Eight precious provinces, Nanning City. In a certain old residential area, the night is deep and quiet, with traditional street lamps casting a soft, downy yellow glow. For a border city struggling with sluggish economic development and poor public safety, the night holds little appeal—low incomes, few places with vibrant nightlife, and nighttime outings often fraught with danger. Women frequently find themselves threatened by assailants who press a gun against their backs at night, while men, though less at risk from such threats, are more likely to suffer a sudden, brutal attack—often ending up with their spines broken. The neighborhood is hushed, residents having settled into early sleep. Suddenly, the stray cats within the complex emit sharp, piercing cries, shattering the stillness. In one modest rented apartment building, a human wanderer stirs from his sleep. He quickly rises, barefoot, and walks to the window, carefully pulling open a narrow crease in the curtain to gaze upon the tranquil night scene. The complex is empty—plants bathed in the soft light of the street lamps. Yet the human wanderer knows that a group of unexpected visitors has arrived, and a large one at that. The stray cats in the neighborhood were his eyes and ears, infused with an aversion—specifically, a sense of unease that caused them to shriek whenever they saw a large group of strangers. Animals and plants, often overlooked, are also the finest guardians. Now, the stray cats have stopped their cries, and the neighborhood has returned to quiet. The human wanderer standing behind the curtains has his pupils contract slightly. If the arrival of a group of strangers was merely a coincidence, then the silence of the cats now confirms their identity. Official visitors! Manipulating animals is the wood spirit's specialty. A group of official visitors has entered the neighborhood... The human wanderer acts swiftly, activating his dream-traveling skill—deepening his gaze and projecting vivid, surreal dreams before him. Regardless of whether these official visitors are heading specifically toward him, he is certain they will soon depart. It wasn't that he was sensitive. After Zhao Xintong's incident and with team members' information now compromised, caution had become essential. Insufficiently ambitious practitioners often didn't survive to reach the Saint level. Moreover, Xiao Yuan had already notified them a few days ago in the group chat that the Master of Unseen Presence had entered retreat, and team members were now continuing to remain hidden. They could still seek help from Yuan Shǐ Tian Zūn if needed, though with members scattered across the country and the realm, even Yuan Shǐ Tian Zūn, as a half-divine, couldn't be summoned at will. The Human Itinerant had casually selected a dream to enter, just about to leap into it, when a cold snort reached his ears. In the next instant, all the floating dreams visible in his vision vanished. His body, which had just become ethereal, returned to its solid form. The dreams were blocked—someone had prevented him from using his dream-jumping ability. Only a Dream Master at the peak of Level Six or a Void-being could achieve that. Not the official side—then, the Southern School? The Southern School has found me? It's impossible. I've clearly moved residences—this neighborhood has only been occupied for less than a week. The itinerant traveler, deeply shaken, immediately activated his mental manipulation abilities. His target: all the ordinary residents of the building. He intended to create chaos and then blend into the crowd, using the illusionists' disguise skills to escape. Yet, in his perception, every living person in the building had lost all emotion—like hollow, soulless zombies. His own abilities were being blocked. It was the Southern school—precisely the ones most adept at countering illusionists. Suddenly, the itinerant traveler coughed violently, his face turning red, his eyes bloodshot. His forehead temperature rose rapidly, while his limbs grew weak. He was ill. It was a plague! He must leave—leave immediately! The panic and fear surging within him shattered his composure. As a master illusionist, he was accustomed to a strategy of deception and maneuvering. Once identified, surrounded, and pinned down, he had already lost half the battle. Now, with his abilities effectively neutralized by the Southern masters, his position was even more precarious. He swiftly pulled on a reed armor, broke through the window, and leapt down from the seventh floor. Glass shards sprayed around as he landed in the bushes with a soft "plonk." "Crash... crash..." It seemed as though the bushes had been waiting for this moment—bursting into rapid growth, like sturdy thorns that now trapped the wanderer of the human world within. Moist soil transformed into a pair of strong hands, gripping his ankles. Oh no! The wanderer stiffened, lifted his head, and was about to scream, summoning a mental assault. "Boom!" The deep, resonant sound of the sniper rifle pierced the darkness, rousing the sleeping residents in the neighborhood. The wanderer's body suddenly went rigid, and streaks of vivid, splattered blood sprayed across the wall behind him. ... Late at night, the toxin-chaser arrived at the NN City Public Security Bureau by car. He had been called by the on-duty "Liangshan Master" from the division, who reported that the headquarters' operational team had reached Nanning City and that the team leader wished to see him. Park the car. He tightened his lightweight windbreaker, feeling the evening air a bit cool. As he rounded the green belt, the pursuer spotted "Liangshan Water Master" standing at the entrance of the Public Security Building,低头 smoking, as if waiting for a long time. Approaching him, the pursuer lit a cigarette and casually asked, "What's the background of the imperial envoys? Which department are they from? What mission have they come on this visit?" “Liáng Shuǐ Shī shook his head,” “They only said they wanted to see you, without mentioning anything else. But I feel… the visitors are not friendly.” Chui Du, taking a strong draw of his cigarette, watched the half-cigarette burn swiftly to the end. He flicked the ash into the air, exhaled a long stream of white smoke, and said, “Go in.” Upon reaching the floor where the Nán Míng branch was located, Chui Du followed Liáng Shuǐ Shī directly to the mortuary. A small tactical-unit team stood at the mortuary entrance—three men and two women, their expressions serious, all gazing at him with cold composure. “Chui Du, at your service?” one of the women, with short, neat hair, said calmly, “Our team leader is waiting for you inside.” Chui Du nodded slightly, left Liáng Shuǐ Shī behind, and entered the mortuary alone. Inside, the lights were bright. A tall, composed young man in tactical uniform stood by the mortuary table, where a body lay covered in a white sheet. The investigator's eyes swept over the figure and the corpse. He tightened his coat and stepped forward, speaking with deliberate calm: "Good day. I'm an investigator from the Nanming branch." Drawing on the instincts of a swordsman, he sensed the official's coldness and resistance. "General Jin!" the young man turned, his gaze sharp and direct. "Our team has been assigned to apprehend a fugitive. The operation went smoothly—the fugitive has been killed." He glanced at the mortuary table and continued, "This is a sixth-level illusionist. We used props to absorb his spiritual essence and discovered that he was your brother. For years, he has been working for you, often breaking regulations to earn merit and financial gain on your behalf. Please verify this. Once confirmed, we'll escort you back to headquarters for further investigation." The investigator's mind flashed with a sudden shock, as if struck by lightning. His face pale, he rushed toward the mortuary table, stumbling over the few meters. The pursuer, trembling, reached out and lifted the white cloth, revealing a familiar face—a composed middle-aged man. A wanderer of the world! A fresh, blood-soaked wound marred his forehead; his eyes were wide open, fixed unblinkingly on the ceiling, as if he would not close them even in death. His body was cold and rigid, having been deceased for over two hours. The pursuer stared at the corpse in silent awe, as though his soul had been drained away, his form now that of a lifeless statue. He murmured softly, “Why were they pursuing him? He wasn’t on the wanted list. He was so understated. He’d never committed any offense….” As he spoke, his eyes lacked any spark, his voice hollow and lifeless—yet tears surged uncontrollably from his eyes, flowing freely and without restraint. The young man, known for his military composure, stiffened. “This is not something you should be asking,” he said. “I will record your words as evidence. Now, please hand over all your props and accompany us back to headquarters for investigation.” "The pursuer chuckled bitterly, 'Back to headquarters for investigation? You took away the only family I had left in this world—you've driven me to the brink!' With desperate resolve, he drew his long sword! ... 'Cough, cough...' The Red Mage, still asleep, awoke with a cough, her forehead scorching hot, the air around her thick with heat. 'I'm ill? How is that possible? It must be the Plague God!' A sudden jolt ran through her body as she leapt off the bed, staggering slightly, nearly falling. The Sweetheart Red Mage instantly realized she had been identified by the official forces. The illness, insidiously creeping in, had weakened her profoundly. The Plague God's precise targeting of her—able to transmit the disease directly—proved that their forces had pinpointed her address and must have established a strong perimeter outside. They hadn't launched an assault yet, not wishing to strike hard, but rather to let the illness steadily erode her strength, weakening her until they could secure her without a single battle." As a female shaman specializing in witchcraft and entwining spells, she may not lack experience in副本 battles, yet in real life she has always remained composed, rarely clashing with official authorities. Given her unfamiliarity with official protocols and her limited experience in such confrontations, engaging in a full-scale battle with them would clearly be irrational. Moreover, she couldn't fight the officials within residential buildings—doing so would involve too many innocent bystanders. With this thought in mind, the Heartwarming Red Dragon stumbles to the wardrobe, opens the door, retrieves a black ceramic vessel, and pulls out a plump, round chrysalis. She swallows the chrysalis whole; her full abdomen stretches and ruptures her nightgown, her skin taking on patterns of yellow and black veins, antennae sprouting from her forehead, her eyes transforming into compound insect eyes, and delicate, gossamer wings unfurling along her back. She becomes a bee maiden just like Xiao Yuan. The chrysalis inside the vessel was a gift from Xiao Yuan, enabling shamans to transform into bees—though not particularly strong in combat, the bees' speed rivals that of supersonic fighter jets, making them ideal for breakout maneuvers. Most sages are unable to fly, yet those who can transform into chenggu (spirit-worm) practitioners possess complete aerial dominance once they reach the sage stage. After embodying the form of the Honeybee Maiden, Sweetheart Red Mage swiftly rushed toward the window, pulled the curtain aside—only for her expression to suddenly freeze. Thick, strong vines had crept over the window, sealing it tightly. She strained and tugged at the vines several times, but could not break them. Suddenly turning around, she gazed at the door with growing desperation. From outside, a light, numerous sound of footsteps approached. As waves of despair and fear surged within her, Sweetheart Red Mage stood motionless by the window for several seconds before suddenly charging toward the bedside table, pulling out her phone from beneath the pillow, opening her contacts, and dialing her mother’s number. A few seconds later, the line connected, and a voice, weary and drowsy, answered: “Who is this?” "Mom, I'm so sorry, so sorry, so sorry... Tears streamed silently down her cheeks, her heart-shaped dragon trembled, her throat constricted, and finally, she said nothing at all—she simply hung up the phone without a word. The middle-aged man removed his headphones and issued orders: "The battle is over. Notify the public safety bureau to take over the scene." As he spoke, he noticed two of his colleagues approaching the elderly man's body, one of whom was preparing to open the bedside cabinet drawer in front of the bed. "Wait!" the middle-aged man quickly stopped them. In his final moments, the old man had neither pleaded nor fought back—he had slowly, tremulously crawled toward the bedside cabinet, his gaze fixed on it until the very moment of death. Something frightening might be hidden inside. "Take protective measures!" the middle-aged man reminded them. One of the colleagues nodded, donned a muddy outer garment, and immediately his movements became slow and labored, as though he were carrying a mountain on his shoulders. He lifted his heavy arm and opened the drawer. The contents startled him. He picked up a thick stack of papers, scanned them briefly, and exclaimed, "The appeal documents... really just this?" A thick stack of appeal documents—some fresh, others old. They are thick, recording a teacher's half-life of tears and grievances. They are thin, thin enough that decades passed without anyone noticing.