Bearing the midday sun, Crayne stepped out of his home. Since he needed to walk all the way from the Iron Cross Street to Welch's residence, he exchanged his formal suit, hat, and boots for a linen shirt, an old brown coat, a matching round-brimmed felt hat, and worn leather shoes—thus avoiding any sweat odor that might mar his valuable ensemble. Along the Narcissus Street, he walked slowly toward the Iron Cross Street, glancing instinctively at the corner plaza as he went. The tents there had already vanished; the circus had finished its performance and moved on. Crayyne had once imagined that the animal trainer who had offered him divination might actually be a hidden power, recognizing his special nature and deliberately guiding him, with future encounters and subtle hints to follow—but nothing of the sort materialized. She simply joined the circus for its next journey. How many elaborate schemes were there, really? Crayne shook his head, smiling slightly, and turned toward the Iron Cross Street. The Iron Cross Street is not just a single road, but rather two roads intersecting, forming a cross as its name suggests. Centered at the intersection, it is divided into Left Street, Right Street, Upper Street, and Lower Street. The apartments where Crane, Benson, and Melissa previously lived were situated on Lower Street. However, both residents of the apartments and the surrounding community did not consider the area to be Lower Street; instead, they coined the term "Middle Street" to distinguish it from the poorer, more densely populated area located two hundred meters further along the road, where a single bedroom might house five, six, or even ten people. As Crane walked along the edge of Left Street, his thoughts drifted—recalling the family notes of the Antigonus lineage, their disappearance, the night watchmen's keen attention to them, and the bloodshed that followed. His mood gradually grew heavier, his expression turning somber. At that moment, a familiar voice reached his ears: "Little Crane." "Well... Cline turned hesitantly, finding himself at the entrance of 'Slin's Bakery,' where Mrs. Slin, with her gray hair, smiled warmly and waved. 'You don't seem too happy, are you?' Wendy said gently. Cline rubbed his face. 'A little,' he replied. 'No matter how many worries you have, tomorrow will still come,' Mrs. Slin smiled, 'Come, try my new sweet iced tea—I'm not sure it suits the local taste.' 'The locals, aren't you, Mrs. Slin yourself?' Cline chuckled, shaking his head. 'Trying it must mean it's free, right?' Mrs. Slin lifted a corner of her mouth. 'You're right—I'm actually from the South. I moved to Tingen with my husband forty years ago, now, back then, Benson hadn't even been born, and your parents hadn't even met each other yet.' "I've always found the cuisine from the north a bit unfamiliar, often longing for the dishes from my hometown—longing for pork sausage, for potato bread, for baked pancakes, for vegetables fried in pork fat, for the special sauces used on grilled meats." "Ah, and I also miss sweet iced tea..." Klein smiled warmly as he listened. "Mrs. Slin, what a feast of memories this has been! Though I feel much better now—thank you." "Food always heals sorrow," Wendy said, offering Klein a cup of a deep brown liquid. "This is my version of sweet iced tea, made from memory—would you like to try it?" After thanking her, Klein took a sip. The drink had a flavor reminiscent of earth-based iced tea, but less intense, with a richer tea taste and a more refreshing quality that immediately eased the heat brought on by the blazing sun. "Excellent!" he praised. "Then I'm confident it will please you," Wendy said, smiling with her eyes crinkled, kindly watching as Klein finished off the cup of sweet iced tea. After chatting with Mrs. Slin about moving into her new home, Crane returned to the street he was most familiar with. By afternoon, the street vendors had thinned out—most wouldn’t reassemble until after five thirty, and those remaining seemed listless, wilted and uninspired. As he turned into the street, Crane’s mood suddenly turned unexpectedly gloomy, pressing down on him with an unspoken sense of weight, sadness, and grayness. What was going on? He became acutely aware of something amiss within himself and paused, scanning his surroundings, yet saw nothing unusual. He then raised his hand, tapping lightly twice on his brow as if thinking. Instantly, the atmosphere around him shifted—each vendor and several pedestrians began to radiate distinct energy fields. Before Crane could fully assess their healthy hues, he was drawn instead to the depth and subtlety of the emotional tones, ranging from rich to dim. The specific thoughts of the observed remained unclear to him, but the impression of pessimism, numbness, and gloom had deeply settled within him. Surveying the surroundings, he noticed that the dim tones prevailed throughout, even the sunlight struggled to dispel them. This sense of stagnation had been accumulated over countless days, months, and years. Seeing this, Caine suddenly understood the reason. As Old Neil had said, when he first gained his spiritual vision, he often felt uncomfortable in unfamiliar environments and was easily affected by others' emotions. The same principle applied to the ability of "inspiration"—a capacity acquired naturally upon becoming a Seer, requiring no additional study. It was a passive, unyielding sense of perception that allowed one to directly detect the presence of anomalies. And awareness of interaction would inevitably be present, so in the eyes of someone extraordinary—like a medium—each person's inspirational strength is so clearly evident, much like torches glowing in the night. Consequently, individuals with high inspirational capacity naturally and easily become influenced by an unusual and intense atmosphere, requiring only repeated practice to grasp, control, and adapt. "Such a restrained 'tone'—I wonder how long it will take to develop," Klein sighed, shaking his head, moved by the thought. He lightly tapped his brow twice, then made a conscious effort to steady his spirit. Tap, tap, tap. Klein walked step by step toward the apartment, sensing potential anomalies and subtle connections, seeking the Antigonous family notes hidden within himself. The streets remained as usual—dirty water, scattered trash—until they reached the apartment entrance, where cleanliness finally began. Klein pushed open the partly closed door and, in the shaded dimness beyond the reach of sunlight, made a circuit through the first floor. He ascended step by step, the wooden stairs creaking continuously. The second floor, as always, remained dimly lit; Caine allowed his "inspiration" to flow, gazing straight into the darkness. Yet not only did he fail to find any clues in his notes, he saw not a single intangible spirit. "If such spirits were so easily encountered, most ordinary people would surely have noticed the extraordinary," Caine murmured to himself. He now understood that most "spirits" did not manifest as visible entities but as a kind of spiritual presence, requiring "mediums" to communicate with them effectively. After circling the third floor, Caine left the apartment and began walking toward Welch's residence along the path he remembered. He walked for nearly an hour without any breakthroughs. Standing outside the garden villa, with the iron gate firmly closed, Caine gazed at the house and quietly remarked, "Welch's place should not require any search." The captain and Ms. Dail must have thoroughly searched every corner... And I don’t even have the keys to this place—how am I supposed to scale the wall? We’ll try a different route tomorrow... I’ve walked so many miles today, yet there’s no step count leaderboard... While complaining, Caine turned back and headed toward the nearby streets, planning to take the public carriage to Black Thorns Security to collect his thirty rounds of ammunition for today and practice as soon as possible. The "Seer" lacks swift and effective offensive moves—relies solely on the revolver and staff to compensate! The area near Welch’s residence was remarkably clean, with numerous well-maintained shops lining the streets. As Caine turned the corner, looking for the public carriage stop, his eyes suddenly caught several signs on the second floor across the street: "Harold Department Store." "Veterans' Officers' Club." "The Seer's Club." … The Divination Club… Klein murmured the name and suddenly realized what it meant to "play" the role of a diviner. Hmm. Let me take a look back… search for new ideas… As his thoughts flowed, Klein crossed the street, reached the building across, ascended to the second floor, entered the hall, and stood before the attractive woman who was handling the reception. The woman had her brown-yellow hair neatly coiled and glanced at Klein with a smile. "Mr. Klein," she said, "would you like to have a divination, or would you like to join our club?" "What are the requirements for joining?" Klein asked casually. The woman with the coiled brown-yellow hair introduced the details smoothly: "Simply complete a detailed application form, pay an annual membership fee—initially five pounds, then one pound each year. Rest assured, we’re unlike political or business clubs, where you must secure a formal recommendation from an existing member to join." Members can use the club’s meeting rooms and various consulting rooms and tools at no charge, enjoy free coffee and tea, read our subscribed newspapers and magazines at no cost, and purchase lunch, dinner, alcoholic beverages, and some consulting textbooks and materials at cost price. Moreover, we invite at least one renowned consultant to give a lecture each month to address specific inquiries. Most importantly, you’ll find a group of like-minded friends with whom you can share experiences and exchange insights. That sounds promising, yet, yet I don’t have the funds… Caine chuckled to himself and then asked, “What if I’d like to consult a consultant?”