“Such a pity, girl. As your brother, the most important life-saving tool for an investigator—integrity—has already been completely shattered. All that's left is to rely on weapons to survive.” Jason Grant smiled as he slung the Sword Shrine Ghost onto his back. The moment the wooden box touched his body, his face grew even paler.

Helpless, Jason Grant could only stuff a handful of chocolate into his mouth. Only after swallowing did he regain a bit of color.

Inside the single-occupancy bathroom, steam swirled. Grace Lincoln stood trembling on the wooden floor. Under the beam above her head, a delicate little waterwheel was installed, continuously spinning and splashing hot water down.

The blood on her face was washed away by the hot water. Grace Lincoln stroked the black tattoo on her fair, delicate chest. The burned area was already swollen, and touching it still stung sharply. She figured she could forget about ever wearing a bikini again. Of course, the most painful part was when the soul-devouring dung beetle burrowed into her eyeball—it felt like someone was hammering countless needles into her eye from behind.

What supported Grace Lincoln through this pain was the promise from Emily Warren. As long as she stuck it out at the Bureau of the Underworld until the end of the year, Emily Warren had a way to reunite Grace Lincoln’s parents. It was a secret medicine—maybe even a kind of voodoo? Grace Lincoln watched in amazement as Emily Warren played her a video showing the effects.

The secret medicine was divided into yin and yang, to be taken separately by men and women. In just a few minutes, even sworn enemies could become inseparable, and cats and mice could become lovers. Since even ghosts truly existed, Grace Lincoln had no doubt about the authenticity of Emily Warren’s secret medicine.

For the sake of this secret medicine, Grace Lincoln had to hold on until the end-of-year regularization exam. Even if she was fired immediately after getting the medicine, it didn’t matter. But there was an additional condition to this deal: she must not reveal the details to Jason Grant or anyone else, or the deal would be void.

As Grace Lincoln’s thoughts scattered under the hot water, suddenly—plop—a white bar of soap fell onto the floor in front of her feet. Grace Lincoln looked up at the counter ahead; the soap was clearly still in the soap dish. Plop—another bar of soap landed at her feet.

Grace Lincoln’s hair stood on end. Trembling, she slowly turned around, only to see a burly, blue-skinned man standing behind her, wearing nothing but a small towel pixelated at the waist. His solid muscles looked like granite, but his head was only half there! In the center of his brow was a bullet hole big enough for a thumb, still oozing black blood.

The burly man grinned menacingly. “Hey, can you help me pick up the soap?”

“Ahhhhhhh!” Grace Lincoln screamed at the top of her lungs.

In less than 30 seconds, the door was kicked open. Jason Grant, hand on his sword hilt and the Sword Shrine Ghost on his back, burst in, ready to draw his blade.

He saw Grace Lincoln cowering in a corner of the room, her screams stopping only when she saw Jason Grant.

“There’s... there’s... there’s a ghost!” Grace Lincoln pointed, trembling, at the ghost under the waterwheel.

Perched on Jason Grant’s shoulder, Little Jason resumed his job as a ghost pet identifier. “Soap-Dropping Ghost, the vengeful spirit of a gay man who died in the bathhouse. Mischievous ghost type. Catchphrase: ‘Hey, can you help me pick up the soap?’ Any man who agrees will develop severe hemorrhoids; women, on the other hand, will receive a blessing. Harm index: 15.”

“It’s fine, this kind of ghost doesn’t hurt people. You’ve already implanted the Spirit Eye. From now on, encountering ghosts like this will be as normal as eating or drinking. Hurry up and finish your shower—you need to pick out your equipment.” As Jason Grant spoke, he put away his sword hilt, popped a piece of gum into his mouth, and turned to leave—only to find the Soap-Dropping Ghost suddenly appear behind him, dropping a bar of soap at his feet.

“Hey, can you help me pick up the soap?” The Soap-Dropping Ghost was so close behind Jason Grant that the pixelation was pressed right up against his rear.

The veins on Jason Grant’s forehead bulged. “Pick up your damn soap yourself!”

Grace Lincoln rushed over and slammed the bathroom door shut. Outside, the sounds of fighting and the wails—or perhaps moans—of the gay ghost rose and fell. Grace Lincoln’s pounding heart finally calmed down. She seemed to have gotten used to seeing Jason Grant whenever she was scared, and then not being so afraid anymore.

Suddenly, Grace Lincoln realized that in her excitement just now, she’d forgotten she wasn’t wearing any clothes...

“You saw, didn’t you? You saw it, right?” Little Jason, perched on Jason Grant’s shoulder, grinned mischievously at Jason Grant.

“Cherry blossom pink—that’s the scent of youth.” Jason Grant’s smile was lecherous. Extremely lecherous.

“Brother and Little Jason are so bad, using the excuse of heroism to peep on girls taking a bath. When will brother sneak a peek at Laura Grant too?” Laura Grant stood at the end of the corridor, shaking her head and sighing at the two unsatisfied perverts.

“Girl, your brother may be a pervert, but he’s not a deviant. Peeping on beautiful women bathing is nothing, but peeping on lolis should get you shot.” Jason Grant patted Laura Grant’s forehead and returned to the main hall.

Although Jason Grant explained it so smoothly, Laura Grant noticed that the moment Grace Lincoln screamed, Jason Grant’s serious gaze showed none of the so-called lechery. He was worried about that girl—maybe even he hadn’t realized it himself.

Chapter 10: The Iron Rooster