"That's right!" Although Old Turner was considered a "special ability" of some standing, he had always lived a civilized and peaceful life in the logistics department. In all his years, he had never even dared to get close to watch a street fight. Now, afraid of getting caught up in trouble, he darted away in a flash, hiding around the corner of the hallway and cautiously poking his head out. "But our boss is just a temp!"

"I have a permanent position!" Dylan Foster took the opportunity to clarify for himself, reaching back to close the door to the family lounge, shutting those two toads outside. At the same time, he quickly wrote the character "止" on the door. As soon as the character was formed, a layer of flame-colored phosphorescence appeared on the small door, rapidly spreading to the four walls. In the blink of an eye, the little family lounge was soon surrounded by firelight, completely isolated from the outside. "Why are you two still standing there? Do you have rhinitis? I could smell the stench from outside the hospital!"

Little Thompson fumbled to pull out his walkie-talkie: "Backup! We need backup! Something's happened, in the fa-fa-family lounge!"

As soon as Dylan Foster entered the hallway on this floor, he felt it was especially cold and damp, with a sweet, putrid smell mixed into the moisture, seeping right into his bones, as if greedily coveting the vitality of living beings. And that fake ID disguised as a dead leaf—when it touched his hand, Dylan Foster immediately sensed a sinister malice seeping in. Before he could even figure out what it was, his body, acting on instinct for self-preservation, burned it up on the spot—the last thing that caught fire at his touch was a bone tower built from the powdered skulls of a thousand people.

The man in the black tactical jacket before him seemed even more dangerous than that bone tower!

Dylan Foster reached out and grabbed at the air, and several coins wedged into the wall exploded simultaneously, spraying fire from all directions. The flames twisted into a dragon in midair, instantly weaving into a giant net, engulfing half the lounge in a sea of fire, crashing down on the man.

The long-haired man finally moved. He reached directly into the fiery net, twisted his wrist, and "grabbed" the net woven from the fire dragon in his hand. With a tug and a pull, the coins embedded in the wall shook violently and fell to the ground with a clatter.

The fire net was instantly severed at its source, and he balled it up in his palm, rolling it into a small fireball. Not a speck of ash touched his fingers; only the skin of his palm was tinged with a warm glow from the flames.

At the same time, Dylan Foster had already moved in: "You haven't even washed off the stench on you, and you dare swagger right into the Bureau of Paranormal Control's turf."

He somehow drew a heavy sword, wrapped in a fierce wind, and slashed down: "Aren't you getting a bit too cocky...?"

The long-haired man casually grabbed a thermos cup—who knows who left it in the lounge—and with a clang, blocked Dylan Foster's sword. The double-walled stainless steel cup was dented in the middle by the heavy sword, and half a cup of goji berry and red date tea inside splashed sweetly all over both of them.

And the moment Dylan Foster got close, the long-haired man's clothes began to reveal their true form—starting from the cuffs, they quickly turned back into leaves.

At the same time, Dylan Foster got a clear look at his face.

He was genuinely shocked, his movements faltering. The long-haired man reached out and grabbed the blade, then with a sudden lift, flung him two or three meters away, slamming him into the wall.

The long-haired man lowered his head, brushed his hand over his sleeve, and the clothes that had revealed half his forearm returned to normal—the style was clearly copied from those next door, just with a slight change in color.

Then, in a strange accent, he spoke: "Apologies, my clothes are indecent. Forgive me."

This man was radiant and spirited, with naturally "lovers' eyes" that made everything he looked at seem gentle and affectionate. It was the very face Dylan Foster had caught a fleeting glimpse of in his dream!

"Sigh," the long-haired man, seeing Dylan Foster silent, thought he hadn't understood. Looking a bit troubled, he glanced at the TV and quickly switched to Mandarin. "My clothes are..."

The next word must have been uncommon—neither the TV nor the trapped tourists had used it—so he paused: "Tree... um..."

Dylan Foster spoke almost at the same time: "Illusion spell."

The man nodded and smiled amiably, like a host, politely gesturing for Dylan Foster to "please, sit."

His manner was relaxed and unreserved. Dylan Foster stared at him in disbelief for a moment, then, bold as brass, slid the heavy sword behind his back, where it turned into a beam of light and merged into his body.

He wiped the red date tea from his face, pulled over a plastic chair, and sat down with a swagger: "Who are you? Or rather... what are you?"

The man was just about to speak when Dylan Foster added, "Just use your own words, take it slow, I can probably understand."

Back home, they had plenty of old relics, some of which occasionally bore a few ancient phrases—of course, inanimate objects were just traces of time, not something you could chat with. But since Chinese has evolved in a continuous line, and he'd been exposed to it since childhood, he could usually get the gist.

What this man had just blurted out must have been ancient language. According to Dylan Foster's not-so-reliable guess, it sounded a bit like the "elegant speech" from over three thousand years ago, during the era of the warring Nine Provinces.