At this moment, the shadow seemed to take on tangible form—cold and damp—immediately encasing Caine, compressing him into the state of a mosquito trapped within amber. Caine’s figure was swiftly flattened and squeezed, retreating into soft paper, decaying rapidly into mud. "Paper Man Stand-in!" He had promptly activated his "Paper Man Stand-in" technique, sensing the threat early. Now, his silhouette in the black robes of a divine cleric emerged at the opposite end of the table, mouth open, ready to emit a sharp *thud*. Suddenly, Caine felt a moment of haziness in his mind, as if everything around him had grown blurry and less distinct. He instantly realized he had been forcibly pulled into a dream. And thus, he confirmed one thing: his ability to remain clear-headed and rational within an atypical dream had solidified into an intrinsic trait, no longer requiring the gray mist. With a brief struggle, Caine regained full awareness, observing the shadows within the house rising like a tide, slowly flowing toward him. *Thud!* With a single opening of his mouth, he generated a powerful air bullet with exceptional penetration. The bullet struck the shadow, instantly shattering it and leaving a large blank area. The surrounding shadows, like flowing water, surged inward to fill the gap, restoring the original state. Taking advantage of this, Caine rolled to the side and made his left glove pale, staining it with a deep green hue. With a crisp thud, the blood and tissue that had burst from the shadow struck the spot where he had been, covering it with a deep red carpet dotted with strange fungi. Subtly, Caine sensed a weakening in his own strength, but without pausing to analyze further, he immediately extended an icy layer from beneath his feet. Frost rapidly gathered, swiftly freezing the shadow. Beneath the translucent crystals, the once-dark, twisted mass pulsed and writhed, as though it now possessed its own life. "The undead—frozen!" Klein rolled again, shifting his position and causing the particles on his glove to emerge in deep, dark clusters. Then, straightening up and facing the shadow beneath the ice, he expelled a series of demonically foul words: "Slow!" Instantly, the shadow beneath the ice seemed to flow and writhe more slowly, appearing stiff and lifeless—yet Klein himself felt a lag in his thoughts, unable to mount a timely follow-up attack. His "words of filth," meant for the shadow, were warped and now seemed to envelop the entire living room, affecting him directly. In the span of a single breath, Klein broke free from the state of slowness, instinctively darted to the dining table, picked up a plate half-filled with a steak, and hurled it toward the shadow. Throughout this movement, though his glove remained deep black, it now exuded a strange, regal aura. "An offering!" He's using steaks to bribe his enemies, weakening their attacks, defenses, and control! At that moment, the shadow suddenly retracts to the corner, causing the plate to crash onto the melting ice layer and shatter into several pieces. Then, the shadow rises upward, transforming into a dark figure draped in a long cloak with a hood. In this figure's hands now rests a translucent, hazy book, accompanied by a distant, ethereal chant: "I come. I see. I record." As soon as the chant begins, the book swiftly turns its pages, projecting a long lance of blazing white-hot flame ahead. A? Has he completely gone mad? Here, in this environment, is he daring to use a flame-based extraordinary ability? Klein's heart tightens; his thoughts race, and he quickly steps forward, drawing his left hand behind him. "The creeping hunger" swiftly takes on the deep, somber tones of decay, then coalesces into an exaggerated great sword composed of crimson molten lava and pale blue flame. Thud! Klein stepped heavily, pulled his back, and drove his shoulders forward, hurling his left arm with fierce momentum. The muscles in his arm surged upward, sweeping the "Magma Sword" into a powerful arc! *Plung!* The magnificent sword struck the flaming lance, and bursts of radiant white, pale blue, and deep red light scattered outward in all directions, igniting the chairs and the curtains. The murmurs of the street outside had vanished entirely—every faintly visible figure now turned toward them, utterly silent. After cleaving through the lance, Klein bent his knees, single-legged to the ground, and tapped his right hand once. *Tap!* The flames within the room instantly extinguished. Klein remained still, sensing a dense, persistent gaze trying to penetrate the curtains, searching for something out of the ordinary. The man in the cloak, composed of shadows, likewise remained motionless. Though he had been so animated moments before, he now seemed to feel an indescribable terror slowly approaching. Within the dark house bathed only in a faint blush of moonlight, Caine and his counterpart stood—one on one knee, the other pressed against the wall—seeming to have turned into two statues. In the profoundly still, almost unbearable silence, time moved with extraordinary slowness. Caine had barely counted to ten when he felt as though an hour had passed. Finally, the deep, resonant roar of the beast broke through again, rising in waves, intermittent and fragmented. The faint silhouettes visible through the window began to walk once more, moving back and forth along the street. At the same moment, Caine successfully established initial control over the target's "spiritual thread," and the man with the hooded cloak, who had been poised to surge forward, suddenly found his movements sluggish and hesitant! Without hesitation, Caine arched his body slightly and began circling, aiming to exploit the opponent's delayed response, gradually turning him into a puppet. Just then, a sudden itch in his nose caused him to open his mouth involuntarily. A sneeze! Klein sneezed violently, losing control of the "line of spirits," and his throat began to ache, his nasal discharge gradually taking shape. He had a cold! A cold caught during intense battle! Though, after suspecting the other to be Mr. A, Klein had already been preparing for the "witch's" illness—he had faced Mr. A before and suffered greatly under that particular ability. Yet, in the midst of the unthinking combat, he had underestimated one key factor: his own constitution had already weakened significantly under the plague of the genuine witch, Panthelia, and now he could not withstand until the puppets were fully transformed, nor could he even manage to deepen his control enough to launch a decisive attack with his "air bullets." *Ah-choo!* As he sneezed, Klein rolled to reposition himself, simultaneously switching the "craving hunger" into the "decaying baron" state, attempting to activate his "distortion" ability to mitigate the effects of the cold. Of course, thanks to his earlier "bribe," his condition wasn't severe—only affecting his ability to manipulate the "thread of the spirit," not rendering him unable to fight. As he rolled, a glint in his peripheral vision caught him: the enemy had stepped out of the shadowy state, his hood slipping back, revealing a strikingly feminine face—Mr. A. How remarkable that the divine envoy of the Aurora Order had survived thus far under such adverse conditions! Yet his eyes were now a deep crimson, fixed on Caine as though he had just discovered a feast, radiating an unspoken, instinctive hunger. At this moment, Caine felt no sense of discouragement—his strength remained sufficient for battle. What he feared most wasn't Mr. A, but the increasingly intense combat, which might generate unanticipated flames, drawing in the dangerous entities outside—then, both of them would likely fall. Hunger… A strong hunger had completely driven Mr. A mad, making him indifferent to the passing figures on the street. If only he could ease his hunger a little, he would likely stop attacking and patiently wait for the red moon to be once again obscured by the mist. Give him some "food"? In the flash of thought, Caine nearly severed a piece of his own flesh and tossed it to the other man. Fortunately, he remembered one thing in time: he himself carried food! It was dried mushrooms brought by Frank Lee, reportedly hybridized with a bit of beef and flesh from the "Rose Bishop," capable of reproducing as long as there was fish and water. Since this was now a new species at the micro level, no longer fundamentally linked to the "Rose Bishop," Caine had kept it alongside the powdered herbs commonly used for deep sleep, never removing it, as he didn’t want to risk altering the core seal behind the Charnis Gate. A sneeze. Another sneeze. Another roll. Caine now produced a dried mushroom and tossed it toward Mr. A. Perhaps the beef flavor attracted the other, or perhaps there was a resonance between the two "Rose Bishops." Instantly, Mr. A stopped flipping through the imaginary volumes and took the mushroom directly from him, chewing it down. The hunger in his eyes gradually softened slightly, though his gaze remained fixed on Caine. With two swift sounds, Caine tossed the remaining dried mushrooms over, and Mr. A caught each one, eating them all without hesitation. His eyes finally eased, and he glanced at the figures moving back and forth outside the window, then stepped slowly back until he reached the corner, blending into the shadows. Inhale... Caine exhaled silently and moved to the opposite wall corner. Mr. A hasn't died yet… Indeed, under these circumstances, the capabilities of the "Rose Bishop" prove to be immensely helpful—merely storing flesh and consuming one's own body allows for prolonged survival. Of course, the fact that Mr. A has not yet been killed by the "Lady of Despair," Pantheia, speaks volumes about his strength. Still, it's likely that his semi-divine extraordinary ability has been fully exhausted. While thinking about this, Caine carefully crafted his words, aiming to extract some information from Mr. A: "Have you found any clues regarding your escape?" Mr. A remained silent, offering no response. Had he gone completely mad and become uncommunicative? Caine paused for two seconds before naming a figure: "Leo Mastor." That was the name of the "Black Saint" of the Aurora Society, known for his personality fragmentation. After a brief pause, Mr. A's voice, slightly hoarse, finally emerged: "Has he also been 'delivered' here?" Indeed, only the matters concerning the Aurora receive a response... Caine said calmly: "No, he's trapped within the divine war's sanctuary." Before Mr. A could speak, he continued on his own: "Why don't you enter that church?" Mr. A said hoarsely and indistinctly: "It's very dangerous there—extremely so... The outside is equally perilous. All dangers stem from there. Everyone who has vanished will reappear under the red moon..." As he finished speaking, the faint crimson moonlight filtering through the curtains suddenly dimmed considerably.