"Dongdong!" The knocking sound had resumed, exactly as it had before—perfectly rhythmic and evenly spaced. It was hard to imagine a human maintaining such precise control over timing and rhythm. Was it Aunt? Zhang Yuanqing's head throbbed painfully; his mind felt sluggish. As he reached for the bedside to get out of bed and pull back the blanket, his body suddenly went rigid. He realized something. There were no footsteps outside the door… Yes—no movement at all before the knocking began. He hadn't heard a single sound. For a 2nd-level Night Wandering Deity, such proximity should have allowed even slight insulation from the bedroom door to be overcome by hearing. Yet here he was, completely silent. This wasn’t an ordinary person!! Zhang Yuanqing raised one hand, pressing against his throbbing temples, thinking: Had someone uncovered my true identity? Had they come knocking on my door? Was it the Dark Night Rose team, or the Black Uncommon (Black Unusual), or perhaps Taiyi Gate? At this moment, his body was taut, adrenaline surging so powerfully that it briefly suppressed the headache. "Regardless of which faction this is—arriving at such a precise time, they clearly intend to act. I cannot fight them here inside the house; that would endanger Aunt and her others. I must find a way to send them away…" Just then, the knocking ceased, and Zhang Yuanqing watched as the door handle slowly turned. "Crack!" As the latch released its hold, the bedroom door creaked open just slightly—revealing an impossibly dark, thick darkness beyond. Zhang Yuanqing stared intently at the narrow gap. His entire body was tense; he still sensed no presence from the intruder. A cold bead of sweat formed on his back. "Pop!" Suddenly, a hand of deep black skin poked out from the crack and gripped the door frame, then pushed it fully open. With the door violently swung wide, Zhang Yuanqing finally saw his unexpected guest. A woman with her hair disheveled stood there—wearing a white, soiled cloak that trailed to the floor. Her posture was strange, unsteady—like an effigy whose limbs had been misaligned. She held a rusted vegetable knife in her black right hand, its blade facing backward toward her body. Her long, lush hair covered her face, and droplets of dark blood kept falling steadily from between her strands. This appearance felt strangely familiar—he suddenly recalled it vividly. Wasn’t this the image of the White-Cloaked Murderess from the morning’s text message? Was that just a playful trick?! He stood utterly stunned—never in his wildest imagination had he thought a mundane text message could be anything but a joke. Yet, if it was an actual spirit of resentment—the one described in the message—it was no longer just a coincidence. As he pondered this, the White-Cloaked Murderess stepped forward toward him with awkward yet swift movements. Her gait appeared inverted—like she was walking backward. Her posture remained unbalanced throughout her steps—her limbs twisted unnaturally. "Hmph!" Zhang Yuanqing's eyes darkened as he summoned the Power of the Moon—his inner strength surged, but suddenly he realized a disconcerting shift. He had lost his innate gene-level abilities—the very capacity that usually restrained spirits. The bond between him and the spirit had been severed. At that moment, the White-Cloaked Murderess staggered back slowly, raised her knife high, rotated her right arm one hundred and eighty degrees so the blade pointed directly at Zhang Yuanqing, then plunged it downward with a sharp motion. Zhang Yuanqing rolled onto the bed. Ding-ding-ding… The blade followed behind him, carving deep lines across the mattress. As he continued to roll from the bed to the floor, his face grew paler and more strained—now not only had his skills vanished, but even his physical condition had returned fully to that of an ordinary person. He was completely transformed—back to his most basic form. He suddenly recalled the description in the text message. Was this a dream?! It wasn’t merely that his skills were gone—it was that he now existed within a vivid dream. All his abilities and props were rendered useless. With no time for further reflection, Zhang Yuanqing caught a glimpse of the White-Cloaked Murderess—she lifted her knife again with a deliberate motion, then swung it down once more. The sound of breaking floorboards reached his ears—the next cut would sever him in two. Oh! He braced himself, hands pressing against the ground, and leapt quickly toward the living room, then to the entrance hall, then toward the security door. He needed to escape this house. Yet no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t turn the handle of the security door—it seemed as though the latch had rusted shut within the frame. A strong gust blew past him from behind—without hesitation, Zhang Yuanqing dropped into a low crouch. Clang! The knife spiraled in and embedded itself into the security door. Could the knife be thrown? Zhang Yuanqing swallowed hard, instinctively reaching to pull it out to counterattack. But as he looked up, the blade was gone—the only trace left behind was a deep gash on the door. Now, the White-Cloaked Murderess held her knife again and stepped back toward him with steady pace. Zhang Yuanqing moved quickly toward the dining table, picked up a high-back chair, and hurled it straight at the descending blade. The chair shattered under impact—the knife sliced through the wood and struck Zhang Yuanqing in the chest. A sharp pain surged—rusty blade severed several ribs. In this dream world, however, he lost his healing capacity entirely. Zhang Yuanqing sensed a faint scent of death—wobbled slightly—and leaned against the edge of the table. The White-Cloaked Murderess staggered backward and forward as she raised her knife high again. Zhang Yuanqing suddenly shifted to one side—his rusted blade struck the table with a sharp "thud," embedding deeply into it. She struggled several times, unable to pull it free. Seizing the opportunity, Zhang Yuanqing pressed down on his chest pain, grabbed the chair beside him, and swung it forcefully at her waist. "Pop!" Her spine snapped—her torso twisted grotesquely—and she collapsed onto the floor. "Crack! Crack! Crack!" As the sound of bones shifting echoed through her body, she rose slowly from her lower half while her upper body remained dragged along the ground. Oh my! This was deeply unsettling. Zhang Yuanqing's scalp tingled—his hands pressed against his chest wound—as he staggered back to the bedroom. This one wasn’t going down easily. Back in the room, he locked the door and hurried toward the window. Zhang Yuanqing opened the window and looked out—the outside world appeared utterly dark: no streetlights, no vehicles, no signs of nearby residences. In real life, he would have dared to leap onto the air conditioner unit—but here, within this dream state—would such a move save him? What if falling through the window meant death? What then? Trapped in the dream and unable to kill the spirit—he was utterly at his wits' end. Even more critical—the bleeding from his chest wouldn't stop. If things continued like this, he would surely succumb to his injuries within ten minutes. How would he die? In a dream—how would that translate into reality? He dared not imagine such outcomes. Who had come to kill him? He remembered the realm of Illusionists—the world of dreams and magical effects. Yet he had no history of conflict with any Illusionist, nor had they ever crossed paths before. At this moment, the door handle turned slightly—upon realizing it couldn’t be opened from within—the spirit outside became increasingly agitated, turning the handle with a series of sharp "crack" sounds. After several seconds, it stopped—seeming to abandon its attempt to enter. Then suddenly—a loud crash—"thump!" A half-section of knife emerged prominently on the door panel. It was cutting through the door—the spirit was slashing at the wood. Zhang Yuanqing watched in despair. He glanced out at the dark window, considering whether to leap and try his luck. Thump-thump-thump! The repeated strikes gradually loosened and then shattered the door panel—gaps widened further until finally, with a final "clang," the entire board split into fragments. With that sound—the disheveled spirit stepped across the threshold, holding her knife in one hand, entering the room in an odd, unbalanced posture.