbed under the villa district’s sign, still lush and green in the dead of winter: “So those flowers over there must be fake.”

“But this villa town isn’t ten miles across,” Logan Sullivan pointed out. “There are two big pine trees at the main gate—they can’t be a hundred miles away…”

“Because of that.”

They followed William Sherman’s gesture and saw that the entrance to the villa town was a small garden, surrounded by the Guildhall. The Guildhall wasn’t a single building, but several small buildings of varying heights, arranged artfully around the garden like a screen wall, providing privacy for the residents inside.

“The pool in the middle is shaped like a flower, and the water system extends outward, connecting the clusters of Guildhall buildings.” Carter Shaw, usually so arrogant, was now extremely humble, asking respectfully, “Sir, is that the Dual Blossom Array?”

“Yes, Mr. Carter, you are well-informed—Plum Blossom Array is used to ward off evil and protect the home,” William Sherman said. “So the yin energy is blocked inside the formation and can’t get out for now, only affecting this short stretch of road at the entrance. But if such a shoddy Plum Blossom Array can hold it back, I think Earthmother’s Seal should be fine. There’s just a small gap here that needs patching.”

Carter Shaw and Darrin Grant didn’t really know what Earthmother’s Seal was, but listening to William Sherman, it sounded as simple as sewing on a missing button.

Logan Sullivan couldn’t help glancing at him. William Sherman seemed, at first glance, to be a man of measure and restraint, never overstepping—but in reality, there was nothing about him that didn’t go beyond the ordinary.

By now, Logan Sullivan had more or less figured it out—since William Sherman had already gotten what he wanted, he was probably feeling quite at ease. He might not care about Earthmother’s Seal at all; in fact, Logan Sullivan suspected he didn’t even care about his own life or death.

“No wonder the Underrealm made such a commotion—it must be chaos by now, right?” William Sherman couldn’t help but smile, but the next moment, realizing he was showing too much schadenfreude, he quickly reined in his expression and coughed lightly. “It’s fine. Just stick close to me.”

Carter Shaw and Darrin Grant immediately abandoned their own leader and decided to cling tightly to the coattails of this powerful “leader’s wife.”

Logan Sullivan didn’t say anything, just silently followed. He had a vague sense of foreboding—Life Swap, the matter he’d handed to Julian West in a daze, hadn’t been given much thought at the time, but now, thinking back, wasn’t it exactly like the case of the Reincarnation Sundial?

And the problem was, the Reincarnation Sundial… was in Spirit Mask’s hands.

With the Great Seal weakened, it could still control most of the ghost clan, but it could no longer contain the ghost king of ten thousand years. Now, three of the four Sacred Artifact had appeared. Although, except for the Reincarnation Sundial, the others were in their own hands, the The Four Pillars were like four legs of a table—you didn’t need all four to topple it; prying up two was enough to overturn the entire Great Seal.

Who knew what that elusive Soulbound Lamp really was?

Entering through the pedestrian path beside the main gate, a thick, indescribably oppressive aura of death hit them. Even with William Sherman leading, Darrin Grant couldn’t help but bristle, the Soulbind Whip quietly uncoiling down Logan Sullivan’s arm, its tip emerging at his wrist, while his other hand reached for the small dagger hidden in his sleeve.

In Logan Sullivan’s eyes, the Springwater Villa Town looked more like a trap—Julian West’s video hadn’t shown him entering, and knowing how cautious Julian West was, he would never have gone in alone without contacting Headquarters under such ominous circumstances.

Something had misled or… forced him, so that before he even set foot in the area, he’d already lost all his senses.

Even if Julian West was a direct disciple of Darion, he couldn’t withstand the malice rising from a thousand feet below the Underflow when the Great Seal cracked. Wouldn’t it have been easier just to kill him outright?

Keeping him alive… was it to lure someone else here?

The Soulbound Order, or William Sherman?

The carefully landscaped path was deserted, every house an oddly shaped, empty shell, not a single ghost in sight. At some point, the black robe on William Sherman had materialized—he must have sensed something too, as he gripped the Soulcleaver in his hand.

The footsteps of the three people and one cat echoed loudly on the ground, the sound carrying far, adding to the eerie atmosphere.

The sun, which had been sinking in the sky, was now, at some point, no longer a warm red-orange, but a stiff, blood-red hue—like the crude red cheeks painted on the faces of paper effigies in a funeral shop, a clumsy lump of cinnabar, disturbingly bizarre.