Phew, finally passed the spirit-medium's test... Caine exhaled a steady stream of breath, slowly turned around, and strolled toward the apartment door, savoring the quiet of the night and the refreshing breeze. He pulled out his key, inserted it, and gently turned it, allowing the deep black, tinged with crimson, to spread as the soft creaking sound resonated. Walking through the empty hallway, breathing in the crisp air, Caine unexpectedly felt as though he had an extra few hours of life—something magical—making his steps light and brisk. With a soft click, he maintained this same mindset and opened the door to his apartment. Yet, before he could take a single step inside, he noticed a figure sitting quietly in the darkness before his desk—dark hair glowing with a deep red hue, brown eyes bright, and a refined, delicate face—clearly none other than Melissa Moretti! "Where have you been, Caine?" Melissa smiled, her brows relaxing as she asked with mild curiosity. Before Klein could respond, she added another point, as if determined to make clear the entire sequence of events and the logical connections: "I got up earlier to use the bathroom and found you weren't at home." Klein, with extensive experience in deceiving parents, quickly thought through his response and smiled calmly: "After I woke up once, I found it hard to fall back asleep. So I decided it would be better to use the time to get some exercise rather than waste it. I went for a few laps around the neighborhood—look, I'm all sweaty." He removed his coat, slightly turned his body, and pointed to his back. Melissa stood up, glanced at him with mild indifference, and after pausing for a few seconds said: "Klein, actually, you don't need to feel under too much pressure. You're certain to pass the interview at Tingg University. Even if you don't, I mean, if you don't, you'll still find something better." I hadn't even considered the interview at all... Klein nodded: "I understand." He hadn’t said he’d already received an "offer," since he hadn’t quite decided whether to go. Melissa stared at him intently, then suddenly turned and jogged into the inner room, coming out with a turtle-shaped object assembled from gears, rusted iron, springs, and a winding mechanism. She quickly tightened the winding mechanism and placed it on the desk. Click-click-click, tap-tap-tap—the "turtle" moved and stepped with a steady rhythm, drawing one’s attention effortlessly to it. "When you feel stressed, just watch it move like this—it really helps ease the discomfort. I’ve been doing this regularly lately, and it’s been very effective! Try it, Klein," Melissa invited brightly. Klein didn’t hesitate to accept his sister’s suggestion. He leaned in to watch the "turtle" until it stopped, then smiled. "Simplicity and routine truly bring a sense of calm," he said. Before Melissa could speak further, he pointed at the turtle and casually asked, "Did you make it yourself? When did you make it?" "How come I didn't know?" "I made it using materials the school didn't want and things I picked up along the way—just finished two days ago," Melissa said calmly, with a slight upward curve to her lips. "Really impressive," Clain sincerely remarked. As a boy who had always struggled with hands-on mechanical work, he had once fought to the point of exhaustion just to assemble a four-wheel-drive car. Melissa slightly lifted her chin, her eyes gently curved, and responded in a quiet, even tone: "Thank you, that's quite good." "Excessive humility is a sign of poor character," Clain chuckled lightly. "Is this a turtle?" The atmosphere in the room suddenly grew still. Melissa's voice rose softly, like that of a faint, crimson silk curtain: "It's a doll." A doll... Clain felt a moment of awkwardness and quickly explained: "Definitely a materials issue—still rather simple." Then he changed the subject: "How come you go to the bathroom at night? There's a toilet there, right? And don't you usually sleep through the night?" Melissa froze instantly, and only after a few seconds did she open her mouth to explain. At that moment, a loud, gurgling sound erupted from her chest and abdomen. "I—I'd like to go back to sleep!" With a sudden motion, she grabbed the turtle-shaped doll, dashed back to the inner room, and closed the door behind her. ...Yesterday's dinner had been too excellent; she had eaten too much, and her digestive system wasn't used to it. Klein shook his head, smiled slightly, and then walked slowly to the desk, sitting silently in the chair. As the crimson moon emerged from behind the clouds, he settled into quiet contemplation of Dean Smith's invitation. As a clerical staff member of the Watchers' team, the drawbacks are quite evident: as a traveler and the initiator of the mysterious gatherings—the "Fool"—I carry numerous secrets. Remaining under the constant watch of the Night Goddess' Church, which specializes in handling extraordinary events, presents significant risks. Once I join Dunning Smith and his group, my primary goal will inevitably shift toward becoming an extraordinary being, thus masking the benefits I gain from the gatherings. As a formal member, my freedom will inevitably be restricted—much like clerks at Tinggen who must file reports before leaving the city—limiting my ability to go where I please or pursue what interests me, and thereby missing out on many opportunities. The Watchers are a tightly structured organization: once assigned a task, one must wait for instructions and accept orders, unable to refuse. There is a risk of losing control as an extraordinary being. … The morning light illuminated, fading the deep red, and gazing at the golden hue of the horizon, Caine made up his mind. Today, he would go find Dunning Smith and become a clerical staff member of the Night Watch! “Did you sleep?” Melissa rose again, pushed open the door, and was surprised to see her brother lazily stretching like a man who hadn’t cared for his appearance at all. “I’ve been thinking about things,” Caine smiled, radiating ease. Melissa paused thoughtfully. “When I face difficulties, I list out the pros and cons one by one. After that, I compare them and gain a clear sense of what I should do—what I call a ‘hint.’” “That’s a good habit—I do the same,” Caine replied with a smile. Melissa looked relaxed, said no more, and took her yellowed, large sheet of paper along with her toiletries to the communal bathroom. After breakfast and once her sister had left, Caine didn’t rush to go out. He enjoyed a pleasant nap, knowing from his experience that most taverns remained closed in the morning. At two in the afternoon, he smoothed out the creases and wiped away the dirt on his hat with a small brush and a handkerchief, restoring it to neatness, then stepped out in full business attire, as if heading for an interview. Bessik Street was a bit distant, and fearing he might miss the night watchmen's "start time," he didn't walk there but waited at the intersection of the Iron Cross Street for a public horse carriage to arrive. In the Kingdom of Roon, public horse carriages come in two types: unguided and guided. The unguided ones are drawn by two horses, with seating capacity of about twenty people when including the top deck, offering only general routes without specific stops, operating flexibly and on-demand, unless full. The guided carriages are operated by the track carriage company, which first installs a track-like structure on major streets, with horses walking along the inner side and wheels rolling on the track, enabling a more comfortable and efficient ride that can carry larger double-decker carriages for nearly fifty passengers. The only drawback is that their routes and stops are fixed, making it difficult to reach many areas, and thus more rigid. After a few minutes, the sound of wheels hitting the tracks grew louder and closer, and a double-decker carriage stopped at the station in front of the Iron Cross Street. "Head to Besik Street," said Crane to the driver. "You'll have to take a detour to Champagne Street, though—once you get there, it will only take about ten minutes to reach Besik Street," explained the driver. "Then let's go to Champagne Street," Crane nodded in agreement. "Over four kilometers, four farthings," said a young man with a pale face, extending his hand. He was the attendant responsible for collecting fares. "Thank you," Crane pulled out four copper farthings from his pocket and handed them over. He boarded the carriage and noticed that the number of passengers was not large—there were still several empty seats even on the first level. "Only three farthings left now—I'll have to walk back," Crane adjusted his hat and settled comfortably into his seat. The gentlemen and ladies on this level were mostly dressed in formal attire, seated upright, while others wore work clothes or casually read newspapers. Yet, there was remarkably little conversation—everyone remained quite quiet. Klein closed his eyes, gathering strength and focus, paying no attention to the passengers coming and going around him. Station after station, he finally heard the words "Champagne Street." Getting off the carriage and asking the way, he soon arrived at Bessik Street and spotted the tavern marked with the brown-and-yellow hound emblem. Klein extended his right hand and pushed firmly; the heavy door opened slowly, and the clamor and bustling heat surged in. Though it was still afternoon, the tavern was already filled with customers—some temporary workers searching for work and waiting to be hired, others simply idle, using alcohol to dull their senses. The interior was dimly lit, with two large iron cages standing at the center, extending one-third into the ground with no gaps. People held wooden wine glasses, gathered around them, occasionally speaking loudly or laughing and cursing. Klein glanced in and noticed two dogs inside—one with a mix of black and white fur, resembling Earth's huskies, and the other entirely black, with a lustrous, sleek coat, strong and fierce. "Willing to place a bet?" said a short man wearing a brown soft hat, pointing at the black dog. "Doug has won eight matches in a row now!" "Moreover, last year a law was passed banning all these things," he murmured softly. "What are you betting on?" Kline asked, now curious. "Who will be the better 'hunter'." The short man had just said this, and immediately the crowd erupted into excitement. He turned to glance at them, then waved excitedly, saying, "The game has begun—no more bets now. Wait for the next round." Kline nodded, lifted his feet slightly, and raised his head, gazing intently. He saw two sturdy men each dragging a sack to the iron cage, opening the gate, and pouring the contents inside. It was a collection of gray, repulsive creatures! Kline examined closely and realized they were mice—dozens, even hundreds of them! Since the cage was set deep into the ground with no gaps, the mice scrambled about but could not escape. At that moment, as the gate closed, the iron chains of the two dogs were released. "Wang!" The black dog charged in and snapped the mouse dead. The black-and-white dog first looked utterly bewildered, then excitedly played with the mice. The onlookers either held their wine glasses, intently watching, or shouted: "Kill it! Crush it!" "Doug! Doug!" ...God, what a dog catching mice...克莱恩 suddenly realized, his mouth twitching with amusement. The betting here was on which dog caught more mice—perhaps even on the exact number of mice each dog caught. That explained why people on the Iron Cross Street had been consistently buying live mice. Truly distinctive.克莱恩 shook his head, chuckling, and stepped back, weaving through the crowd of wine-drinkers, making his way to the bar. "A new face?" the bartender glanced up as he wiped a glass, "Black malt beer for one penny, Enmat beer for two, South Wiltshire beer for four, or would you like a pure malt ale?" "I'm looking for Mr. Littler." "Klein spoke directly. The bartender blew a whistle and called out to the side: "Old man, someone's looking for you." "Hmm, who now?" A muffled voice emerged, and an elderly man, slightly tipsy, rose from behind the bar. He rubbed his eyes and looked at Klein. "Young man, is that you?" "Mr. Laiter, I'd like to hire a small mercenary unit for a mission," Klein replied, as instructed by Dunn. "A mercenary unit? Are you living in adventure stories? That's long gone!" the bartender interjected, chuckling. Laiter paused for a few seconds, then asked, "Who told you to come here?" "Dunn, Dunn Smith," Klein answered truthfully. Laiter burst into laughter. "Ah, now I see—it's true that mercenary units still exist, just under a different form, a name more fitting for today's society. You can find one at 36 Zothlan Street, on the second floor." "Thank you." "Thank you sincerely," Klein said, and turned to head out of the bar. As he was about to leave, the group of patrons gathered around him suddenly fell silent, leaving only a soft murmur: "Doug actually lost..." "Lost..." Klein chuckled, shook his head, and hurried off, asking the way to the nearby Zothlan Street. "30, 32, 34... here." He counted the door numbers, and stepped into the stairwell. Turning the corner and ascending floor by floor, he saw the vertical sign, and spotted the current name of the mercenary unit: "Black Thorns Security Company."