“Mm,” Logan Sullivan neither lost his temper nor showed any strong reaction. He simply responded as if absentmindedly, as though he had already forgotten that he had sent Holly Harlow away and that she had disobeyed orders to return on her own. Then, Logan Sullivan paused in his steps. “If you run into Carter Shaw and Darrin Grant, tell them to keep looking for Julian West. I have something to take care of and will leave for a while.”

Holly Harlow: “I’ll go with you!”

Logan Sullivan glanced at her expressionlessly. “No need. It’s inconvenient to bring you along. Train for a few more years, little snake.”

Holly Harlow was practically fuming: “Little snake? I’m a little snake? Then what are you? At your age, our kind are still gnawing on their own eggshells! You mortal.”

Logan Sullivan didn’t even look back, but the corner of his mouth curled into a cold, silent smile. He murmured, barely audible, “Don’t worry, that won’t be the case for much longer.”

Julian West, who was being searched for by everyone, was struggling to meditate. He had no idea where he was. When he regained his senses, he found himself tied up here, his back against a strangely shaped boulder. Beside the rock stood a tree so tall he couldn’t see the crown when he looked up. The surroundings seemed to be made of water, yet he himself appeared to be inside a transparent dome, unaffected by the water.

All around him, front and back, left and right, were bizarre-looking youchu… Some were typical youchu, some looked more human, and some were nothing but a pile of sludge. This crowd of “youchu” surrounded him densely, almost instantly triggering the trypophobia of this rather sensitive man.

Julian West couldn’t help but close his eyes and start chanting sutras.

Unfortunately, he had barely begun, reciting just a couple of lines, when Julian West discovered to his dismay that the Buddhist scripture seemed to have angered his already predatory “neighbors.” The youchu grew restless, and all sorts of hisses and roars erupted around him.

Julian West swallowed hard and forced a strained smile. “Uh… well, I didn’t know there was a rule against chanting here. I’m not very cultured, I’ll stop right away, right away.”

The youchu closest to Julian West looked at him with greedy, darkened eyes, unable to resist stepping closer, lifting its nose to sniff the fresh scent of flesh and blood on the man.

Julian West put on a miserable face. “I haven’t bathed in three days! Comrade, please keep your hands to yourself and mind your manners!”

Suddenly, the youchu lunged at him, mouth wide open, about to bite. At that moment, another youchu—one that looked more human—suddenly reached out, grabbed the first one by the back of the neck, and with a twist of its wrinkled fingers, turned the lesser youchu’s head into a bell, which dangled there, dead.

The one who had just killed its own kind let out a shriek, tore off the entire ear from the corpse, and, without so much as a dip in soy sauce or vinegar, popped it straight into its mouth and ate it.

Then, it generously tossed the corpse aside. Instantly, countless youchu swarmed over like it was New Year’s, and in less than half a minute, the youchu was picked clean, not even bones left.

Julian West stared in shock. “Amituo… uh, Buddha, have mercy, please, could you all mind your table manners?”

The “benefactors” all roared at him, apparently wanting to use him to practice their fine dining etiquette.

“Alright, alright, if you don’t want to mind your manners, that’s fine, do as you please!”

Just then, a sharp whistle sounded from afar. All the youchu—the ghost clan—instantly fell silent, and then, like mist blown away by the wind, they all vanished in a flash.

Julian West felt a gust of wind rush past him, and then someone crashed down from above, landing with a thud and being pinned to the strange tree nearby.

Four pitch-black shackles grew out from the tree trunk, locking the person in place. A three-foot-long ice spike was stabbed through the person’s chest—he was literally “nailed” to the tree. For a moment, Julian West held his breath, thinking the person was dead.

But just then, the person nailed to the tree suddenly opened his eyes.

His breathing was shaky, but not a trace of it showed on his face. At that moment, Julian West cried out in surprise, “Mr. Sherman!”

William Sherman glanced down at him without a word, but Julian West saw his forehead covered in cold sweat, his lips as pale as paper. Looking closely, his body was trembling almost constantly, but aside from that, not a hint of pain showed on his face.

Soon after, Spirit Mask descended, standing opposite William Sherman, grinning at him. After a while, Spirit Mask slowly raised his hand and removed the mask from his face.

Julian West gasped. “Buddha, have mercy, please grant your disciple a pair of glasses! With these eyes, how… how come I’m seeing two Mr. Shermans?”

But on closer inspection, the masked “Mr. Sherman” had even paler skin—not a healthy white, but a bluish, corpse-like pallor, as if he’d just crawled out of a vat of formaldehyde, carrying an indescribable aura.

It was as if an unspeakable resentment and chill clung to him, making William Sherman’s classically handsome features look like a painted mask stretched over a skull—the more beautiful, the more terrifying.

Julian West’s eyes nearly popped out. In an instant, he decided that this newcomer was a shameless copycat, having undergone plastic surgery to look like their “boss’s wife”—clearly a much uglier knockoff!

The knockoff slowly spoke: “I’m a sentimental person, but you keep pushing me. I really have no choice but to kill you, my brother.”

As Spirit Mask said this, a strange light flickered in his eyes, as if he felt both regret and greed—William Sherman was also a Wraith King, and on top of that, he’d later received the protection of Warden of Highspire and gained a divine status…

“If I devour you, do you think the entire Great Seal will be broken by me?”

William Sherman was nailed to the Virtue Tree, sweating from pain, but he managed a mocking smile. “What’s wrong, the path of the The Four Saints is no longer viable? Did something happen to the Reincarnation Sundial? Has it become just an ordinary stone?”

“It was you!”

Spirit Mask’s eyelids twitched violently. Then he raised his hand and slapped William Sherman across the face. William Sherman’s head was knocked to the side, and because he’d been clenching his teeth, his lip was split, but he seemed not to notice, spitting out the blood and laughing. “The Reincarnation Sundial was born from the Lifemark Stone, and the Lifemark Stone and the Virtue Tree each hold one soul from the three souls and seven spirits, connected through the souls of all things. Only the Terra-Spike, with its yin and yang in harmony, is self-contained and can trap anything in the world. No wonder I used the Terra-Spike to lure you here back then, marking you with the Soulseeker Lure. And then, as expected, you brought out the Grand Crucible in front of everyone, burning out the Virtue Quill. Did you think I didn’t know that the most important piece at the bottom of the Soulforge Crucible was the Lifemark Stone? Where else would you find a fragment of the Lifemark Stone… It’s obvious. When the Virtue Quill appeared, that was when I found the Reincarnation Sundial and nailed it into the Terra-Spike—otherwise, how do you think the Grand Crucible so easily fell into your hands? Did you really think you were just lucky, that someone would hand you a pillow as soon as you wanted to sleep?”

“The Terra-Spike… the Terra-Spike was in your hands from the start?”

“Can’t you read? ‘Mountains and rivers, mountains and rivers’—Highspire is the origin of thirty-six rivers and mountains. I inherited the title of Mountain Sage, and am naturally connected to the hundred thousand great mountains. Why would I go to such lengths to fight you for something… that was right under my nose?” Cold sweat dripped into William Sherman’s mouth, but he casually licked it away. “Now, I think there’s one more thing you’d like to know—just now, the wisp of Chaos you took from yourself to lure and restrain me, where do you think I’ve put it?”

Spirit Mask’s face alternated between blue and red for a long moment, his expression twisting with rage. Suddenly, he grabbed the ice spike in William Sherman’s chest. Blood had already soaked through William Sherman’s robe, gluing flesh and fabric together, making the man look utterly wretched.

Spirit Mask twisted the ice spike inside William Sherman’s chest, but William Sherman didn’t make the scream he wanted to hear—he couldn’t even speak.

“I don’t care to know,” Spirit Mask panted, leaning close to William Sherman’s face and speaking in a low voice, “I don’t need to know anything. I can just drain your blood until you can’t maintain this human form, then pull out the Highspire Sinew from your soul, and devour you bite by bite. Then there will be only one Wraith King in this world, and I will truly be peerless.”

William Sherman was in so much pain he couldn’t speak, but the mocking smile still lingered at the corner of his mouth, as if to say to Spirit Mask—go ahead and try.

Spirit Mask pulled the ice spike halfway out of his chest, then viciously drove it back in. William Sherman’s body convulsed violently, and he finally passed out, his head drooping limply.

Without sparing a glance at the terrified Julian West, Spirit Mask strode away, disappearing into the endless darkness.