Hunting Operation

Bagui Province, Nanming City. In an old residential compound, the night hung heavy, vintage streetlamps casting halos of downy yellow light. For a border city with poor economic development and equally poor public security, the night held little worth lingering for. Incomes were low, bustling nightlife venues were few, and going out at night was dangerous. If a woman went out in the middle of the night, a thug was likely to press a gun to her lower back; men didn't have that worry, but they might get their kidneys harvested. The compound was dead quiet, its residents having fallen asleep early. Suddenly, the shrill cries of stray cats broke the silence of the night. In a dilapidated rented apartment in one of the buildings, Wanderer of the Mortal Realm snapped awake. He swiftly rose, walked barefoot to the window, and cautiously parted the curtains just a slit to survey the compound cloaked in quiet darkness. There was not a soul in sight; the greenery quietly bathed in the halos of the streetlamps. Yet Wanderer of the Mortal Realm knew uninvited guests had arrived—and a whole crowd of them, at that. The stray cats in the compound were his eyes and ears, implanted with an instinctive hostility that made them shriek in distress whenever they saw large groups of strangers. Animals and plants were frequently overlooked, making them the best sentries. Just then, the stray cats stopped shrieking, and the compound returned to silence once more. Standing behind the curtain, Wanderer of the Mortal Realm narrowed his pupils. If a crowd of strangers entering the compound might have been a coincidence, the feral cats falling silent confirmed their identities. Official Spirit Walkers! Manipulating animals was the forte of Wood Monsters. A group of official Spirit Walkers has entered the compound... Wanderer of the Mortal Realm acted without hesitation, activating his Dream Shuttle skill. His eyes deepened into abysses as bizarre, kaleidoscopic dreams materialized before his vision. Regardless of whether these official walkers were here for him, leaving first was definitely the right choice. It wasn't that he was being overly paranoid. After what had happened to Zhao Xintong, with the team members' information compromised, caution was paramount. Those in evil classes who lacked the savvy to advance often never survived to the Saint stage. Besides, Xiao Yuan had notified them in the group chat a few days ago: Master Wuhen had entered seclusion, so the team members were to remain in hiding. If trouble arose, they could still turn to Yuanshi Tianzun for help, but with everyone scattered to the far corners of the country, Yuanshi Tianzun couldn't be on call everywhere at once, even if he were a demigod. Wanderer of the Mortal Realm randomly picked a dream and was about to dive into it when a cold snort sounded by his ear. In the next instant, all the dreams floating across his vision were completely annihilated. Wanderer of the Mortal Realm's body, which had just begun to etherealize, snapped back into corporeal reality. The dreams had been blocked. Someone had prevented him from executing his dream jump. The only ones capable of this were peak Level 6 Dream Masters, or Voidwalkers. Not the officials—someone from the Southern Sect? The Southern Sect found me? Impossible. I definitely changed residences, and I've been in this compound for less than a week... Wanderer of the Mortal Realm felt a chill grip his heart. He immediately deployed his mental manipulation ability. His targets were the civilians in the entire residential building. He intended to create chaos and then use an Illusionist's disguise ability to blend into the crowd and escape. However, within his perception, every living person in the building had lost all emotion, reduced to soulless walking corpses. My ability has been suppressed. It's the Southern Sect—they know best how to deal with Illusionists... Wanderer of the Mortal Realm suddenly began to cough violently, his face flushing crimson and his eyes turning bloodshot. The temperature on his forehead spiked rapidly, and weakness surged through his limbs. He was sick. A plague! Get out of here, get out right now! Panic and dread exploded in Wanderer of the Mortal Realm's heart, overwhelming his reason. An Illusionist like him excelled at trickery and subterfuge. Once located and surrounded, the battle was already half-lost—not to mention that his abilities were now suppressed by experts of the Southern Sect. He quickly retrieved a suit of rattan armor, donned it, smashed through the window, and leaped down from the seventh floor. Amid flying glass shards, he plummeted from the seventh floor into the shrubbery below with a dull thud. Rustle, rustle! As if awaiting this exact moment, the surrounding shrubs grew wildly like sturdy thorns, trapping Wanderer of the Mortal Realm within. The damp soil transformed into a pair of massive hands, gripping his ankles tight. Oh no! Wanderer of the Mortal Realm's heart trembled. He threw his head back, about to let out a shriek to unleash Mental Strike. Bang! The thunderous roar of a sniper rifle tore through the dark, rousing the sleeping residents of the compound. Wanderer of the Mortal Realm's body suddenly stiffened. Behind him, gruesome, mottled streaks of blood splattered across the wall. *** Late at night, Poison Chaser drove to the Nanming City Public Security Bureau. He had been summoned by a phone call from Liangshan Naval Fleet, who was on night duty at the branch, saying that an operations squad from headquarters had arrived in Nanming City and its person-in-charge demanded to see him. After parking his car, he tightened his light trench coat, feeling that tonight's temperature was rather chilly. Rounding the green belt, Poison Chaser saw Liangshan Naval Fleet standing by the entrance of the bureau building, head lowered, smoking a cigarette as if he had been waiting for a long time. Poison Chaser walked up, lit a cigarette as well, and asked casually, "What's the deal with our imperial envoys? Which department are they from, and what mission brought them down to our mortal realm?" Liangshan Naval Fleet shook his head. "They didn't say which department. The reason they gave was the same as Lord Tianzun's—claiming they came to arrest a wanted criminal. And the suspect has already been eliminated. The body's right in the morgue." At this point, Liangshan Naval Fleet lowered his voice. "They're all big shots. I checked their Spirit Realm IDs—every single one of them is a Saint." Squads conducting inter-provincial manhunts for wanted criminals were usually elites, but an all-Saint team was exceedingly rare. All Saints, hunting a fugitive... Poison Chaser knitted his brows and said in a heavy voice, "Did they call me for a handover? Or is an accomplice still at large and they need our assistance?" Liangshan Naval Fleet shook his head. "They only said they wanted to see you without mentioning a thing. But I feel they didn't come with good intentions." Poison Chaser took a hard drag from his cigarette, burning down half of it in an instant. Flicking away the butt, he exhaled a long trail of white smoke and said, "Let's go in." Reaching the floor where the Nanming Branch was located, Poison Chaser followed Liangshan Naval Fleet straight toward the morgue. Outside the morgue stood a squad in tactical gear—three men and two women—their expressions solemn as they looked over coldly. "Deacon Poison Chaser?" a delicate-featured woman with short hair said flatly. "Our team leader is waiting for you inside." Poison Chaser gave a slight nod, left Liangshan Naval Fleet behind, and stepped into the morgue alone. The morgue was brightly lit. A stern young man in tactical fatigues stood ramrod straight beside a mortuary slab, upon which lay a corpse covered with a white sheet. Poison Chaser swept his gaze over the man and the corpse. Tightening his coat once more, he took the initiative to speak: "Hello. I'm Poison Chaser, head of the Nanming Branch." Out of a Swordsman's intuition and insight, he sensed the cold indifference and hostility radiating from this imperial envoy. "Military Soul!" The stern young man turned his head, his sharp gaze fixing on him. "Deacon Poison Chaser, we were ordered to apprehend a wanted fugitive. The operation went smoothly, and the fugitive has been eliminated." He glanced at the mortuary slab and continued, "This was a Level 6 Illusionist. We used an item to devour his spirit body and discovered that he was your brother. Over the years, he has been working for you, illegally acquiring merits and wealth on your behalf. Go confirm his identity. Once you have, we will be taking you back to headquarters for investigation." A loud boom went off in Poison Chaser's mind, as if he had been struck by lightning. Turning deathly pale, he rushed toward the slab, stumbling across the mere few meters between them. With trembling hands, Poison Chaser lifted the white sheet and saw a familiar face—a cultured, refined middle-aged man. Wanderer of the Mortal Realm! There was a gory hole in his forehead. His eyes were wide open, staring blankly at the ceiling, as if dying with endless grievances. His body was cold and stiff; he had been dead for over two hours. Poison Chaser stared blankly at the corpse like a stone sculpture drained of its soul, muttering, "Why arrest him? He wasn't on the wanted list. He kept a low profile... He never did anything illegal..." As he spoke, there was no luster in his eyes, his voice sounding like that of a walking corpse. Yet from his eyes, tears gushed down, surging uncontrollably. The stern young man calling himself Military Soul took on a solemn expression. "That is not for you to ask. What you just said will be recorded and treated as part of the evidence. Now, hand over all your items and accompany us back to headquarters for investigation." Poison Chaser let out a tragic laugh. "Back to headquarters for investigation? You took away my only kin in this world. You've driven me into a corner..." In despair, he drew his longsword! *** "Cough, cough..." Awoken by a coughing fit from her slumber, Sister Red Demon felt her forehead burning hot, every breath filled with scorching air. "I'm sick? How could I be sick? It's a Plague God!" A shiver shot through her, and she sprang up from the bed, only to stumble and nearly collapse. Sweetheart Red Demon immediately realized she had been targeted by the officials. Sickness had imperceptibly corroded her body, leaving her in a state of utter weakness. For an official Plague God to spread sickness to her so precisely meant they had already pinpointed her address, and countless ambushes were bound to be waiting outside. The reason they hadn't stormed in yet was to let the sickness continue wearing her down, weakening her as much as possible, perhaps even capturing her without shedding blood. As a female Witch Doctor, though she had plenty of combat experience in dungeons, she had always kept her head down in reality, rarely ever clashing with officials. Unfamiliar with the officials' style and lacking similar experience, fighting them to the death was clearly irrational. Moreover, she couldn't fight the officials inside a residential building, as that would implicate too many innocent people. With that in mind, Sweetheart Red Demon staggered over to the wardrobe, pulled open the door, brought out a black jar, and fished a plump, round pupa from within. She swallowed the pupa in one gulp. A bulbous wasp abdomen tore through her nightgown, yellow and black patterns spread across her skin, antennae sprouted from her forehead, her eyes turned into insectoid compound eyes, and cicada-wing-thin wings unfolded from her back. She transformed into a wasp woman, just like Xiao Yuan. The pupa in the jar was a gift from Xiao Yuan. It allowed a Witch Doctor to transform into a wasp; while its combat power wasn't great, the wasp's speed could rival a supersonic fighter jet. It was ideal for breaking through sieges. One had to know that most Saints could not fly, whereas Witch Doctors capable of Gu Transformation held absolute air supremacy at the Saint stage. Having transformed into a wasp woman, Sweetheart Red Demon darted toward the window and yanked back the curtains—and her expression instantly froze. The exterior of the window was covered with crawling vines, thick, tough tendrils sealing the window shut tight. Sweetheart Red Demon yanked hard several times, but failed to tear the vines apart. She whipped her head around, looking toward the bedroom door in despair. From beyond the door came light, numerous footsteps. Overcome by surging despair and terror, Sweetheart Red Demon stood frozen by the window for a few seconds before suddenly throwing caution to the wind and rushing to the head of the bed. She fished out the phone under her pillow, opened her contacts, and dialed her mother's number. A dozen seconds later, the call connected, and a sleepy, weary voice came through: "Who is this?" Mom, I'm sorry... I'm sorry, I'm sorry... Tears silently streamed down her cheeks. Sweetheart Red Demon's mouth trembled, her throat choked with sobs. In the end, she said nothing at all, quietly hanging up the phone. *** In a certain residential building. Inside a wrecked bedroom, a middle-aged man in tactical fatigues looked down and picked up a palm-sized little clay figurine. As the little clay figurine was put away, the restriction sealing off the bedroom and living room dissolved. The living room was in ruins, furniture ground to powder. A white-haired old man lay face down on the floor, dark-red blood flowing from his body to gather into a small pool. The three official Saints in the bedroom had suffered fairly serious injuries, but none were fatal. With a complete strategy, meticulous preparations, and various auxiliary items, hunting down an evil-class practitioner caught completely off guard was not an overly difficult task. The fight had actually ended very quickly—from start to kill took less than ten minutes. The middle-aged man took out his earpiece and issued an order: "Combat concluded. Notify the Public Security Bureau to process the scene." As he spoke, he saw his two companions walking toward the old man's corpse, one of them preparing to open the drawer of the nightstand in front of the old man. "Wait!" the middle-aged man hastily barked. In his dying moments, the old man hadn't begged for mercy, nor had he lashed out in retaliation. Instead, he had crawled shakily toward the nightstand, his eyes locked onto it right up until his breath gave out. Something terrifying—an item or consumable—might be hidden in that drawer. "Raise your guard!" the middle-aged man warned. His companion nodded, retrieved a mud-splattered coat, and draped it over himself. His movements instantly grew sluggish, as if a mountain were resting on his shoulders. Lifting his heavy arm, he pulled open the drawer. The contents inside gave him pause. He picked up a thick stack of papers, skimmed through them, and said in astonishment, "Petition materials... That's it?" The thick stack of petition documents had some sheets that looked brand new and others that were worn and old. They were very thick, documenting half a lifetime of blood, tears, and grievances of a teacher. They were very thin, so thin that for decades, no one had ever bothered to glance at them.