Outside the window, the garden's vines sprawled, worn and gloomy, the river flowed quietly beneath a deep, star-dappled darkness, reflecting scattered glimmers of starlight; nearby houses radiated warm, inviting glows. Everything was utterly still, as if quietly awaiting the arrival of night. Though neither particularly refined in individual features, Tris's senses combined into a strikingly beautiful whole. She turned her gaze away and hurried to the wardrobe, selecting a long black robe with a hood. She dressed swiftly, fastening the buttons, tightening the sash, and raising the hood so that she became a stealthy assassin. With her right hand, she brushed the hood aside, blurring and softening the contours of her face beneath. Then, she reached into the hidden pouch at her waist, drawing out a glowing powder, which she sprinkled over herself in time with a spell. Gradually, Tris began to fade, her outlines dissolving like pencil lines erased by a rubber, until they were entirely gone. Having achieved her invisibility, she moved silently from the bedroom to the room across the way, pushing open the window that lacked handrails. With a gentle leap, Tiris stood on the windowsill, gazing down at the lawn behind the small house, down at the iron fence nearly blending into the night, and down at the "corpse-bearer" Fley silently making his way over the wall. She inhaled deeply, then descended like a feather, making no sound as she stepped onto the grass. Tris found herself still standing on the windowsill, gazing down at the lawn, down at the iron fence. But outside the fence, it was no longer just Frey, the corpse-bearer, with Leonard Mitchell aiming steadily at the windowsill, and with Duan Smith, the night watch captain, eyes closed, pressing his fingers to his brow, half-bent in posture—around him, as if rippling outward, seemed an invisible wave of motion, layer upon layer. Tris’s pupils contracted, and she realized that just now had been a dream, that she had somehow drifted off to sleep! Within this chamber, a cold wind that never ceases blows, gently yet persistently, carrying with it translucent, formless figures that drift and move with a vague, numb awareness throughout every corner. As Trist loses her invisibility and passes through each of these spectral forms, her body temperature gradually drops; by the time she reaches the altar, she is uncontrollably shivering. The altar is a circular table upon which stands a statue carved from white bone. The statue measures roughly the size of an adult man’s head, with only faint outlines of eyes and brows—suggesting a figure of extraordinary beauty. Her hair extends from her head all the way down to her ankles, each strand clear and robust, like the bodies of serpents or delicate tendrils. At the tip of each hair, a single eye is positioned, either open or closed, densely clustered. Around the statue, numerous crude puppets are scattered haphazardly, each bearing names and corresponding details—such as Joyce Meyer. Three candles still flickered on the round table, their yellow-green flames trembling in the cold, howling wind. Tris bowed to the statue and quickly chanted a spell. Then she pushed aside the puppet, extinguished the candles, and took up the statue. Woosh! The wind suddenly grew fierce, shaking the tightly closed windows. Clang! Crackle! Glass panes shattered, and the cold, unyielding wind surged outward in all directions. As soon as Frey rounded to the other side, hesitating to rush into the altar's reach, he shivered—feeling his blood grow cold, even frost forming, and noticing his movements grow noticeably sluggish. At that moment, a sudden tightness seized his ankle, as though caught by an invisible force. A deeper cold spread upward from the point of contact. While most Sequence 9 extraordinary beings would have already gone numb and stiff, Frey, as a "Body Keeper," was accustomed to such sensations. He turned the barrel of his revolver to the side of his ankle and pulled the trigger, as if he could see the enemy clearly, could see exactly where he stood. *Plink!* A silver hunter's bullet pierced the air, and a sharp, piercing cry escaped. The intangible shadow dissolved, and Frey regained his mobility. On the other side, Dunning Smith, who had been trying to climb to the second floor to avoid the altar, was likewise frozen by the spreading cold wind, halted just outside the shattered window. *Ah!* The dark curtain behind the window suddenly rose, sweeping over Dunning as if a monster had opened its mouth to swallow its prey. The curtain immediately enveloped Dunning's head with a life-like grip, tightening steadily, outlining his mouth and nose. As he neared suffocation, Dunning pushed his feet against the ground, straightened his knees, and rotated his waist, using sheer strength to tear the curtain apart. With his left hand, he grasped a corner of the curtain covering his head and pulled it down, tossing it to the ground. *Plink!* He raised his gun and fired directly at the half-draped curtain extending beyond the window, still trying to envelop it. The curtain instantly went still, with a streak of deep red seeping out swiftly. Wheee! On the lawn, Leonard Mitchell, who had just begun to recite a poem, was momentarily silenced by the cold, deathly breeze that carried an intense sense of mortality—his teeth clattered against one another, struggling to form words. At that very moment, the tattered, disordered vines suddenly surged forth, wrapping around his ankles, while a dark silhouette crashed down upon him, propelled by the scattered gusts of wind. Leonard, his body slightly stiff, couldn’t draw his gun in time and instead quickly pulled at his shoulders, raising his arm. Plunk! The dark figure struck his forearm, its sharp spines piercing his skin. It was a delicate, vibrant red bloom, appearing out of nowhere. Leonard, feeling the pain, shook it off, tossing the now-stained bloom aside. Crack! He fired at the vines wrapping around his legs, splashing out dark red sap. Tapping, tapping, tapping! Leonard took a step forward, rushing toward the altar on the first floor and the shattered windows. Where he had stood, the vines suddenly withdrew, as if retreating from some invisible presence. Tris, taking advantage of the chaos caused by the destruction of the altar and the disruption of the ritual, once again became invisible and successfully evaded the spirit sight, breaking free from the encirclement and moving to the rear of the three night-watchers. With a simple extension of her right hand, a cold breeze swept past, lifting the fresh bloom stained with Leonard's blood and placing it gently into her palm. Without further delay, she grasped the bloom, swiftly leaping over the iron railing and fleeing toward the Tassok River. At that moment, as Leonard was just about to enter the first floor, he suddenly turned his head, as if listening to something. His expression changed instantly—he hurriedly raised his sleeve to examine the wound where the bloom had pierced him. For his constitution, the bleeding had already ceased, leaving only slight swelling. Leonard's expression grew serious; he then firmly grasped his left index finger and, with great effort, pulled out a piece of fingernail. His face immediately filled with pain and distortion, yet his movements did not falter. He silently chanted, using his fingernails to scrape open the hardened wound, staining it with dark blood, then plucked several strands of hair and wound them around the nail. By the Tassok River, Tris slowed her pace, gazing at the fresh in her hands. She murmured something under her breath, and suddenly a black, ethereal flame surged from the palm of her hand. This flame enveloped the fresh, truly setting it ablaze, reducing it to ashes. Only then did Tris step into the river, sinking into the water. At the same time, Leonard threw the nail, still wrapped in hair and stained with blood, watching it fall to the corner, where it burned out of nowhere, releasing a foul, acrid odor. The nail and the hair vanished quickly, leaving only a faint dust. Leonard exhaled, flipped through the window onto the first floor, and addressed Dunn and Fley, who were destroying the altar: "The target has escaped. Good—our primary objective has always been to prevent the ritual." Dunn sighed, gazing at the numerous puppets on the round table: "She was alert and strong, detecting our approach well in advance. Otherwise... she would have been at least a Seventh Sequence extraordinary." "Send a signal to Caine, have him come over." Through a brief dream encounter, he had judged the enemy to be a woman.