The short man saw that he wasn’t coming in and was about to ask, “What’s wrong?” when he suddenly remembered what Grandpa Charles Sullivan had said—

He said that judges are, at their core, human. It’s actually very hard to keep oneself spotless in this world; even a small misstep can leave a stain. In ancient times, judges had all sorts of rules—even entering someone’s home had its own rituals. Those with refined character, when entering a place with an owner, would request a pass as a sign of respect, and to distinguish themselves from all those demons and evil spirits.

When the dead invited them in, they had to burn silver foil with their names on it. For the living, it wasn’t so complicated—a verbal invitation was enough.

But nowadays, almost no one is so particular, and the rules have long since been abandoned.

Just a moment ago, the short man thought William Clark had a bad temper and was hard to get along with. But now, seeing him holding the silver-white umbrella frame, waiting quietly and coolly at the bottom of the steps, he felt that this person, whom Grandpa revered, really was different.

“Come inside,” the short man tried, “Is it okay if I say it like this?”

William Clark was rehearsing in his mind how to teach him, but when he heard this, he paused, then lowered his eyes, closed the umbrella, and stepped up the stairs.

“You’ve never been here before?”

“No.” William Clark walked into the living room, glancing around.

Every time he died and came out of the Gate of Formlessness, he would grow from a child to a young man in a very short time, and then he would stop changing—he’d look the same until he died. So he and Charles Sullivan had moved around a lot, changing places every ten or twenty years. In 1995, they were still in Xi’an, planning to move to Ningzhou the next year, but never got the chance.

There were very few guests in the villa paying their respects, scattered and sparse.

Charles Sullivan’s memorial portrait was placed in the center of the living room, with yellow and white talismans hanging high on both sides. Whenever someone bowed in respect, the two people sitting on the east and west hall chairs would sing out a name, then play a short piece on the suona and drums.

Other than that, there wasn’t much in the living room, and all the spiritual items had been put away. Anyone who knew the trade would realize at a glance that this family was especially… poor.

A long scroll hung on the south wall, almost covering the entire wall. It was a painting with words embedded in it—if you didn’t understand, you’d just see the painting, but those in the know would recognize it as the complete name register of the human world’s circuit judges.

It started from the founder, listing all those who had inherited the role, and the various branches and factions—every family in this line of work had such a scroll.

William Clark saw his own name, followed by his apprentice, then his apprentice’s apprentice… all the way down to Charles Sullivan, a line written entirely in red ink, signifying the deceased.

“It took me six years to understand this scroll,” the short man said, aggrieved.

William Clark thought to himself, How slow can you be? No wonder my line of succession has died out.

His gaze fell on the spot after Charles Sullivan’s name, and he frowned, tapping that area: “Why is there a blotch of dirty ink here?”

The short man’s face flushed red, and he stammered, “I was ignorant back then. When I saw my name wasn’t on it, I added it myself.”

Later, he learned that the painting was alive—adding to it was useless, it just became a stain.

William Clark stared at that spot for a long time before he could make out the scrawled name—George Miller.

He suspected that the only reason Charles Sullivan took this treasure as an apprentice was because their names were similar, fate having blinded his eyes.

At the edge of the name scroll was an incense table, on which stood a colorful portrait of a blue-faced, fanged figure. The person in the painting held a white plum branch, which didn’t match the fierce, yaksha-like appearance at all, making it look rather odd.

Beside the painting were three slender, forceful characters—尘不到.

“The founder’s name is quite unique,” the short man George Miller said.

“That’s his official name,” William Clark replied. “Only those who are half-immortal have such things.”

“So what’s his real name?”

William Clark looked at the painting, then after a moment lowered his eyes, lit three sticks of incense, bowed three times, and said, “Who knows.”

“Why are they worshipping that?” a hoarse voice suddenly interrupted.

William Clark stuck the incense in place and turned to see a boy of about fourteen or fifteen standing not far away, pointing at the founder’s portrait and asking the middle-aged woman beside him, “Didn’t they say you can’t worship that? If you do, you’ll die a horrible death—”

Before he could finish, the unlucky kid had his mouth covered by the woman. She shushed him and scolded in a low voice, “What have I told you? Watch your mouth!”

She glared, and the last few words squeezed out from between her teeth, full of warning.

After that, she looked up and gave an apologetic smile, not sure if it was to George Miller or the portrait, and said, “Sorry, the child doesn’t know any better, please don’t take it seriously.”

“Oh, it’s fine, it’s fine,” George Miller hurriedly waved his hand.

Fine, my ass.

William Clark wanted to say something, but seeing George Miller’s timid look, he felt they just couldn’t communicate and couldn’t be bothered to speak.

After quieting her son, the woman hurried to pay her respects before Charles Sullivan’s portrait. The musicians beside her sang out, “The Zhang family, Xu branch—Zhang Biling.”

“That name sounds familiar,” George Miller muttered, glancing at the name scroll, and sure enough, he found Zhang Biling—her line was just above William Clark’s.

“Wen… um…” George Miller wanted to call William Clark, but didn’t know what to call him. If he called him “brother,” it would mess up the generations with Charles Sullivan; if not… should he call him “grandpa”???

“I don’t have a name?” William Clark looked at him coldly.