He Became a Salted Fish After Inheriting Millions of Secret Arts

His eyes were closed, his body was bowed, his hands unconsciously clenched the sheets, his face was dripping with sweat, as if he had dreamed of some kind of terrifying scene.

"Xenophon!"

Still no response.

Someone is attacking Xenophon with occult techniques—this was Z's first thought.

He knows a lot of mental attack secrets, some of which can sneak into dreams while others are sleeping, take the opportunity to steal important information, or implant terrifying scenes, so as to destroy the target's spirit.

But most mystics will subconsciously protect their spirit, the more powerful the mystic, the stronger the protective barrier.

In the world, those who can destroy Xenophon's mental barrier and attack him mentally can be counted on one hand.

If Xenophon was attacked, what about the others?

Z quickly rushed to the next room.

The door was locked, but he didn't have time to ask the hotel owner for the key. He directly pierced the lock cylinder with a sword, pushed the door open and entered.

With such a big commotion, the young people in the room didn't even wake up. Sure enough, like Xenophon, he was attacked in the dream.

But why is it them and not yourself? Who would be so overwhelmed to pick the mystic out of the two night watchmen?

The mystical energy surging around became stronger and stronger, and an invisible storm swept across the entire space. Sometimes scorching hot, sometimes icy biting energy passed over his skin, stabbing him like sharp knives.

The young man lying on the bed groaned in pain.

Z couldn't bear it any longer, and immediately hugged the young man's body.

"Wake up." He whispered.

Then he fell down.