He flipped through a few more posts on the forum, and sure enough, just as Old Turner had said, these forums were full of nonsense. Aside from a few paranoid types and online novel writers, the rest of the trending posts were all clickbait—sensational headlines, but the actual discussions were always the same old topics: family squabbles, trivial complaints, and celebrity gossip.

Dylan Foster browsed for a while but didn’t see anything interesting. Glancing back, he saw that the chubby girl was already curled up in a corner, asleep. Old Turner and Sister Parker were huddled together, discussing buying property in Cambodia. No one was paying attention to him.

So he fished a few coins out of his pocket and did a quick divination.

The worn coins bounced on the small tray table, but before they could settle, the plane hit some turbulence and they rolled off. Dylan Foster caught them in his palm, opened his hand, and frowned—the result was still as ambiguous as ever.

Ever since the stone in his ring cracked, his divinations had always been like this, no matter if he was asking about big events or small matters.

Because of this, Dylan Foster had even made a special trip to the clan’s altar. But whether it was due to lack of skill or something else, the altar only gave him a vague direction and a single word.

The direction pointed to the headquarters of the Bureau of Anomaly Control, and the word was “person.”

Coincidentally, the newly appointed Director Harris at the Bureau was eager to recruit him, so he simply went with the flow. As for what that “person” meant, Dylan Foster hadn’t figured it out yet, so when Director Harris asked which department he wanted to join, he picked one that specialized in dealing with people.

A resolute voice came from behind: “Trust me, the next big economic boom will definitely be in Southeast Asia. You can’t go wrong buying property there…”

Dylan Foster: “…”

Alright, maybe he’d misunderstood the meaning of “person.”

Dylan Foster put on his headphones, blocking out Old Turner’s “mini macroeconomics lecture,” and closed his eyes to rest. But whether it was because the seat was too comfortable or for some other reason, he actually fell asleep—and had a dream.

It was a very familiar dream. In his clan, every chief who inherited the sacred fire ring would occasionally dream of this scene: an ancient-style building, wooden beams, probably some kind of post station. The room wasn’t big, and you could faintly hear the bustle of people downstairs.

Someone stood with their back to him, leaning against the window, gazing outside.

For ten years, Dylan Foster had always seen this back, never the face. Whenever he tried to get closer, he would immediately wake up. But after some research, he found he wasn’t alone—none of his ancestors had ever seen this person turn around, so he soon made peace with it.

“Hey, brother, did you know the ring’s stone is cracked?” Dylan Foster said. “Does it affect you?”

The figure remained as still as ever, like a statue.

In this dream, no matter what Dylan Foster said, it always felt like he was talking to himself.

“Alright, I guess it doesn’t matter. I always thought you might be some kind of ring spirit, but it seems…”

He suddenly stopped—there was a sword slung at the person’s waist, its hilt engraved with intricate patterns, and in the center was a design that matched the layout of the eight mutated trees in Chiyuan!

No wonder the map had looked so familiar to him at first glance!

What did it mean?

Just then, a breeze suddenly blew in through the window. Dylan Foster opened his eyes wide—this had never happened in the dream before.

He saw the breeze lift the hem of the person’s robe, and the man who had been like a statue for ten years suddenly seemed to come alive, letting out a soft sigh.

Then, unbelievably, he moved, slowly turning around—

“Boss!”

Dylan Foster jolted awake, springing up from his seat… only to be startled by the dazzling lip gloss on the lips of the stylish Emily Turner, then flopped back down.

Old Turner shouted into his ear over the plane’s droning noise: “Wake up, we’re about to land!”

The Chiyuan branch of the Bureau of Anomaly Control was in chaos because of the mutated trees, too busy to bother with their logistics team. They just sent a young intern named Thompson to lead them to the hospital.

The hospital was on high ground, and from a distance, you could see the mountains of the Chiyuan Grand Canyon.

The weather was gloomy, the air thick with moisture, as if it would condense into droplets at any moment. Even though the car’s dehumidifier was on, their clothes were still soaked and clung damply to their bodies. Grace’s hair had puffed up like a sea urchin, bristling as she walked and tried to smooth it down.

Dylan Foster caught a faint scent of incense in the air, with a hint of something metallic. He glanced toward Chiyuan, a sense of foreboding rising in his heart.

The five stranded tourists were all a bit battered, looking dejected. Apparently, after being discharged, they’d be taken to the police station and fined. Their IDs and phones had been confiscated, ready for Grace to inspect, in case they’d captured anything unfit for public release.