The more he read, the deeper Logan Sullivan's frown became. After a while, he picked up the internal phone and called the Criminal Investigation Division across the hall, speaking harshly: “Julian West, get in here. Now.”

Thirty seconds later, Julian West rolled in, quite literally: “Hehe, boss, you called for me?”

Logan Sullivan immediately launched into a tirade: “Do you even know how many typos you made? I have no idea what you people actually do all day. How can you mess up a simple report like this... What are you doing?”

Julian West had no interest in being scolded. He was already sidling up, stretching out his arm to adjust the angle for a photo: “Come on, boss, say chee—se—”

Logan Sullivan remained expressionless: “...Cheese my ass.”

With a “click,” Julian West snapped a selfie of the two of them, then enthusiastically turned the camera to show Logan Sullivan. Because of the angle, Julian West's face, pressed up against the lens, looked huge, while the scowling Logan Sullivan in the background resembled a lurking ghost.

“Got it!” Julian West said, inexplicably delighted. “I thought ancient sages couldn't be captured by mortal devices, but I guess you're just like Mr. Sherman—you're an incarnation in the human world now, right? Can you change back to your true form whenever you want? Hey, can I ask a favor? Can I get a photo with your true form?”

Logan Sullivan: “...”

Julian West: “Just one.”

Logan Sullivan: “Get out.”

So Julian West rolled right back out.

The office was quiet for less than five minutes before someone else knocked and entered. Holly Harlow walked in: “Director Sullivan, I want to withdraw my resignation.”

Logan Sullivan nodded toward the shredder beside him: “Already taken care of.”

“Oh.” Holly Harlow paused, then, searching for something to say, added, “Tomorrow is the fifteenth, I need to take a day off.”

“Mm, noted.” Logan Sullivan didn’t even look up.

After a while, Holly Harlow was still sitting there, unmoving. Logan Sullivan finally glanced at her: “Anything else?”

“I’m still a bit curious.” Holly Harlow leaned forward, lowering her voice. “Why did the sacred wood William Sherman gave me later sprout a third bud? How did the first two appear?”

Judging by Logan Sullivan's expression, he didn’t want to answer. But since Holly Harlow was a woman, he was a bit more polite—especially since she’d once had a crush on him, only to be mercilessly rejected.

“The first bud appeared when he made a pact with Shennong. The second when he kept his promise. The third was when he decided...” Logan Sullivan paused, his face visibly darkening. After a moment, he forced himself to continue, “The Land of Disrespect cannot have reincarnation because the ghost clan has no souls. When the sacred wood grows three buds, it symbolizes the Ghost King forming three souls. The Ghost King's soul connected reincarnation to the Land of Disrespect, so the concept of the ghost clan ceased to exist. Do you understand?”

Holly Harlow thought for a moment: “I think... I kind of get it. But where did the ghost clan go?”

Logan Sullivan raised an eyebrow: “Gone, but also everywhere.”

Holly Harlow: “Like the ever-burning Soulbound Lamp, everywhere and nowhere?”

Logan Sullivan: “Mm.”

Holly Harlow asked again: “What about you? Will you go back to Highspire? Does the Soulbound Order still exist?”

Her tone was uncharacteristically hesitant, as if she’d just remembered who was sitting in front of her.

“No.” Logan Sullivan said, copying a file onto a USB drive and tossing it to Holly Harlow. “Make it an official document with a red header and stamp it for me—Highspire Peak isn’t suitable for reforestation anyway. Even if I went back, I couldn’t run a farm. What would I do there? Get worshipped by a bunch of idiots every day? No thanks.”

Holly Harlow caught the USB: “It still feels a bit surreal.”

Logan Sullivan: “Hm?”

Holly Harlow: “I had a crush on Warden of Highspire, damn, I was really something, huh?”

Logan Sullivan: “...”

“Oh, right,” Holly Harlow fished a cardholder from her pocket, rummaged through a thick stack of bank and discount cards, and found a hotel gold discount card, tossing it onto Logan Sullivan's desk. “I heard you can’t go home. Here, sixty percent off, so you don’t have to spend your whole salary on hotel bills. That’s all I can do for you.”

Logan Sullivan: “...”

Then Logan Sullivan silently accepted the discount card and, without a hint of politeness, told Holly Harlow, who had just poked at his sore spot: “Get out.”

Holly Harlow rolled out as well. After a while, Carter Shaw came in holding the document Holly Harlow had printed, and then did a lot of unnecessary things—like sitting down across from Logan Sullivan.

Logan Sullivan slammed down his mouse: “Are you all done yet?!”

Carter Shaw: “I just have one question.”

Logan Sullivan: “Never loved him! And yes, little Gregory really is the incarnation of the Soulbound Lamp's wick. There, I said it, now you can leave.”

Carter Shaw: “So he has heaven-sent merit, just like Nüwa?”

Logan Sullivan glared at his computer, playing Minesweeper with a murderous look: “To be the same person, do the same thing, keep the Soulbound Lamp burning for a hundred lifetimes—how is that less meritorious than creating humans? If you don’t get it, just shut up and stop embarrassing yourself.”

Carter Shaw frowned: “It’s just so weird. So does he represent the part of you that’s especially lacking in empathy?”

Logan Sullivan said expressionlessly: “Let me say it again: get. out.”

Carter Shaw looked at him, raised an eyebrow, and launched a mocking attack: “Tsk, a grumpy old man who can’t go home, lives in hotels, and is perpetually unsatisfied.”

Logan Sullivan looked up with a dangerous glare, staring at Carter Shaw, who just shrugged, hummed a little tune, and strolled out.

On Logan Sullivan's screen, Minesweeper exploded in a mess. He looked away in annoyance: “Damn it.”

He finished his day’s work, idly playing Minesweeper for a while. It wasn’t until late afternoon, almost quitting time, that the office door opened again. Darrin Grant poked in a pitch-black cat head: “Hey, someone’s here to see you.”

Logan Sullivan looked up in surprise, his anti-radiation glasses slipping down his nose a bit: “I didn’t get any appointment...”

Darrin Grant ignored him, spun in place, used his butt to push the office door open, and said to the person behind him: “Come in, Mr. Sherman.”

When Logan Sullivan saw who was at the door, his face darkened at lightning speed. He lowered his eyes and said flatly, “If you want to file a report, please go to the local police station. We don’t take cases directly.”

William Sherman had probably just come from school, still holding a stack of lesson plans. He gave a helpless smile: “Logan Sullivan...”

“Who are you? Don’t call me that, I don’t know you.” Logan Sullivan cut him off. “Sorry, sir, I hit my head a few days ago and now I have amnesia. My mind’s not clear, not fit to receive visitors. Please close the door on your way out, thanks.”

Strictly speaking, this was Logan Sullivan's first day back at work after that incident. William Sherman had been in a coma for over a week, and Logan Sullivan had quietly stayed by his side the whole time—but once William Sherman woke up and it was clear he was fine, Logan Sullivan immediately turned cold, left him behind, and moved out.

William Sherman was about to say something when the alarm on Logan Sullivan's desk went off, signaling the end of the workday. In a blur of motion, he shut down his computer, packed up, grabbed his coat and bag, and headed for the door, saying as he went, “Excuse me, sir, please step aside, I’m off work.”

William Sherman grabbed his wrist: “...I’m sorry.”

“Oh?” Logan Sullivan blinked, lowered his voice, half-smiling, “Sorry? What are you sorry for? Think carefully before you answer—just a friendly reminder, I hate betrayal more than anything.”

William Sherman was instantly at a loss for words.

The black cat Darrin Grant licked his paw, unconcerned: “Oh my, such tragic love.”

Logan Sullivan tried to pull his hand free, but couldn’t. Frowning, he said, “If you have something to say, say it quick. I have someone waiting for me at the hotel after work.”

William Sherman's grip tightened, but he wasn’t good with words. After a long struggle, all he managed was another “I’m sorry.”

Logan Sullivan gave a short laugh, still trying to shake him off, and said perfunctorily, “It’s fine, okay? What, do you want a handshake and a salute too?”

“Wow, in a hurry for a hotel rendezvous,” the black cat drawled, and William Sherman glanced down at it, just in time to hear it calmly meow the next line, “He wouldn’t dare, even if you gave him the guts.”

Logan Sullivan: “...”

This little traitor!