"Very well," Caine bowed slightly, removing his modest hat and then repositioning it upon his head, while in his mind he imagined the appearance of the seal, "0–08." Was it just an ordinary quill pen? Did it require no ink to write? Then what was its true function—so significant that it had to be kept highly confidential, even considered "extremely dangerous"? Could it be a pen whose mere writing caused the death of whoever it wrote about? Not quite—such a phenomenon would be extraordinary; then why would Insinger Zangwelle need to flee? As Caine turned to leave, Dunning Smith suddenly called him back. "Wait a moment—I've forgotten something." "What is it?" Caine turned, his expression full of curiosity. Dunning placed his watch down and smiled. "Just remember to go find Mrs. Oliviana, the accountant, and pre-arrange for four weeks' salary—twelve pounds. After that, you'll receive only half your weekly salary until the balance is fully repaid." "That's quite a lot," Caine said instinctively, "there's no real necessity for this." Regarding the advance, he wasn't opposed—after all, he didn't even have funds for the return omnibus fare. But the thought of receiving a lump sum of twelve pounds still made him feel uneasy. "No, this is absolutely necessary," Dunning shook his head and smiled. "Think about it: are you really willing to continue living in your current apartment? You'd have to share bathrooms with several other households. You can't just think about yourself—you have to consider the ladies as well, and moreover..." Seeing that Caine nodded in agreement, he paused, smiled, and glanced appreciatively at his attire before adding with quiet emphasis: "And you'll also need a cane, and you'll have to purchase new formal wear." Caine froze for a moment, then suddenly realized—his cheeks flushed slightly, for the outfit he was wearing was quite modest. Typically, a hat is made of silk, costing between five and six souls, a necktie three souls, a silver-handled cane seven to eight souls, a shirt three souls, and trousers, vest, and morning coat amounting to about seven pounds. Boots cost nine to ten souls, bringing the total to over eight pounds seven souls. Of course, a well-dressed gentleman would also need a watch chain, a pocket watch, and a leather wallet. The original owner and his brother Bensun had saved diligently, only to go to a haberdasher's and, upon hearing the prices, be so intimidated that they could not even offer a discount—thus settling for a modest set at a nearby budget store, each purchasing one, totaling less than two pounds. This experience left a deep impression on the original owner. "Very well, very well," Crane replied, slightly stammering. Like the original owner, he too was a man of principle. Dunne then produced his watch, opened it, and glanced at the time. "Or perhaps you might go first to Mrs. Oliviana?" I don't know how long you'll be staying at Neil's, but just wait a moment—Mrs. Oliviana is about to head home. "Alright," said Caine, clearly feeling financially strained, without offering any objection. Dunn returned to the table and pulled one of the dangling ropes: "I'll have Rosan take you." As the rope moved and the gears turned, Rosan in the reception area of Blackthorn Security heard the soft chime from the pendant hanging nearby and promptly rose, stepping down the stairs with care. Not long after, she appeared before Caine. Dunn smiled with a touch of humor. "Didn't disturb your rest, did it? Well, then, take Moretti to Mrs. Oliviana." Rosan gave a quiet, slightly dismissive nod. "Understood, Captain." "Is that all?" Caine was now surprised, speaking out of turn. To draw funds from the Finance department, don't you need a signed note or some form of approval from the Captain? "So?" Dunn asked, puzzled. "By the way, when we go to Mrs. Oliviana to draw advance pay, do we need your signature?" Caine said in as plain a manner as possible. "Oh, no—we don't. Rosan can attest to that," replied Dunn Smith, pointing to the brunette girl. "The financial management here," Caine said, suppressing his urge to comment, "really doesn't manage much at all." He turned with Rosan and walked out of the room. Just then, he heard Dunn call again: "Wait a moment—there's one more thing." Shall we get all this out at once?" Caine said with a warm smile, turning back. "Go on," he replied. Dunn pressed his temple lightly. "Remember to pick up ten 'dragon-hunting cartridges' when you visit Old Neil." "Me? Dragon-hunting cartridges?" Caine asked, surprised. "Welch's revolver isn't still at your place? Then you don't need to return it." "Ennis reached into his pocket with one hand and said, 'With the "Hunter's Bullet" at your side, you'll be able to protect yourself even in the face of unusual dangers—well, at least that should give you some courage.'" Clayne, who was worried about this very point, responded without hesitation: "Good, I'll remember that!" "That will require me to draft an official document. Please wait a moment." Ennis Smith sat down, picked up a dark red absorbent pen, and quickly wrote a note, signed it, and sealed it with a stamp. "Thank you, Captain," Clayne said sincerely, taking it with a respectful gesture. He then stepped back slowly and turned around again. "Wait," Ennis called out once more. "Captain, you look only in your thirties—how come you seem so prematurely aged?" Clayne managed a smile and turned to ask. "Is there anything else?" "I just realized—I didn't mention that you haven't practiced shooting. With the 'Demon Hunter' bullets, you won't be much use. So from now on, you'll receive thirty regular bullets every day. Take advantage of your outings and go to the underground range on Zothlan Street No. 3. Most of it is managed by the police, but there's a section reserved for us, the Night Watchers. Oh, and you'll also need to get a badge from Old Neil—otherwise, you won't be allowed entry." Dunning tapped his forehead, took back the slip from Cline, quickly added a few more details, and affixed a stamp. "Good marksmen are made not just by talent, but by practice—don't underestimate that." He handed the revised slip back to Cline. "I understand." Cline, ever cautious about danger, was eager to go today. He took a couple of steps outward, then hesitated, half-turning to face the captain carefully: "Captain, is there nothing else?" "That's all," Dunning confirmed, giving a firm nod. Klein took a deep breath and walked all the way to the door, longing to turn around once more and ask, "Is it really nothing at all?" He held back this impulse and finally "smoothly" left the watchroom. "Captain is always like this—he tends to forget things," Rosan murmured beside him, quietly criticizing, "My grandmother remembers better than him, of course, though he only forgets little things, you know, little things. By the way, from now on, call me Klein. Mrs. Oliviana is a kind person, easy to get along with; her father was a watchmaker, and he had a wonderful craft..." Listening to the brown-haired girl's flowing chatter, Klein stepped onto the stairs and made his way up to the upper floor, where he found Mrs. Oliviana in the office at the farthest corner on the right. She was a black-haired woman in a long skirt with ruffled edges, appearing in her thirties with stylish curls. Her eyes, a clear, bright green, sparkled with a gentle smile—elegant and refined. After hearing Rosan relay Duke Smith's arrangements, Oliviana pulled out a notepad and prepared a prepayment slip: "Sign here. Do you have a seal? If not, just press your handprint." "Of course," Cline smoothly completed the formalities. Oliviana produced a copper key, opened the safe in the room, counted the gold pounds while smiling and remarked, "You're truly fortunate today—there's sufficient cash on hand. By the way, Cline, were you specifically invited by the captain because of your involvement in supernatural incidents and your particular expertise?" "Yes, your intuition is spot on," Cline warmly acknowledged. Oliviana then took out four banknotes with a light gray background and deep black patterns, relocked the safe, turned around, and smiled, "Because I'm just like that too." "Really?" Cline expressed appropriate surprise. "Do you know about the serial killer who made headlines across the entire Tinggen city sixteen years ago?" Oliviana handed the four gold pounds to Cline. "...Remember? The 'Bloody Slaughterer' who killed five young girls—some with their hearts, others with their stomachs? My mother used to scare my sister with this story whenever I was young." Caine paused slightly before adding. He took the banknotes and noticed they were two £5 and two £1 notes, both with gray backgrounds and black patterns, featuring intricate designs and special watermark security features. The £5 notes were slightly larger, with the central figure being Henry Augustus I, the direct ancestor of King George III of the Kingdom of Roon. He wore a white hairband, had a round face, long narrow eyes, and a particularly serious expression—yet to Caine, there was an unmistakable sense of familiarity. That was a £5 note! Equivalent to nearly four weeks' salary at Bensin's! The £1 notes bore the image of King George III's father, the former monarch William Augustus VI, the 'Stalwart.' Known for his thick beard and resolute gaze, he led the Kingdom of Roon through a period of transformation, shedding old constraints and restoring its position at the forefront among the nations. All of this is due to the "good king"... Klein faintly detected the refreshing scent of fresh banknote ink. "Yes, if it hadn't been for the night watchmen arriving in time, I would have been the sixth victim," Mrs. Oliviana said, still carrying a hint of lingering apprehension, even though the incident had passed over a dozen years ago. "Sounds like that serial killer—no, that butcher—is a remarkable one?" Klein carefully folded the bills and placed them into the inner pocket of his suit, then ran his fingers along the nearby folds to confirm. "Yes," Mrs. Oliviana nodded seriously, "he had killed many others before; he was only caught because he was preparing a demon's ritual." "That explains the different organs... I'm sorry, madam, for making you recall unpleasant memories." Klein said with genuine sincerity. Olivia smiled lightly. "I've never been afraid since then... I studied accounting at a business school, and then I came here. Well, I won't keep you any longer—you still need to find old Neil." "Goodbye, madam," said Crane, removed his hat, and stepped out of the office. As he was about to descend the stairs, he paused once more, feeling the inner pocket of his coat to confirm that the twelve-pound note was still there. Just now, Rosan came by to say you're very polite. "Miss Rosan is indeed a kind and pleasant person. Good afternoon, Mr. Neil." Cline bowed slightly. "Please sit down." Neil indicated the intricately patterned silver-plated tin pot on the table. "Would you like a cup of freshly ground coffee?" His eyes and the lines around his mouth were deep, and his dark red gaze slightly hazy. "You haven't had any coffee, have you?" Cline noticed that Neil's ceramic cup was filled with plain water. "Ah, yes—that's my habit. I don't drink coffee after three o'clock in the afternoon." Neil smiled and explained. "Why?" Cline asked casually. Neil smiled and looked steadily into Cline's eyes. "I'm afraid that if I don't sleep well at night, I'll hear some strange, murmuring voices that seem to exist all around me." ...Cline found himself at a loss for words and instead asked, "Mr. Neil, which texts and works should I read?" As he spoke, he produced the note written by Dunn-Smith. "Things related to history—complex, fragmented, honestly, I've been trying to learn them, but I only grasp the basics. The rest is too cumbersome—what about people's diaries, popular books, epitaphs, and so on, and so on." Neil complained. "For instance, the materials I currently have in my hands require more detailed historical records to infer the specific content." "Why?" Klein listened, slightly puzzled. Neil pointed to several yellowed pages before him. "These are the diary entries of Roxel. Gustave, lost just before his death. To keep them confidential, he recorded everything using strange symbols he invented himself." Roxel the Great? A predecessor from the time-traveling era? Klein was momentarily stunned, then focused intently. "Many people believe he didn't actually die but instead became a hidden deity. As a result, there are always devoted sects worshipping him, conducting various rituals in an attempt to gain power. We occasionally encounter such cases and end up acquiring a few original notes or copies of them." "Neil shook his head, saying, "To date, no one has fully deciphered the true meaning of those special symbols, so the 'Sanctum' has allowed us to retain copies for further study, hoping for an unexpected breakthrough." With that, Neil beamed with pride: "I've already interpreted several of the symbols—confirming they represent numerical values. Look, I've discovered something remarkable—this is actually a diary! I intend to compare the historical events of different dates, especially those involving the emperor, with the entries recorded on the corresponding days in the diary, in order to decode more symbols." "A brilliant idea, isn't it?" the elderly gentleman with silver hair and deep wrinkles brightened his gaze toward Caine. Caine nodded in agreement: "Yes." "Haha, you'll also have to start working on this right away—tomorrow, I'll need your help with it." Neil gently pushed the yellowed pages toward Caine. Klein promoted them instantly—just a quick glance—and then stood there, stunned! Although the "symbols" had been copied with a somewhat clumsy and slightly distorted appearance, he would never have mistaken them. After all, they were the most familiar script to him: Chinese! Specifically, simplified Chinese!