Zachary Brooks’s speech sped up rapidly: “There’s a record in the Ancient Text Restoration Division—the Yinchen Sacrifice must be completed within one lunar cycle. The first living offering is made at the ‘junction of the new moon and the hour of the rat,’ and the last one at the next ‘junction of the new moon and the hour of the rat.’ I checked the calendar—today is the new moon!”

Gavin Carter seemed to have developed a great interest in the cell phone, staring at it intently.

Dylan Foster: “The living offerings must die unnaturally. A thousand people dying abnormally within a month—it’s impossible for that to go unnoticed…”

Zachary Brooks exclaimed in shock, “What did you say?”

“A thousand living sacrifices—the demon that was summoned said it himself. I don’t know if it’s true or if this guy is just talking shit…” A chill seeped into his lungs through his mouth and nose, making even breathing painful. Dylan Foster’s breath paused unnaturally for a moment. “I feel… mm… it doesn’t sound like he’s making it up.”

“Contact the Public Security Bureau and check all unnatural death cases in the past month,” Zachary Brooks instructed the person beside him. “Are you okay?”

“No,” Dylan Foster gritted his chattering teeth, “Why can’t we have central heating in the great South!”

Author’s note: Note: Breaking the pot—A folk funeral custom. When the coffin is lifted, the filial children and grandchildren must smash a clay pot.

Chapter 7

It was already past 7 p.m., and there were less than five hours left until “midnight.”

It was mid-autumn, October—the days grew shorter and shorter. The streetlights outside were already on, but the dampness in the air was growing heavier. The entire Chiyuan Grand Canyon was swallowed by thick fog. The streetlights, which usually formed a long chain, struggled in the mist, their glow as faint as fireflies flickering in and out of sight.

All was silent. No birds, no chirping insects—even the autumn bugs huddled in the soil, not daring to move.

“Director Brooks, the data’s in, but this can’t be checked!”

“Why not?”

“There are several million unnatural deaths nationwide every year. Just suicides alone number two or three hundred thousand. In Yong’an City alone, there are over a thousand unidentified bodies every year. Even if the so-called ‘thousand living offerings’ is an accurate number, if those thousand deaths are scattered across the country, you’d never spot anything unusual in the statistics. And that’s not even counting the missing persons!”

“Director Brooks, if the killer is doing this in secret, hiding the bodies for a month isn’t hard. The police might not even have received any reports!”

At this point, Zachary Brooks didn’t have time to ask why Dylan Foster, who claimed to be a model youth, knew so much about obscure ancient dark arts. He turned and asked Dylan Foster on the phone, “From what you know, are there any regional restrictions for ‘living offerings’? For example, do they have to be within a certain distance of the sacrifice site?”

“No,” Dylan Foster replied. “As long as you have the sacrificial text, and it’s written correctly, it works anywhere—not just nationwide, you could go to Antarctica and kill someone for the sacrifice and it would still count. No visa required, just like swiping a credit card.”

Zachary Brooks: “What kind of ridiculous analogy is that!”

He put the call on speaker, and Dylan Foster’s words caused an uproar.

“Wouldn’t that make it a global thing? Director Brooks, that’s like looking for a needle in a haystack!”

“Director, Dr. Wang from the Ancient Text Restoration Division called. He said the records about the Yinchen Sacrifice are for reference only. They don’t have enough research material, so a lot of things are hard to verify. He’s not sure how much is legend.”

Zachary Brooks was furious: “If they’re not going to help, fine, but why make things more complicated!”

“Director Brooks, Director Huang called to ask what’s going on and wants you to come over for a briefing!”

“The Chiyuan sub-bureau’s frontline leader says there are still three mutated trees in the canyon that haven’t been found. He wants to confirm with you—should they just leave those monsters and withdraw?”

“Tell Director Huang it’s an emergency. I’ll report to his office first thing tomorrow morning. All Chiyuan Grand Canyon field personnel are to gather at the hospital. I’ll take responsibility for any consequences. Old Foster, you—”

Before Director Brooks could finish, “click”—the call was cut off.

In the family waiting room, Dylan Foster’s phone suddenly went black—the cold was too much, and the thing had stopped working in the low temperature.

Dylan Foster: “……”

He looked up and met the demon’s curious gaze. The demon was very interested in this lively “little box.” Even though the conversations inside were chaotic and fast, and he couldn’t understand most of it, he still listened with great interest. Now that it had gone silent, he asked in confusion, “Not chatting anymore? Did you reach a conclusion?”

Modern technology’s reputation couldn’t be lost like this. Dylan Foster cursed inwardly while nonchalantly slipping the phone back into his inner chest pocket, trying to use his body heat to coax a little more life out of it.

The door to the family waiting room had already been blown open. Now, the sound of a TV could be faintly heard from the hallway—the closing music of the evening news was playing, which meant it was at least 7:30.

Dylan Foster blinked the frost off his eyelashes and stared at the demon in front of him, his mind racing.

“This… ahem, senior.”

Gavin Carter’s robe was already soaked in blood. He lounged comfortably against the burning chains, looking relaxed, watching the little demon in front of him change expressions as quickly as flipping pages in a book, with a half-smile.

This strange little ghost had just been brandishing a sword and shouting threats. Now, with the fire on the chains still burning, he’d wiped his face and was acting as if nothing had happened, smiling and trying to cozy up.