Tic. Tic. Tic. The footsteps echoed through the narrow, dim corridor, resonating quietly and fading into the stillness, with no other sounds. Cain stood straight, moving steadily beside the middle-aged priest, neither asking questions nor engaging in conversation, calm as still water under a windless sky. Passing through a guarded passage, the priest used a key to open a secret door and pointed down to a stone staircase: "The Cross Road lies to the left, leading to the Charnes Gate." "May the goddess protect you," Cain said, tapping four times on his chest, forming the shape of the crimson moon. Secular customs follow secular rituals; religious observances follow their own rites. "Hail the goddess," the middle-aged priest replied, performing the same gesture. Cain said nothing further, stepping steadily down the stone stairs, guided by the elegant gas lamps embedded in the walls on either side, moving deeper into the darkness. Halfway through, he instinctively turned around and saw the middle-aged pastor still standing at the door, at the top of the steps, in the shadow of the gaslight, as if a life-sized wax figure frozen in place. Cain turned his gaze back and continued down, soon reaching the cold stone floor, and eventually arriving at the intersection. He didn’t head toward "Charnes Gate," since the one who had just finished his shift, Dunn Smith, would surely not be there. Following the familiar path on the right, Cain ascended another set of stairs and entered the premises of "Black Thorns Security Company." Noticing that the office doors were either closed or half-open, he didn’t rush to search but instead entered the reception area, where a brown-haired girl with a warm smile was intently reading a magazine. "Hi, Rosan," Cain said, approaching from the side and deliberately tapping the table lightly. Clang! Rosan leapt up, knocking over her chair, and hurriedly said, "Hi! The weather’s lovely today. You—you, Cain, how did you happen to come here?" She rested her hand on her chest, drawing two deep breaths, as if afraid her father would catch her napping. "I have something to talk to the captain about," said Caine briefly. "...Phew, I was really startled. I thought the captain had just come out. Didn't even knock! Hmph—thank goodness I'm a patient, kind woman, though I'd rather use the word 'lady'... What is it you need? He's in the room opposite Mrs. Oliviana." Even under the strain of tension, Caine was warmed by Rosan's energy and managed a smile, pausing to say, "A secret." Rosan's eyes widened in disbelief, and Caine bowed slightly before quickly departing. He passed through the partition door of the reception area and knocked on the door of the first office on his right. "Please come in," a calm, gentle voice responded. Klein stepped inside, closed the door behind him, and removed his hat with a bow: 【As I write this, I hope the readers take note of our domain, 101kan.com】 "Good morning, Captain." "Good morning. Is there anything I can assist you with?" Dunn's black windbreaker and hat were hanging on the nearby coat rack, revealing only a white shirt and black vest. Despite a slightly elevated hairline and deep gray eyes, he looked fresh and well-presented. "There's someone following me," Klein replied plainly, with no embellishment. Dunn leaned back slightly, crossed his arms, and gazed steadily into Klein's eyes. He didn't immediately address the issue of being followed, but instead asked: "Did you come from the church?" "Yes," Klein confirmed. Dunn nodded slightly, neither expressing approval nor concern, then returned to the point: "It's possible that Welch's father doesn't believe the cause of death we've reported, so he's hired a private investigator from Wind City to investigate." "Constan, the city of Jianhai, is known as the City of Winds. It is a region of exceptional development in coal and steel industries and ranks among the top three cities in the Kingdom of Roon. Before Kline could speak, Dune continued: 'It might have originated from that very notebook—ah, we're currently investigating where Waverly obtained the Antigonus family's notes. Of course, it's not out of the question that other individuals or organizations might also be pursuing this notebook.'" "What should I do?" Kline asked in a steady tone. Undoubtedly, he hoped it would be the first reason. Dune didn't immediately respond. He lifted his coffee cup, took a slow sip, and with his gray eyes unchanged, said: "Return along the path we've taken so far, and then do whatever you wish." "Whatever?" Kline asked. "Whatever," Dune affirmed, "Of course, don't scare off the other party, nor violate the law." "Understood," Kline breathed, and then bowed, turning to leave the room and re-entering the underground level. He turned left at the intersection, walking quietly through the spacious, empty corridor bathed in the intermittent glow of gas lamps on either side. The rhythmic sound of his footsteps grew more distinct, amplifying both solitude and fear. Soon, he approached the stairs, ascending step by step, and spotted the middle-aged priest standing in the shadow, at the doorway. Neither spoke; the priest remained silent, then turned and made way. Moving silently through the hall, Klein reached the great chapel, where the pure light from the circular openings behind the arched altar remained unchanged, the room's quiet stillness and the steady queue of men and women waiting outside the confessional had not altered—only diminished in number. After a while, he took his cane and newspaper, as if nothing had happened at all, and slowly left the great chapel, and the Church of Saint Celine. As soon as he stepped outside and saw the bright sun, he immediately felt the familiar sensation of being watched—like prey caught in the gaze of an eagle. In the span of a moment, a question arose in his mind: Why hadn't the "Observer" followed him into the church? Although in that case, he could still conceal his brief disappearance thanks to the dim lighting and the priest's assistance, wasn't it difficult for him to simply pretend to pray and stay under surveillance? Wasn't it perfectly legitimate to enter openly, doing nothing amiss? Unless he had a dark past—fearful of the church, of the bishop, aware that the other might possess extraordinary abilities... In that case, the private detective possibility seemed very, very low. Inhaling deeply, Kline relaxed, no longer as tense as before, and strolled leisurely toward the back, arriving at Zothlan Street. He stopped in front of a building with an old-fashioned style and weathered walls, bearing the address "3" and the name "Zothlan Shooting Club." Part of the police department's underground range was open to the public, serving as an additional source of revenue. As soon as Kline stepped inside, the feeling of being watched vanished. Seizing the opportunity, he handed the receptionist the badge from the Special Operations Department. After a brief verification, he was guided underground to a sealed small shooting range. "Ten-meter target," Kline simply instructed the receptionist, then removed his revolver from beneath his arm and took out the box of bronze-colored cartridges from his pocket. Suddenly being noticed, the desire to protect himself overcame his procrastination, so he eagerly came to practice shooting. Click! After the receptionist had left, Kline spun the cylinder, withdrawing one by one the silver magical cartridges, then picked up the ordinary bronze cartridges and carefully inserted them one by one into the chamber. This time, he didn’t leave any room for accidental triggers, nor did he remove his formal jacket or take off his half-high hat—instead, he practiced in his most ordinary attire, since it would be impossible to shout, “Please pause a moment, while I change into something lighter” when confronted by enemies or danger. Click! Cain closed the revolver and slid his thumb along the cylinder. Suddenly, he raised both hands to grip the gun, straightening it with force, aiming squarely at the target ten meters away. Yet he didn’t immediately fire. Instead, he carefully recalled his experiences during military training—missed shots, the principle of alignment, the recoil upon firing. Swish! Swish! With each movement, the fabric of his clothes rustled as Cain repeatedly practiced aiming and maintaining a steady grip, serious and focused—like a student preparing for his college entrance exams. After repeating this several times, he stepped back to the wall, sat down on the soft, long bench, set the revolver aside, and began massaging his arms, resting for a while. Spent a few minutes recalling what had just happened, Caine picked up the wooden grip and copper-toned rotating cylinder pistol, moved into position, assumed the standard stance, and pulled the trigger. *Bang!* His arm trembled slightly, his body leaned back a bit, and the bullet missed the target. *Bang!* *Bang!* *Bang!* Drawing on experience, he fired one shot at a time, experimenting through practice until all six bullets were expended. The target was now being approached... Caine stepped back and sat down again, taking two deep breaths. *Clack!* He released the cylinder, letting the six spent casings land with a soft tap, then continued, expression unchanged, inserting one by one the remaining brass cartridges. Relaxing his arms, Caine rose again, stepped into position, and began summarizing as he went. *Bang!* *Bang!* *Bang!* The sounds of gunfire echoed, the target swayed, and Caine practiced, rested, and repeated—until all thirty standard cartridges he had received and the five remaining ones were fully expended. Gradually, his shots became steady, and he began striving for consistent ring scores. Shaking off the aching arms, he poured out the last five cartridges, lowered his head, and carefully inserted each silver, intricately patterned hunter's bullet one by one, setting aside a spot for accidental discharge. With the revolver now tucked into his armpit holster, Caine brushed off the smoke and dust from his clothes, stepped out of the dedicated range, and onto the street. The feeling of being observed returned, but this time he was calmer than before. He walked slowly toward Champagne Street, paid four pence for a streetcar ride back to the Iron Cross District, and entered his apartment building. The sense of being watched faded silently. He produced his key, opened the door, and found a man in his thirties—wearing a linen shirt and with a short haircut—seated at the desk. His heart tightened slightly, then eased. Caine smiled and greeted, "Good morning, no—good afternoon, Benson." "This man is their brother, Benson Moretti, just 25 years old, but with a receding hairline and a more mature appearance—seems like he's close to thirty. He has dark hair and brown eyes, somewhat resembling Caine, though lacking that subtle scholarly air. 'Good afternoon, Caine,' Benson stood up, a warm smile playing at his lips. His black coat and half-high hat were hung on the projecting part of the high bed. 'It was quite disappointing,' Caine replied, expressionless. Seeing Benson's expression of surprise, Caine smiled gently and added, 'In fact, I never attended the interview. I secured the position in advance—three pounds per week...' He repeated the words he had previously shared with Melissa. Benson's expression softened, and he shook his head with a smile. 'It feels like watching a child grow up... well, this job isn't bad at all.'" He sighed and said, "It's quite a pleasant surprise to hear such good news after all this traveling. We should celebrate tonight—how about some beef?" Klein smiled and replied, "That sounds good, though I suspect Melissa will be worried. Shall we go shopping together this afternoon? Let's bring at least three soules. Oh, honestly, at one pound to twenty soules, and one soule to twelve pence, plus half a pence, and even a quarter of a pence—this currency system is utterly counterintuitive and incredibly cumbersome. I truly believe it's one of the most illogical currency systems in the world." As he finished speaking, he noticed Benson's expression had instantly grown serious, which made him a little uneasy, wondering if he had said something wrong. Could it be that Benson, in the fragmented memories of the original owner, was a pure, uncompromising supporter of the kingdom, intolerant of any dissent? Benson took a few steps and replied seriously, "No—definitely not just one." "Not just one?" Klein paused, then quickly realized what it meant, and smiled at his brother. It's truly Benson's signature deadpan humor. With a smile playing at the corners of his mouth, he added seriously, "You should understand that to establish a sound and simple currency system, one essential premise is required—namely, the ability to count and grasp the decimal system. Unfortunately, among those distinguished figures, such talent is exceedingly rare."