While speaking to himself, Azk unconsciously glanced at Quentin Coen, as if seeking a hint or inspiration. Coen, with sunken eyes and deep blue gaze, shook his head without hesitation. "I have absolutely no recollection." "Well, perhaps it's just a similarity in root words," Azk said, lowering his left hand and offering a self-deprecating smile. While slightly disappointed by the result, Kline couldn't help adding: "Professor, as you know, I have a strong interest in exploring and reconstructing the history of the Fourth Period. If either of you remembers anything or has any additional materials, could you please write me a letter?" "Certainly," Coen replied, the senior associate professor with silver hair now quite satisfied with Kline's performance. Azk nodded in agreement as well. "Is your address still the one we had before?" "For now, yes—though we're moving soon. I'll let you know when that happens," Kline answered with respectful tone. Senior Associate Coen gave a slight shake of his black cane and said, "Indeed, it's time for a better setting." At that moment, Cline glanced at the newspaper in Azk's hands and carefully remarked, "Advisor Azk, could you tell me what the newspaper says about Welch and Naya? I only had a few details from the police officers handling the investigation." Just as Azk was about to respond, Senior Associate Coen—whose wrinkles were still relatively few—suddenly reached down, following the golden chain on his black tailcoat, and produced a pocket watch. Click! He opened it and then gently tapped his cane forward. "The meeting is about to begin, Azk. We can't delay any longer—please hand the newspaper to Moretti." "Of course," Azk said, passing the now-flipped newspaper to Cline. "We should head upstairs. Don't forget to write us a letter. My address and Coen's haven't changed—still the History Department office at Hoy University. Ha!" With a smile, he turned and left the room together with Coen. Caine removed his hat, bowed, and watched the two gentlemen depart before turning to bid farewell to the office owner, Havens Stone. He then walked slowly down the corridor and stepped out of the gray three-story building's main door. With the sunlight streaming in, he raised his cane, unfolded the newspaper, and saw the headline read: "Tinggen Morning Chronicle." Tinggen had so many different newspapers and magazines! What a variety—there was the Morning Chronicle, the Evening Paper, the Honest Man's Paper, the Beckland Daily, the Tassock Gazette, the Home Magazine, the Story Review—just to name a few. As soon as Caine recalled them, several names came to mind. Of course, some were local, while others were distributed through the steam train network. In today's age of increasingly advanced industrial papermaking and printing, the price of a newspaper had dropped to just one penny, reaching a broader and ever-expanding readership. Klein didn't take the time to read the rest of the article and quickly located the report on the "Breaking-In Murder Case" in the "News Section." "…According to the police, Mr. Welch's home was left in a state of devastation, with all gold, jewelry, cash, and valuables—everything easily movable—stolen, down to the last copper penny. It is believed that the perpetrators were ruthless and violent, willing to kill any innocent person who happened to see them, such as Mr. Welch or Miss Naya." "This is a violation of the kingdom's laws! This is a direct challenge to public safety! No one wishes to experience something like this! On a positive note, however, the police have already identified the suspects and apprehended the principal offender. We will provide further updates shortly." "Reporter: John Browning." He had handled it with such grace and discretion… Klein walked along the tree-lined avenue, barely nodding, as if in quiet acknowledgment. He casually flipped through the newspaper, strolling while reading other news and serialized stories. Suddenly, every hair on his back stood up, as if countless fine needles had pricked him there. Someone was watching me? Observing me? Monitoring me? A series of thoughts arose spontaneously, and Klein suddenly gained a clear insight. On Earth, he had also once felt an invisible gaze, eventually tracing its source—but never before had his reaction been so sharp, his conclusion so definite! The same events from the fragments of the original owner's memory unfolded in precisely this way! Was it the journey itself, or that strange "transfer ritual," that had strengthened his "sixth sense"? Holding back the urge to search for the watcher, Klein slowly learned from novels, films, and television shows, came to a halt, folded the newspaper, and gazed toward the Hoy River. Then, he gradually turned his head, first glancing at the scenery around him, and finally naturally pivoted, taking in the full view of his surroundings. Besides the trees, the lawns, and the students passing by in the distance, there was no one else. Yet, Caine was certain someone was still watching him! This… Caine's heart raced, his blood surging in powerful, rhythmic pulses. He unfolded the newspaper, half-shielding his face, afraid someone might notice the strain on his expression. At the same time, he tightened his grip on the walking cane, ready to draw his gun. Step by step, he moved forward, just as he had before. The feeling of being observed and assessed remained, but no sudden threat materialized. After walking steadily through the shaded path, he reached the stop for the public carriage, to his relief finding one arriving precisely. "Iron… Zote… no, Champagne Street," Caine repeatedly rejected his own thoughts. He had originally intended to go straight home, but then feared that he might bring the observer—whose purpose and intentions were unknown—into the apartment. So he decided to head to Zoth Lane, to seek help from the "night watchmen" or his colleagues, only to worry that they might be startled by his initiative and thus expose him. In the end, he simply picked a random location. "Six pence," the attendant replied with familiarity. Crane had not taken any gold pounds with him today; he had left them in his usual place of storage, and had only taken two half-crowns in paper currency. He had spent the same amount on his previous visit, and now had exactly one half-crown and six pence remaining, so he removed all the coins and handed them to the attendant. Once aboard, he found a seat and settled in. As the door closed behind him, the sense of being watched finally faded away! He exhaled slowly, feeling his hands and feet trembling slightly. What should he do now? What should he do next? Crane gazed out the window of the carriage, striving to think of a course of action. Until the purpose of the observer is clear, assume malice! One thought after another surfaced, only to be dismissed one by one by Caine. Never having experienced anything like this before, it took him several minutes to find his footing. He must notify the "Night Watch," only they could truly resolve the issue! Yet he couldn't simply go there directly—doing so would reveal his intentions, perhaps even expose the very purpose the other side had in mind... With this line of reasoning, Caine hastily drafted one scheme after another, his thoughts gradually taking shape. Ah! He exhaled a steady breath, regaining his composure and now gazing steadily at the swiftly receding scenery outside the window. No incidents had occurred until the carriage reached the Châlons Street, but as soon as Caine stepped out and onto the pavement, that uneasy sensation of being watched and observed returned immediately! He feigned no awareness, took up the newspaper, held his cane, and strolled slowly toward the Zothlan Street. Yet, he did not enter the street but turned to the back, arriving at Red Moon Street, where there stood a lovely white square and a grand cathedral! The Saint Seraphina Cathedral! The headquarters of the Night Goddess Church in Tinggen! For a devoted believer to come on a rest day to attend Mass and pray was no unusual matter. The cathedral displayed a clear Earth-like Gothic style, overall in black, with a tall, weathered bell tower rising prominently on a massive central pier, set between the large checkerboard windows and piercing the sky. As Klein stepped into the cathedral and walked down the aisle toward the main chapel, narrow, tall windows adorned with delicate blue and red patterns allowed shafts of colored light to filter through—blue nearly black, red like moonlight—casting a particularly deep and shadowed atmosphere around the space. The sensation of being watched faded away, and Klein remained composed, neither joyful nor otherwise, steadily making his way to the open doors of the main chapel. There are no tall windows here; deep darkness is the protagonist. Yet on the wall directly facing the entrance behind the arched altar, a dozen or so circular openings—each the size of a human fist—extend outward, allowing a brilliant, pure radiance of sunlight to flood in, condensing and brightening the space. This is like a traveler walking through the night, suddenly lifting their gaze and seeing the stars, seeing one brilliant point after another—so exalted, so pure, so sacred. Even though he had always believed that the divine could be studied and understood, Caine could not help but lower his head. Amid the calm, gentle voice of the bishop, he walked quietly along the aisle separating the left and right pews, finding a spot near the entrance with no one else present, and settled slowly into his seat. Leaning his staff against the back of the chair ahead, Caine removed his hat and placed it, along with the newspaper, on his thigh. Then, he folded his hands over his lowered forehead. The entire process unfolded slowly and deliberately, as though he were truly praying. Klein closed his eyes and quietly listened to the bishop's voice in the darkness: "They are naked, with neither clothing nor food, exposed and unprotected in the cold." "They are drenched by the rain, clinging tightly to the stones because there is no place to seek shelter." "They are mothers whose children have been taken away, orphans who have lost hope, the poor who have been driven from the path they once knew." "Night has not abandoned them; it has shown them kindness." ... (Note 1) The echoes piled upon one another, resonant and clear, filling Klein's mind. His vision remained dark, as though his soul had been cleansed. He calmly absorbed these words until the bishop finished his sermon and concluded the Mass. The bishop then opened the door to the adjacent confessional room, where one by one, gentlemen and ladies began to form a line. Klein opened his eyes, donned his hat, took up his cane and newspaper, and joined the line, moving with quiet order. Twenty minutes passed, and finally, it was his turn. Stepping in, he closed the door with a hand motion. Darkness fell once more before Klein's eyes. "Child, what would you like to say?" the bishop's voice came from behind the wooden partition. Klein pulled out the badge of the "Seventh Group, Special Operations Department" from his pocket and passed it through the gap to the bishop. "Someone has been following me. I'd like to see Dunne Smith." His tone, seemingly softened by the surrounding darkness, grew gentle. The bishop took the badge, paused for a few seconds, then said: "Go to the door of the confessional and turn right. At the end, there's a hidden door. Someone will guide you once you enter." As he spoke, he pulled a cord inside the room, and the sound of the bell rang out, heard by a priest. Klein retrieved his badge, removed his hat, placed it gently upon his chest, bowed slightly, and then turned to face the door, stepping out. After the sensation of being watched had faded, he once again donned his black half-crown hat, holding his cane with a composed expression, and walked steadily to the right, eventually reaching the arched altar. On the side wall facing him, he discovered a hidden door, opened it silently, and stepped inside. The door closed gently, and a middle-aged man in a black priest's robe appeared under the glow of the gas lamps, coming into view in Caine's eyes. "What is it?" the man asked briefly. Caine produced his badge and repeated the words he had just spoken to the bishop. The man made no further inquiries, turned around, and walked silently. Caine nodded, adjusted his hat, and held his black cane, moving quietly behind him. Rosan had said that, at the intersection leading to the "Charnis Gate," turning left would bring one to the Church of Saint Serenina.