Klein made every effort not to show any unusual behavior, approaching with a genuine sense of curiosity. "What abilities does the 'Seer' possess?" "Your question isn't quite accurate—it should be: what abilities does one gain by drinking the 'Seer' potion?" Dunning Smith shook his head, a smile playing on his lips, his gray eyes and face turned away from the crimson moon, hidden in shadow. "Astrology, card reading, spirit sensing, divination, and many similar disciplines—of course, simply drinking the potion doesn't mean you immediately understand or master them. The potion merely grants you the qualification and capacity to learn these arts." "Due to the lack of direct combat capabilities, you should be able to imagine how ritual magic demands so much preparation that it's ill-suited for battlefield engagements. Consequently, in the field of esoteric knowledge, the 'Seer' is more learned and more specialized than the 'Observer.'" It sounds quite in line with my expectations... though the lack of direct combat capabilities does leave me somewhat hesitant. Moreover, the Night Goddess Church is likely to have no subsequent "Sequences" afterward. "Sanctum" probably refers to the Church's headquarters, the Tranquil Church. The lower-sequence direct combat units may not even match the effectiveness of firearms. Kline remained silent, his internal scales swaying back and forth—sometimes leaning toward "The Observer," sometimes toward "The Seer," while "The Undertaker" had already been ruled out. Upon seeing this, Dunn Smith smiled and said: "Don't rush your decision. By Monday morning, simply let me know your choice—whether you settle on one or decide to simply abandon it. Within our Watchers' circle, there will be no additional opinions." "Take a moment to calm yourself and listen to your inner voice." With that, he removed his hat, gave a slight bow, and slowly walked past Kline toward the staircase. Kline said nothing, neither offering an immediate answer nor making a prompt gesture—only remaining silent in his bow and in his gaze as he watched him go. Though he had always yearned to become an extraordinary one, when the opportunity truly arrived before him, he still felt hesitation—the absence of the "Sequence," the erratic behavior of the "Extraordinary Ones," the credibility of the Emperor Rosel's diary, and the alluring, delusional whispers that drove people mad—these elements combined to form a swamp that hindered his progress. He took a deep breath, then slowly exhaled. "Like a student who's neither outstanding nor average, now deciding on their university major…" Klein chuckled to himself, calming his scattered thoughts, and softly opened the door, returning home to lie down on the bed. Lying there, he kept his eyes open, quietly gazing at the slightly rosy-tinted base of the upper bed. Outside, a drunk man stumbled past, and a carriage sped by on the open street—the various sounds did not disrupt the night's stillness; instead, they deepened its quiet, making it more distant and profound. Klein's emotions settled down. He recalled the many memories from Earth—the strong, booming voice of his father who always loved to exercise, the mother with chronic illness who never stopped bustling around, the lifelong friends who had grown from playing soccer and basketball together to eventually playing video games and mahjong—along with the one who had once confessed his feelings but whose face had blurred in memory. These memories flowed like a calm, steady river, causing few ripples, little sorrow, yet quietly and silently filling his heart. Perhaps only after losing something do we truly appreciate it. When the blush faded, the sky turned crimson and golden, Klein had already made his choice. "The price of bread has stabilized..." After breakfast, Bensen offered his assessment while changing clothes. Today was Sunday, and finally, he and Melissa had earned their rest. Already dressed in formal attire, Klein sat in his chair, flipping through the outdated newspapers he had brought back from yesterday, and remarked with some surprise: "There's a property for rent: No. 3 Wendel Street, North District, a detached house with two floors. The upper floor has six rooms, three bathrooms, and two large balconies; the lower level features a dining room, a living room, a kitchen, two bathrooms, two guest rooms, and a basement storage room. Outside, there's a private lawn of two hectares in front and a small garden at the back. It can be rented for one, two, or three years, at a weekly rent of one pound and six shillings. Interested parties are invited to visit Mr. Goux at No. 16 Champagne Street." "This will be our goal." Benson fastened his black half-crown hat and smiled, saying, "The rental rates in the newspaper are all rather high, but the 'Tinggen Municipal Housing Improvement Company' offers more affordable options that are just as good, if not better." "Why not try the 'Tinggen Working-Class Housing Improvement Association'?" Melissa, holding her worn hat and having changed into a clean, slightly patched yet still most impressive gray-white lightweight dress, stepped out from the alcove. She was quiet and composed, yet carried a clear sense of youthful vitality. Benson laughed heartily, "Where did you hear about the 'Tinggen Working-Class Housing Improvement Association'? From Jenny? Mrs. Roche? Or perhaps from your good friend Serenella?" Melissa glanced at her neighbor and replied softly, "Mrs. Roche... I happened to meet her last night while brushing my teeth. She asked about Clare's interview, and after I mentioned a few points, she suggested I look into the 'Tinggen Working-Class Housing Improvement Association.' Banser saw that Klein was equally puzzled, and smiled, shaking his head. "This is a housing association focused on the lower classes—more precisely, on the working population. The homes they build and renovate are mostly utility-type, offering only three options: one-bedroom, two-bedroom, and three-bedroom units. Would you like to continue living in such accommodations?" "The Tinggen Housing Improvement Company operates a similar service, but also provides opportunities for the middle and lower-middle classes. Honestly, we're currently a bit better off than the lower-middle class, yet still fall short of true middle-class status—not due to salary, but primarily because of the lack of accumulated time." Klein understood immediately. He folded the newspaper, took up his hat, and stood up. "Then let's go." "I remember the Tinggen Housing Improvement Company is located on the Narcissus Street. "Benson said as he opened the door, 'They're also called "The Five Percent Charity"—just like the "Tinggen Workers' Housing Improvement Association." Do you know why?" "No," said Kline, raising his walking cane and walking slightly to Melissa's side. The girl with sleek black hair, whose hair flowed smoothly down to her chest, nodded in agreement. Benson stepped forward and explained, "These housing improvement associations and companies were established under the influence of Beckland. Their funding comes from three sources: first, donations to charitable foundations; second, through applications, they secure low-interest loans—just four percent annually—from the government's public affairs loan officers; and third, they attract commercial investments, charging a fixed rental fee and returning five percent annually to the investors. That's why they're known as 'The Five Percent Charity.'" "Thud, thud, thud. The three siblings descended the stairs and walked slowly toward the Water Lilies Street, intending to finalize their house selection before seeking out Mr. Franchi, the current landlord, so as to avoid the situation where they couldn't move in at the other location and would then have to relocate again." "Did you hear from Selena about housing companies that offer purely charitable improvements?" Melissa said, as though mulling it over. Benson chuckled. "Yes, there are—Sir Deville founded the 'Devil Trust Company,' which builds apartments specifically for the working class and provides dedicated property management, charging only modest rent, though the requirements are quite strict." "Sounds like you're not too enthusiastic about them?" Klein observed keenly, smiling slightly and asking. "No, I deeply respect Sir Deville, but I'm certain he doesn't truly understand what daily life is like for the working poor. His apartment requirements are as idealistic as the hopes offered by a clergyman—they're simply unrealistic. For instance, tenants must be vaccinated against key diseases, take turns cleaning the restrooms, not sublease or use the property for commercial purposes, never leave trash scattered, and even prevent children from playing in the hallways. Oh, heavens—does he expect everyone to become gentlemen and ladies?" Bensen replied in his usual tone. "Do you think their work is stable, rather than temporary? If they can't rent out their homes at a certain fee, and have to move out again when unemployed? Moreover, many women stay at home sewing clothes and making matches to support themselves—this is commercial activity—shouldn't they all be pushed out?" "Most of the poor are giving everything they have to maintain their livelihoods. Do you think they have any spare energy to supervise their children, keeping them from playing in the hallways? Probably, they can only lock them in the house until they reach seven or eight years old, then send them to places willing to hire child labor." Benson spoke with few adjectives, and Clain found himself slightly unnerved. That's the life of the common people? Beside him, Melissa also fell into silence, and only after a long while did she speak in a faint, distant tone: "Since we moved to the lower street, Jenny has refused to let me come to her house to see her anymore." "Hope her father can emerge from the shadow of his illness and find steady work again—though I've seen so many who, once and for all, end up drinking themselves into oblivion." Bensen chuckled heavily, his tone grave. Crawen didn't know what to say; Melissa seemed to be in the same state. The three of them walked in silence to the water lily street and reached the "Tinggen Municipal Housing Improvement Company." A middle-aged man with a warm, friendly smile greeted them—dressed casually, without a suit or hat, wearing a white shirt and a black jacket. "You may call me Scart," he said, smiling more warmly as he glanced at Crawen's silver-handled cane. "How may I assist you today?" Crawen looked at the eloquent Bensen and indicated that he should answer. Bansen spoke very directly: "Townhouses." Scatter flipped through the documents and files in his hands, a slight smile playing at the corner of his mouth. "Currently unrented, there are five. To be honest, we're primarily targeting workers and their children who face genuine housing hardship—those living in cramped conditions, six, eight, even ten or twelve people sharing a single room. Townhouses are relatively scarce. There's one at 2 Venus Street, one in the North District, and one in the East District. Weekly rents range from 12 to 16 soules, depending on the unit. You may wish to review the details." He pushed the documents across to Bansen, Klein, and Melissa. After a quick glance, the three siblings exchanged a glance and simultaneously pointed to a specific section on the paper. "We'd like to start with 2 Venus Street," Bansen said. Klein and Melissa nodded in agreement. It was a neighborhood they were somewhat familiar with.