Thump! Thump! Thump! Clen's heart suddenly began to beat vigorously, contracting into a tight cluster and then forcefully expanding, causing his entire body to tremble slightly. For a brief moment, he almost forgot what he was supposed to do, what he should do—until the intruder paused, slightly tilted his head, as if hearing a subtle change. Blood returning to his brain, Clen regained basic awareness and reached down to the pillow, grasping the wooden stock of his revolver. The firm, smooth texture brought him immediate calm. With a steady, quiet motion, he drew the pistol and aimed it at the intruder's head. Honestly, he had no confidence in his ability to hit the intruder. Though he had previously managed to consistently hit the target, the difference between a moving person and a stationary target was significant—he hadn't yet become so overconfident as to blur the two. Yet he vaguely remembered a phrase from his previous life, roughly meaning that a nuclear missile's greatest power exists only before it is launched. In this very situation and under these circumstances, the principle holds true: the strongest deterrent lies precisely before the bullet is fired! If he doesn't pull the trigger and doesn't act impulsively, the other party won't be certain he's a novice, and will likely miss him. He will worry, he will fear, he will hesitate, and will impose constraints upon himself. Suddenly, a cascade of thoughts surged through him, giving Cléen immediate clarity. He wasn't someone who grew calmer under pressure—he had long anticipated being observed, and had already envisioned a strategy centered on intimidation rather than direct attack. There's a Chinese idiom among the nation's culinary enthusiasts: "Be well-prepared, and you'll never suffer from worries." When Cléen's gun aimed directly at the intruder, the slender man instantly froze, as though sensing something. Then, he heard a voice laced with a gentle smile: "Good evening, sir." The slender man's hands gently closed around them, his body subtly tensed. Caine sat on the lower berth, aiming his gun at the man's head, speaking with as relaxed and natural a tone as possible: "Please raise your hands and turn your body slowly. Honestly, I'm quite timid and easily nervous. If you move too quickly, I might get startled—there's no guarantee I won't accidentally fire. Yes, exactly like that." The man raised his hands halfway, hovering beside his head, and slowly turned his body. What first caught Caine's eye was the neatly buttoned black tailored shirt, followed by two thick, sharp brown-yellow brows. Caine didn't see any fear in the man's blue eyes; instead, he felt as though he were being watched by a fierce, wild beast—one that might pounce at the slightest misstep and tear him apart. He tightened his grip on the gun handle, striving to keep his expression calm and composed. Only when the slender man had fully aligned himself with the doorway did he lift his chin, gently pointing toward the entrance and saying in a soft, gentle tone: "Sir, let's go outside and talk—let's not disturb anyone's dreams, yes? Move slowly, step lightly—this is the most basic courtesy of a gentleman..." His cool, piercing gaze swept over Caine, and he remained half-extended, taking one deliberate step at a time toward the door. Under the steady aim of the revolver, he turned the handle and opened the door slowly. As the door swung halfway open, he suddenly bent low, rolled forward, and the main door closed with a loud creak, as if pulled by a strong wind. "Hmm..." Benson on the upper berth was startled by the sudden commotion, half-asleep and just beginning to stir. At that moment, a serene and melodic tune drifted in from outside, accompanied by a deep, soothing voice singing: "Ah, threats of fear, hopes of crimson! At least one thing is true: this life is fleeting." "One thing is true; the rest is false. After blooming once, it will fade and vanish..." (Note 1) This poem seemed to possess a calming and soothing power, causing the people above—Benson and Melissa in the inner room—once again to drift off to sleep. Crayn felt both his body and mind serene, nearly yawning. The slender man's swift movements had left him utterly unprepared. Gazing at the now-closed door, he smiled gently and murmured to himself, "I might as well tell you this—you may not believe it—but my cartridge was actually empty." Alerted to the possibility of an empty cartridge being accidentally fired! Then, Crayn listened patiently to the poem of midnight, waiting for the battle outside to conclude. Within a minute, the tranquil melody, like the surface of a moonlit lake, ceased, and the night once again returned to its deepest stillness. Crayn silently turned the wheel, shifting the empty cartridge aside, and waited for the outcome to unfold. It was exactly ten minutes. Just as he was hesitating, uncertain whether or not to go out and investigate, a steady, calm voice—Dunne Smith’s—finally reached him at the door: "Resolved." Inhaling deeply, Kline exhaled, adjusted his revolver, took the key, and, barefoot, moved cautiously toward the door, opening it silently. Before him stood Dunne Smith in a black coat reaching to his knees, wearing a half-high hat, his gray eyes deep and serene. Closing the door behind him, Kline followed Dunne to the end of the corridor, standing beneath the faint crimson moonlight. "We spent some time entering his dreams," Dunne said, gazing out the window at the red moon, his tone calm. "Have you learned anything about his background?" Kline relaxed slightly. Dunne nodded slightly: "There's an ancient organization known as the 'Convent of Devotion,' founded in the Quaternary period, closely tied to the Solomon Empire and certain fallen noble houses. Indeed, the Antigonus family's records trace back to them. Due to a mere oversight by one of their members, these documents entered the antiquities market and came into the hands of Welch. Now, they're scrambling to track them down." Before Kline could ask a question, Dunne paused and added, "We'll follow the trail backward to apprehend several of their members. Now, the results might not be stellar—these people are like mice adept at hiding in the sewer system, always evading detection. Still, they'll surely realize that the Antigonus family's records are now in our possession, or at least that we've secured key insights. As a result, unless the items in question are exceptionally vital, they'll abandon the entire initiative—this is their very survival philosophy." "...What if the records themselves are of paramount importance?" Kline asked, expressing his concern. Dunne smiled, didn't answer right away, but instead said, "We know very little about the 'Conclave of Deep Practice.' This success is largely due to your sharp instincts—this is your well-earned contribution. Considering the potential, hidden dangers, and the boost in inspiration you've provided in helping locate the notes, you now have one opportunity to make a choice." "An opportunity to choose?" Kline vaguely sensed what was coming, his breath unconsciously deepening. Dunne smoothed his smile, his expression now serious and solemn: "Do you wish to become a remarkable one? Then you must begin from among the incomplete sequences." "Of course," he added, "you may also choose to forgo this opportunity and instead accumulate merit, waiting until you've earned enough to become one of the 'Night Watchers'—the initial, divinely appointed guardians of the night, whose full sequence the Church holds in its complete form." Indeed... Kline felt a surge of joy, no hesitation now, and promptly asked, "Then from which of the 'Sequence 9' options can I begin?" We must have detailed intelligence to decide whether to abandon or accept, and precisely which one to choose! Duan turned his body, the scattered crimson "light veil" flowing over him, and gazed steadily into Caine's eyes, speaking slowly: "Besides the Unsleepers, the Church holds three additional formulations of 'Sequence 9' magic potions. One is called the 'Observer'—that is the ability mastered by the old Neil. Ah, Rosan must have mentioned this to you; she's always one to spill the beans." Klein smiled awkwardly, unsure how to respond, but fortunately, Dunn didn't mind and continued: "Our 'Seer' potion formula, as well as the parts that were initially disconnected, were later obtained from the 'Moses Monastery.' At that time, they were said to still be upright, adhering to morality and discipline, committed to the pursuit of knowledge, and strictly maintaining confidentiality. Upon joining, every member was required to remain silent for five years, learning to cultivate stillness and focus—essential for their spiritual development and concentration. The 'Seer' motto, 'Do what you will, but do no harm,' originated from them." "We're missing most of this sequence, so the fragments don't quite form a coherent chain—take sequence 8, for instance, which, perhaps, the 'Sanctum' has." This nearly fulfills all my expectations... Kline nods slightly, with a sense of selective inclination. Fortunately, he remembers other details: "What about the other two?" "The second one is called the 'Bierbearer.' Many of the cultists on the Southern Continent, who revere the god of death, have chosen it. After consuming this potion, they're mistaken by unintelligent spirits for kindred beings and thus spared from attack. They gain resistance to cold, decay, and the aura of death, can perceive certain malevolent spirits, gain insights into the traits and vulnerabilities of various immortals, and also experience enhancements in physical strength. We possess its subsequent sequences 8 and 7—ah, sequence 7, I'm sure you can guess—it's the 'Seer!' That was Dail's choice." Dune describes it in considerable detail. The "Seers" indeed appear both mysterious and striking, yet what I truly long for is mastery of esoteric knowledge. Kline remained silent, listening attentively. Dunning Smith turned to the crimson moonlight and remarked: "We have only Sequence 9 for the third category; I'm not sure what the 'Seers' might be hiding within the 'Sanctum.' They're called 'Prophets.'" Prophets? Kline's eyes narrowed slightly, recalling the遗憾 left behind by Emperor Roscel in his journal: he regretted not having chosen between the novice, the thief, and the Prophet. Note 1: Adapted from Edward FitzGerald's English translation of the *Rubaiyat*.