Gavin Carter instinctively glanced toward the door at the sound, and at that moment, Dylan Foster suddenly pressed his hand downward. The few coins he had been flicking back and forth somehow formed a circle around the long-haired man, embedding themselves into the floor with his gesture and instantly connecting into a formation. With a crisp "crash" in midair, several flaming iron chains materialized out of nowhere, tightly trapping the man in the center.

The grass rope tying Gavin Carter's hair was scorched and snapped by the flames, his long hair suddenly falling loose, and the fake clothes made of withered leaves revealed their true form. But he was not left naked—

All the withered branches and leaves fell away in curls, revealing a white long robe underneath. On the robe, a totem painted in fresh blood was nearly complete, and a terrifying stench of blood rushed forth.

The man let out an "ah," looked down at the iron chains binding him, and the previously gentle expression on his face twisted into a strange smile. "What a clever little brat."

Chapter 6

This small family break room was only about ten square meters, with a dozen blazing iron chains hanging in the center. Normally, in less than three or five minutes, the room would be preheated like an oven. Yet a cold, damp aura spread from all directions, forcefully suppressing the heat of the flames, and the four walls began to bead with moisture, just like during the "return of the southern damp."

Dylan Foster's iron chains trapped the mysterious long-haired man, but he himself was being suffocated by the cold, damp aura, unsure for a moment who was actually restraining whom.

Tiny droplets of water slid down the walls, leaving wet trails that connected to form rows of text, protruding from the surface.

It was not any known language in the world. Out of the corner of his eye, Dylan Foster caught a glimpse and felt a chill run up his spine.

At this moment, the field operations chief of the Chiyuan branch had also heard the news and hurried to the door.

The door was sealed tightly, and no one knew what was happening inside. The field chief quickly pushed through the crowd and knocked on the door. "Director Foster, this is…"

"Save the introductions for later," Dylan Foster cut him off, staring at the man trapped by the chains. He spoke rapidly, "Evacuate everyone within a ten-kilometer radius of the hospital—immediately! Get everyone you can over here, report to headquarters!"

The field chief didn't even finish half a sentence before being hit with a barrage of orders, leaving him dazed and thinking, "Who the heck are you? You just open your mouth and start giving us assignments?"

Since the day the Bureau of Anomaly Control was founded, field agents had always considered themselves a cut above.

Functional departments have always thought highly of themselves, and since the number of "special abilities" is limited, only the field department is made up entirely of "specials." The other support departments are mostly ordinary people, and the few "specials" who "fall" into support roles are usually the useless oddballs.

Even if the so-called "Aftermath Division" was sent by headquarters, the local field agents only showed them surface-level respect, but deep down looked down on them—much like how ancient generals viewed eunuch supervisors.

They already found it troublesome to host them for regular business, let alone for this kind of troublemaking.

The field chief was relatively shrewd. He paused, then patiently explained, "Sir, evacuating residents is no small matter. You see… transportation, supplies, economic losses, these are all issues, not to mention the panic it would cause among the public. Even if our branch chief were here, he couldn't make that call. Besides, most of our people are still in the canyon, the mutant tree situation isn't cleaned up yet, we really can't spare anyone…"

Dylan Foster didn't argue, simply ignored him, and shouted, "Old Turner, call Zachary Brooks, tell him the mutant tree is just a side issue, this is a 'Yinchen Sacrifice'!"

The field chief considered himself a socially adept person, but this kind of reckless, tattling lunatic still made his chest tighten with anger. He barely managed to hold back from cursing, summoning all his self-restraint.

But Dylan Foster, as if afraid he hadn't pissed him off enough, added, "If he doesn't know what a 'Yinchen Sacrifice' is, tell him to look it up online!"

Field chief: "…"

Damn you!

Gavin Carter listened in on their conversation with great interest amid the flames, like a porcelain figure with an extremely high ignition point. The fire licked around him, but not even a strand of his hair moved, and he even seemed to find it quite cozy. The firelight cast a flush on his pale face. "You seem to recognize the sacrificial script? That's rare."

Dylan Foster sneered, "I could even battle the Eight-Nation Alliance if I wanted."

Gavin Carter sensed he wasn't saying anything nice, but didn't get angry. He simply asked in the tone of someone inquiring about a lost child, "There has been blood feud between the demon and human clans for generations. Even after the demons declined, they retreated deep into the mountains, far from the world. So what's your story, little demon? Did you betray your clan out of grievance, or were you exiled for some wrongdoing?"

At this point, Dylan Foster felt the cold sweat on his back was about to freeze, goosebumps rising on his exposed neck. But even with blue lips, his sharp tongue didn't falter: "Sir, we're all one big family of fifty-six ethnic groups now. What ancient history are you reciting? You're the one who betrayed your clan and got exiled—defamation is illegal, you know—Old Turner, is your phone out of credit or what, have you gotten through yet?"