This man calculated the exact time of your arrival in Los Angeles, so I knew, too, that obtaining this ring would require Herculean effort. Knowing Master Zhou was not to be trifled with, frankly, our society desperately needs this money to turn the tide of the business; otherwise, thousands of our brothers will be left out in the cold." He spoke with calculated pity, yet Zhou Huan was completely unmoved.

"Stop whining about poverty. I came here knowing you were at 666, and I still haven't sought you out—do you have any idea why? I don't want you entangled in this mess. It's unnecessary for us to tussle with you again. This ring alone affects the lives of a multitude of spirits, affecting all of our lives. If this matter isn't concluded, none of us will have profited." After speaking, Zhou Huan crouched down and fell silent.

Shancun's expression was on the verge of erupting; his tightly knotted features looked like they were hastily assembling for war. Finally, he couldn't hold back: "Master Zhou, since you put it that way, I have nothing more to say. We'll just wait and see."

"I won't see you out. Please close the door carefully when you leave, or I might genuinely cause you trouble." Zhou Huan's words were sharp and hard, yet they managed to send the man of what was supposedly the Yamato race slinking away defeated. As soon as they were gone, Zhou Huan roared, "Dongzi, you bastard, get in here!"

Dongzi staggered in, still slightly woozy from the earlier drinks. He turned around only to be yelled at again by Zhou Huan, who ushered him inside.

"Dongzi, you idiot! Who told you to go to their room? If we wanted to fight, did we need you to do it? Couldn't you wait until tonight?" Zhou Huan's voice was loud. In reality, an ear was pressed against their doorway, and the few detectives listening outside began to chuckle softly. Suddenly, Zhou Huan stopped: "Alright, Dongzi, come sit down. You must be thoroughly confused right now. Eat something and sober up."

Dongzi pouted, glanced at Zhou Huan, and asked, "You’re not cursing anymore?"

"No more cursing. I had no choice just now; someone was eavesdropping outside. I had to tell them we'd visit them tonight, otherwise, we wouldn't be able to accomplish anything tonight, right?" With that, Zhou Huan smiled and resumed discussing matters with everyone. They finally settled on a plan: that evening, two detectives would go to Room 666 to cause a ruckus, primarily to draw attention away from Zhou Huan in case those other people followed him. The rest of the group would accompany Zhou Huan to find the reporter.

Since Zhou Huan had already tasked these detectives with investigating this matter beforehand, they could take over immediately upon arrival; only the unfamiliarity with the local routes might slow them down.

While Dongzi was blabbering nonsense to the Japanese men earlier, Zhou Huan and the detectives had already exchanged intelligence. That information revealed that another wave of Japanese individuals, along with Americans who had caught wind of the situation, were all eager to acquire the ring but were currently unaware of its whereabouts. This was why they had mobilized aggressively and sent people to search. The detectives had already thoroughly investigated the two Japanese men and the two priests, so Zhou Huan wasn't surprised to see them.

Night descended like frost settling, the sky half silver, half crimson.

"Crimson Moon, Master, Brother Huan, the Crimson Moon is out again!" Dongzi exclaimed excitedly.

Zhou Huan steadied his nerves and shook the purple jade gourd hanging from his waist: "Why is the Crimson Moon out again? Look what you’ve done!"

"This Crimson Moon has nothing to do with me this time. This is America; the Crimson Moon here must be due to local grievances," a voice emanated from the purple jade gourd—it was the female ghost, Xiao Shan.

Zhou Huan fell silent. He then instructed Dongzi to prepare a large assortment of supplies, particularly powdered garlic and chili, mixed with a bit of mustard oil, filling an entire glass bottle. Once Dongzi had everything ready, they conferred briefly. Then Zhou Huan turned to the detectives: "You proceed according to the plan. The rest of you, follow me." As he said this, Zhou Huan glanced at Mr. Lao Wang.

Mr. Lao Wang nodded: "You must take me. Can you manage without me? I've also booked a room at the adjacent hotel. Everyone else should go there to avoid trouble if those Japanese men come looking."

"Good, it's settled. Xiaoling, and Mr. Lao Wang's secretary, you will be protected by Director Wang's bodyguards and stay next door temporarily. Everyone else, take your positions, let's go!" Zhou Huan donned his coat, slung on his bag, and headed out with Dongzi. Mr. Lao Wang stayed behind with the detectives to cover their rear. Two of the detectives ran to the far end of the corridor and used their specialized grappling hooks with No. 8 steel wire to tightly lock the doors of the Japanese men's rooms together, ensuring no one could open them. The detectives then cleverly placed a sign in front of each door that read, "Open the door please, death is waiting for you!" Below the English text, they hung a few inert hand grenades as a grim adornment.

The two detectives swiftly finished setting everything up, exchanged a look, and quickly headed downstairs.

Meanwhile, Zhou Huan led his small group, following the route the detectives had mapped out, until they reached a farm—a truly vast farm. Farms in America were indeed impressive; everything was a vibrant green. Before entering the property, a sign stood at the entrance road, bearing the words "Brown Farm." Under the illumination of the Crimson Moon, these characters seemed to have shifted in color.

Suddenly, Dongzi shouted sharply, "Brother Huan, blood!" He pointed frantically at the sign, yelling, and immediately drew and ignited a talisman, throwing it forcefully onto the sign.

Seeing Dongzi so agitated, Zhou Huan felt a sudden unease. He looked up at the Crimson Moon in the sky and instantly recalled: the Crimson Moon here was called the "Tail of the Crimson Moon." It was the exact opposite of the normal one; the regular Crimson Moon revealed what was on the surface, but this "Tail" seemed to stimulate the deepest psychological fears, inducing waves of panic. Had Dongzi fallen prey to it so easily?

Zhou Huan hurried over to Dongzi and examined his physical condition closely. His gaze was vacant, his forehead beaded with cold sweat, and his lips trembled, stark white. On the back of Dongzi's neck, something resembling a long strand of hair seemed to be protruding outward.

Zhou Huan grabbed it and pulled hard. A long jet of blood spurted from the back of Dongzi’s neck. The spray stopped shortly after, and his expression slowly returned to normal, the sweat receding.

"Dongzi, what happened just now? What did you see?" Zhou Huan asked anxiously.

Dongzi let out a long breath: "I don't know. I just felt overwhelmingly tired, then suddenly my vision turned red, and everything was blood—that sign seemed to be the source of the bleeding."

At that moment, when Zhou Huan looked up at the moon again, its color was inexplicably white. This sent a jolt through Zhou Huan's heart. What a group of Japanese embalmers; their illusions were executed with such precision that even Zhou Huan had been fooled.

The group quickly removed the sign at the entrance and buried it in a haystack. Afterward, Zhou Huan stated, "Let's go in. They must have used Dongzi’s blood just now to manipulate the moon. This so-called Crimson Moon—it’s the 'Tail of the Crimson Moon.' These bastards are playing parlor tricks."

As he spoke, Zhou Huan and his companions silently entered the most prominent building on the farm: a distinctive two-story cottage, an American structure with a simple pastoral aesthetic that caught Zhou Huan's eye.

"Excellent, the illusion here is too convincing. Gentlemen, you go first; you're more familiar with this environment," Zhou Huan instructed the detectives to lead the way into the second floor.

Zhou Huan looked back. The entire farm seemed abandoned. No crops were planted, despite it being a season when harvest should be due. Instead, it was filled with desiccated weeds and gnarled fruit trees—a complete absence of life. Had no one ever lived here?

"Master Zhou, let's go. This was the reporter's former residence. We should be able to find traces of them or some information here," one of the detectives called out to Zhou Huan from inside.

Zhou Huan answered, turned, and followed them upstairs. Pushing open the heavy wooden door, the light of an oil lamp illuminated the entire room. Portraits hung on the wall, but it was a pile of equipment in the corner that immediately captured Zhou Huan's attention.