Logan Sullivan hadn’t even had a chance to speak before Judge couldn’t hold back and said first, “What is the meaning of this? The Soul Reaper was ambushed by Spirit Mask, chaos is about to break out, the Great Seal is on the verge of shattering—can you afford to delay important matters? Step aside!”

The little ghost lowered his head and voice: “Yes, Lord Judge, but I am only following orders.”

Judge: “You all…”

Logan Sullivan suddenly interrupted him: “Take me over. I’ve grown up this much and still haven’t seen King of the Underrealm.”

Chapter 101 Soulbound Lamp …

Hall of the Underrealm King.

The Ten Thrones hung high above.

The hall was like a vast blue sky, boundless above and below. Overhead stretched a starry river that would never clear, and underfoot lay the eighteen levels of hell, with cauldrons of boiling oil for tongue-pullers. All around flowed the endless Three Thousand Weak Waters.

Walking within, one’s feet clearly stepped on solid ground, yet it felt as if treading on a pane of transparent glass—below, the scenes of skinning, tendon-pulling, climbing knife mountains and descending oil cauldrons were all in plain view, as if one might fall in at any moment.

Below, the low, lingering voices of the ghost officers pronouncing judgment mingled with the hysterical screams of big and small ghosts, forming a unique and chilling spectacle.

Judge paused, realizing the “Earth Eye” had been opened. He glanced uneasily at Logan Sullivan, then silently led the ghost officers to stand aside—normally, the Earth Eye was kept closed, and those in Hall of the Underrealm King could not see the happenings in the eighteen levels of hell below. Only when a soul of great evil refused to submit would it be revealed as a warning to others.

Truly… not the way to treat a guest.

Holly Harlow grabbed Logan Sullivan’s arm. If not for the thick clothing, her sharp fingers would have dug into his flesh. The ten King of the Underrealm, each with a fierce and menacing face, looked down from their high thrones on the wall, giving off an aura of blue-faced, fanged demons.

Right beneath their feet, Holly Harlow saw with her own eyes a hunched man tied to a pillar, two little ghosts holding him down, another prying open his mouth, a withered, bluish hand reaching inside. The sharp laughter of the little ghosts and the man’s unbearable screams exploded together. Holly Harlow shivered, her palm turning icy cold.

Holly Harlow: “Don’t—don’t go over there.”

Logan Sullivan looked down at her hand clutching his clothes, patiently prying her fingers off one by one: “Wait for me outside.”

Then, expressionless, he strode inside. In Holly Harlow’s anxious gaze, every step seemed to tread on the heads of countless little ghosts below. Finally, he stopped in the center of the grand hall, above the oil cauldron hell. Holly Harlow had the illusion that the scalding oil splashing below would spray onto him.

She gritted her teeth, wanting to follow, but her eyes involuntarily glanced downward—she saw a long, soft tongue being forcibly pulled from a man’s mouth, blood seeming about to splatter her face.

Holly Harlow’s stomach churned, and at last she couldn’t bear it, turning her head away.

Logan Sullivan paid no attention to the female ghost below, her face blistered and swollen, charred outside and raw within, still struggling to climb up. His gaze swept coldly over the ten Underlord, then turned to the cowering Judge, raising an eyebrow and, with a swaggering air, said, “Are you planning to make me stand while I talk?”

His voice was low and icy, each word piercing through the howls from the eighteen levels of hell, showing not a hint of emotion.

Judge gave a signal. Two ghost officers rushed out—one brought a chair, the other served tea. Logan Sullivan sat down unceremoniously, crossing his legs, then raised a hand to block the offered teacup, glancing at the ghost officer’s paper-white face with an expression between a smile and a sneer.

“No need for tea. I’m afraid eating things from the underworld will upset my stomach,” Logan Sullivan said without looking up. “You’ve already shown your authority and put on your airs. I see everyone’s busy, so let’s not waste time—if you have something to say, spit it out.”

The ten voices from the thrones overlapped, forming a unique chorus, angrily rebuking: “You insolent brat!”

Ever since William Sherman was taken away by Spirit Mask right before his eyes, Logan Sullivan felt as if a block of ice had been pressed onto his heart, freezing his insides. Whatever people said or did outside seemed to reach his ears through a barrier, unreal and meaningless.

Only just now, the shocking scene jolted him. Though his face remained calm, his mind grew inexplicably clearer, and a belated anger surfaced.

Logan Sullivan crossed his arms over his chest, hiding the heavy rise and fall of his breathing. His rusted mind turned with difficulty—if the Ten Thrones still had any sense, they should know by now that the Soul Reaper was taken by Spirit Mask. Whether Spirit Mask harmed him or the Soul Reaper sided with Spirit Mask, it was a grave threat to the underworld. Especially now, with the Great Seal’s status uncertain, and Spirit Mask sowing confusion, it was clearly on the verge of breaking.

At such a time, the Ten Thrones still put on such an unfriendly show, not even bothering with appearances. Based on Logan Sullivan’s thirty years of working with the underworld… these fools clearly wanted something, but were too proud to ask, or simply didn’t take him, a mortal, seriously, planning to use threats and bribes?

In that case… there was no need to be polite.

He raised his head without hesitation, his handsome face full of nonchalance and carelessness, his gaze sweeping over with an unmistakable air of wild arrogance. Logan Sullivan sneered, “Well, I’m really sorry, then. My parents didn’t raise me well—I’m just this uncouth. So, what do you plan to do?”

For a moment, all the ghost officers held their breath. Some, not understanding the situation, thought this man was here to pick a fight. The Ten Thrones judged the sins of the living and the dead, regardless of rank or status—everyone entered upright and left horizontal. They’d seen plenty of people wailing for their parents, but never… never someone this cocky.

As if he’d never have to reincarnate!

The Ten Thrones again shouted in their tenfold chorus: “Logan Sullivan!”

Logan Sullivan, thick-skinned and impervious, retorted, “It’s Soulbound Grandmaster.”

He slapped back without hesitation, his hand in his coat pocket lightly caressing the gun grip, a fire burning in his heart. He wanted nothing more than to shoot down these ten pretentious fools one by one—yet at this critical moment, he couldn’t completely fall out with these pig-headed allies, so he had to grit his teeth and endure.

Just then, the ground suddenly began to shake. At first it was faint, then grew more and more violent, until the very air in Hall of the Underrealm King seemed to fill with flying sand and stones.

Logan Sullivan looked down and saw that the oil cauldrons of hell beneath his feet were shaking as if they were “to be shaken before drinking.” Huge basins of hot oil sloshed and spilled, the once-mighty ghosts and spirits scattering in all directions. The bronze pillars of the Bronze Pillar Hell cracked, and the steel blades of the Mountain of Knives Hell popped up and down like a game of whack-a-mole, endlessly…

Suddenly, a ghost officer kicked open the doors of the Ten Thrones and fell to his knees with a thud: “It’s bad—the Great Seal… the Great Seal is broken!”

As he spoke, the grand hall’s doors swung open. Everyone looked outside to see the entire River of Forgetfulness boiling, all the ferrymen abandoning their boats to stand on the tottering Bridge of Helplessness. The narrow Yellow Springs Road was already submerged by the boiling water. Below, a massive black shadow slowly rose until it was level with the water’s surface, then stopped.

On both sides of the submerged Yellow Springs Road, faint lights like fireflies began to glow, forming a row of bean-sized halos—Logan Sullivan remembered those were the little oil lamps by the roadside, also called “Soulbound Lamp.”

The weak lights and the massive shadow faced off, maintaining a fragile balance. But anyone with sense could see what would happen in the end. Before the ghosts and spirits present could react, another ghost officer came tumbling in: “Ghost City! The gates of Ghost City have cracked open—it’s chaos, they’re rebelling!”

The previously united Ten Thrones finally began to talk over each other, quacking like ten big ducks, descending into chaos.

Logan Sullivan remained seated, rubbing his chin, muttering under his breath, “Well, now we’re really screwed.”

With that, he stood up, grabbed the fat Judge by the collar, deciding not to be polite with these autumn grasshoppers. He pulled a gun from his coat pocket, and while the ghost officers were in chaos, took full advantage—jamming the barrel into Judge’s mouth: “I’m not in the mood to waste words. Take me to see Reincarnation right now, or I’ll blow your head off!”

Holly Harlow could hardly believe his audacity, shrieking, “Director Sullivan!”

At the same time, one of the King of the Underrealm above suddenly spoke: “Soulbound Grandmaster, what are you doing!”

Without the tenfold chorus, the voice sounded much weaker and thinner.