"Thud! Thud!" The knocking sound resumed, identical in rhythm to the one just moments before, with perfect timing and no variation at all. It was hard to imagine a human maintaining such precise control over rhythm. Was it Aunt Li? Zhang Yuanqing felt his headache splitting open, his mind foggy and disoriented. As he reached for the bed to get up and open the door, his body suddenly went rigid. He suddenly remembered—there was no footstep sound coming from outside. Indeed, before the knocking began, he had heard absolutely no movement at all. For a Level 2 Night-Wanderer, at such close proximity, even with slight sound insulation from the door, such complete silence would have been impossible to achieve. This wasn't an ordinary person! Zhang Yuanqing raised one hand, pressing against his throbbing head, as he thought: Had someone uncovered my true identity? Had they come to investigate? Was it someone from the Night-Bloom Rose, the Black Unchanging, or perhaps from the Tàimén Sect? At that moment, his body was taut, adrenaline surging through him, temporarily alleviating the persistent headache. "Regardless of which faction it is, arriving at my home at this moment—come with ill intentions. I can't fight them here at home; if I do, my aunt and the others will be affected. I need to find a way to send them away..." At that moment, the knocking ceased, and Zhang Yuanqing noticed the door handle slowly turning. A soft "click" as the lock latch released, and then the bedroom door creaked open slightly, revealing a deep, dense darkness beyond the crack. Zhang Yuanqing stared intently at the open doorway, his muscles taut, yet still sensing no presence of the enemy. A cold sweat beaded on his back. "Snap!" Suddenly, a dark-skinned hand emerged from the gap, grasping the door frame and pushing the door fully open. As the door was violently swung open, Zhang Yuanqing finally caught a clear view of the unexpected visitor. She was a woman with her hair disheveled, wearing a soiled, pale cloak stained with dirt, trailing all the way to the floor. Her posture was odd—unsteady, crooked—as if she were a doll whose limbs had been misplaced. Her dark right hand held a rusted vegetable knife, the blade pointing toward her back. Her lush, wild hair obscured her face, and droplets of black blood fell steadily between the strands. This appearance was strangely familiar—she had seen it before, somewhere. Zhang Yuanqing suddenly realized: the white-clad murderess? The wailing spirit mentioned in the text message earlier? Was this not just a prank? He was utterly stunned. He never expected that a mere spam message received during the day would be genuine! It was truly unexpected, but if it were indeed a spirit of vengeance, he was not at all afraid. As he thought this, the white-clad murderess approached him with a clumsy yet swift gait. Her posture was odd—she seemed to be walking backward, her body wobbling and her limbs twisted unnaturally. "Hmph!" Zhang Yuanqing's eyes darkened with swirling energy, drawing upon the power of the Yin. Suddenly, his face paled—he realized he had lost the innate ability encoded in his genes, the power that once suppressed the spirits of resentment. At that moment, the white-clad woman murderer staggered backward, trembling, and raised her knife high. She rotated her right arm a full 180 degrees, the blade now pointed directly at Zhang Yuanqing, and suddenly plunged it down. Zhang Yuanqing rolled onto the bed. Clang! Clang! Clang! The knife chased after him, slicing through the bed and leaving a series of deep gashes. As Zhang Yuanqing rolled from the bed to the floor, his face grew increasingly pale—he not only had lost his abilities but also his physical strength had returned to that of an ordinary person. He had been completely reduced to his original form. He couldn't help but recall the description in the text message. Was this a dream? His skills hadn't vanished—they had simply been rendered useless. He was now immersed in a nightmare, where his skills and tools were entirely inaccessible. With no time to reflect, he caught a glimpse of the dirty-robed spirit of resentment, who once again raised the knife Zhang Yuanqing rolled again, hearing the creak of broken cypress floorboards. If the blade struck him here, he would be severed from his body at the very moment. Huh... He braced himself with both hands, leapt up from the ground, and rushed toward the living room, then the foyer, then the security door. He wanted to escape this house. Yet no matter how hard he strained, he could not turn the handle of the security door—the latch seemed frozen in place inside. A howling wind blew from behind him, and Zhang Yuanqing didn’t hesitate—he dropped low. Clang! The knife whirled past, embedding itself into the security door. Could the knife still be thrown? Zhang Yuanqing swallowed hard, instinctively reaching for the knife to counter the vengeful spirit. But as he looked up, he found the knife gone—only a deep gash remained on the security door. The white-clad murderess now held the knife again, retreating toward him. Seeing this, Zhang Yuanqing stepped quickly to the dining table, picked up a high-back chair, and slammed it squarely into the path of the incoming knife. The high-backed chair in his hands cracked with a sharp snap, the knife slicing through it and striking S Zhang Yuanqing squarely in the chest. A searing pain surged through him as the rust-streaked blade severed his ribcage and snapped several ribs. In his dream, however, he had lost his ability to heal. Sensing the scent of death, Zhang Yuanqing staggered a few steps and leaned against the edge of the dining table. The white-clad murderer, trembling, retreated and then advanced, lifting the knife high above her head. Zhang Yuanqing suddenly sidestepped, and the rust-streaked knife struck the table with a sharp "thud," embedding itself deeply. The woman pulled hard, but couldn't free it. Seizing the moment, Zhang Yuanqing braced against the pain in his chest and grabbed the high-backed chair beside him, hurling it with all his strength toward the spirit's waist. "Crack!" The woman's waist snapped instantly, twisting unnaturally as she fell to the ground. "Crack! Crack! Crack!" The vengeful spirit lying on the ground convulsed, her head twisted to the left while her limbs twisted in opposite directions—her left knee pointing toward the right, her right knee toward the left—like a haphazardly assembled puppet. With a series of crisp cracking sounds as her spine snapped, her lower body rose upright, leaving her upper body dragging behind. Whoa! Seeing this, Zhang Yuanqing felt his scalp prickle, clutching his chest wound with both hands and stumbling back toward his bedroom. This thing wasn’t going down. Back in the room, he locked the door and staggered to the window. Zhang Yuanqing opened the window and looked out—darkness enveloped the outside, no streetlights, no vehicles, no sight of nearby residential buildings. If this were the real world, he’d risk leaping onto the air conditioner unit, but here, in the dream world, he hesitated. Not only was it uncertain whether jumping through the window would save him, but what if the outcome were death? What then? Trapped in the dream, unable to slay the spirit, with skills and items useless—Zhang Yuanqing found himself utterly at a loss. Worse still, the blood pouring from his chest wouldn't stop. If things continued like this, he would surely die within ten minutes from his injuries. What would happen to him in reality if he died in a dream? He dared not think about it. Who was responsible for my death? I remember that dreams belong to the realm of illusionists, yet I have neither quarreled with nor intersected with them. At that moment, the door handle turned slightly, and when he found it wouldn't open, the spirit outside grew increasingly agitated, the handle creaking with each twist. A few seconds later, it stopped, as though giving up on opening the door. Suddenly, a loud crash—half a vegetable knife emerged from the door panel, clearly being used to劈 the door. The spirit was cutting through the door. Zhang Yuanqing's eyes filled with despair. He glanced out at the dark window, considering whether to leap out and make a desperate attempt. Thump, thump, thump! With each strike of the knife, the door panel gradually splintered, and the gap widened. Finally, with a loud "clash," the door panel shattered into four fragments, and the wrathful spirit, hair wild and disheveled, carried her sword, entering in a most unusual posture.