“What breed is this, with such a thick skin?” he thought to himself. “Is it a ling carp【Note】?”

“I think, usually those low-level little demons just need to slaughter a sheep on some mountain, no need to make such a big fuss. For someone like you, who needs a ‘thousand living sacrifices’ just to be summoned… uh, that’s truly distinguished and extraordinary, you must have a remarkable background.” Dylan Foster tried to imitate Old Ghost’s accent and tone, but unfortunately, just listening was already hard enough for him, and without Old Ghost’s freakish mimicry skills, his imitation was completely off-key.

Gavin Carter’s smile deepened a bit, but he said nothing, just watched him perform.

Dylan Foster, still off-key, continued sincerely, “In our market economy era, there are usually many ways to solve a problem. Those who resort to dark arts at the drop of a hat are generally brainless fools… ahem, delusional people. For you to answer the summons of such a person, doesn’t it lower your status… isn’t it beneath your dignity?”

“The Yinchen Ritual is a technique to communicate with heaven and earth. Since I was awakened by this person, there must be some connection between us. Otherwise, his blood wouldn’t have reached my coffin,” Gavin Carter replied unhurriedly. “Besides, status and reputation are just empty titles from my past life—I don’t even remember them.”

Maybe Dylan Foster had worked in pyramid schemes before, because he kept praising with a straight face: “Of course, those mundane identities they assign don’t matter, it’s fine if you don’t remember. But your bearing and manner of speaking are right here for all to see, aren’t they? I’m not blind.”

Old Turner, mustering his courage, ran over to deliver a phone to Dylan Foster. He happened to hear this sentence at the door, quickly fished out a fast-acting heart pill and swallowed it, thinking, “I’m going blind.”

“Is that so?” Gavin Carter suddenly leaned forward, the iron chains binding him tightening with a pleasant clinking sound. Black Yinchen ritual script suddenly crawled out from his collar, spreading from his neck up to his face, stark black and white. That handsome face instantly became eerily ghostly. At the door, Old Turner’s legs gave out and he dropped to his knees with a thud. Gavin Carter didn’t even look at him, just waved his hand casually, “No need for formalities—since the ritual script can bring me back to the world, naturally it also imposes some restraints on me. It wasn’t easy for me to see the light of day again, so why risk my life to defy it? It’s just a mortal’s wish, a trivial matter.”

Dylan Foster’s eye twitched.

Gavin Carter laughed: “It’s almost halfway through the hour of the dog.”

“Le-le-le…” Old Turner was trembling so much he couldn’t get a full word out, just stammering “ling-ling-ling” like a school bell, as he crawled in and bravely handed over the phone. “Director Brooks!”

Mission accomplished, his eyes rolled back and he fainted.

“What’s going on? I thought you’d become a martyr! Wha… the phone froze from the cold… I really… fine, I’ll buy you a whole box of new ones when I get back!” Zachary Brooks strode into the conference room.

“Director Brooks, all the local heads are in position.”

Zachary Brooks nodded and said to Dylan Foster, “Can you take pictures of the ‘Yinchen Ritual’ script you saw? The more complete the better. I’ll have people compare the images and investigate separately—there’s bound to be some clue!”

Dylan Foster kicked Old Turner awake: “Take pictures of the writing on the wall and send them to Director Brooks. Don’t dawdle, there’s no time—Old Brooks, listen to me, the demon summoned is a one-time deal, not a long-term contract…”

Gavin Carter understood the words “one-time” and “not long-term,” and narrowed his eyes slightly—this little brat was actually using his words against him, how bold.

Dylan Foster: “If someone summons a big demon who can only do one thing for them, in my experience, eight or nine times out of ten it’s for revenge or murder. Think about it: if this person can kill a thousand people in thirty days without anyone noticing, then killing is probably as easy as chopping vegetables for him. If he wanted to kill someone, would it really be that hard? Why go through all this trouble? What’s his real target?”

Zachary Brooks suddenly paused.

“We…”

“The Bureau of Anomaly Control.”

The two spoke almost in unison.

“It can’t be for no reason. This bastard must have gotten involved in something before, had contact with the Bureau. Check all your case files and records,” Dylan Foster said. “Also, the Yinchen Ritual isn’t some street magician’s trick. None of you so-called ‘elite’ field agents in the security department have even heard of it. Could the caster really be a hundred percent sure it would work? If he was that awesome, he wouldn’t need to be so roundabout—I think he’s definitely near Chiyuan.”

Because the Chiyuan Scenic Area is close to the Grand Canyon, the Bureau of Anomaly Control was very cautious. They coordinated with the local police, requiring all visitors to buy tickets with their ID cards, and all nearby hotels and tour vehicles were under unified management.

At 8:30, the Chiyuan sub-bureau began a lightning-fast sweep of all hotels near the scenic area, and submitted all visitor information from the past six months to the central database to be cross-checked with case records.

Forty-five minutes later, at 9:15, Grace Walker dashed over with a laptop in her arms.

“Chief… cough cough cough…” The damp chill in the family waiting room seemed to be seeping out, and just breathing it in from afar felt like a cold knife scraping from her throat down to her lungs. Grace Walker couldn’t get within ten meters of the door, and could hardly imagine what state Dylan Foster was in inside.