He poured coffee, then returned to the weapons store to pick up the thick stack of historical documents and briefing drafts organized by Old Neil. Klein walked along the gas lamps lining the walls, heading up the stairs toward the Black Thorns Security Company. Ticking, ticking, ticking—his footsteps echoed through the sealed, quiet underground. After completing the spiral staircase, he pushed open the door, paused to orient himself, and headed straight for the second office on the opposite side. After two days of getting familiar with the space, he now had a clear sense of the layout of Black Thorns Security: Upon entering, there was a spacious reception area with a set of sofas and chairs. Beyond a partition lay the inner zone. To the left, three rooms along the corridor, from near to far, housed Mrs. Orliana’s accounting office, a lounge with several sofa beds, and the staircase leading down to the underground. To the right, three rooms from near to far included Captain Deneen Smith’s office, a clerical staff office equipped with a typewriter, and the formal entertainment room for the night watch team. Klein had previously seen Leonard Mitchell playing cards—presumably Mahjong—with two other team members in the lounge area. Of course, Emperor Rosser had renamed it "Battle Against Evil," though the gameplay remained entirely unchanged from what Klein knew. After night duty, Brett would receive a day's additional rest allowance. Rosan remained at the reception desk, while César Francis, who had consistently taken on the role of part-time coach and supplies clerk, was once again out on duty. When Klein pushed open the door to the administrative office, he found all three desks empty, the purely mechanical typewriters quietly resting in place. "Ahkson Model 1346 typewriters..." Klein murmured, recalling having seen similar devices in his mentor's office and in Welch's home. The subtle, intricate control system seemed to radiate a quiet mechanical elegance. He walked to the desk with the typewriter, sat down, and after a moment of preparation, began attempting virtual typing. At first, he instinctively handled everything in pinyin, only gradually "digesting" the corresponding memory fragments of the original owner until he stopped making mistakes. Tapping, tapping, tapping! The rhythmic keyboard sounds resembled a firm, metallic industrial melody, and under this steady rhythm, Crane swiftly completed the funding application documents. Yet he didn't immediately head to Dunn Smith. Instead, he calmed himself and carefully read through the historical materials provided by Neil, both reviewing and learning. By midday, he moved his neck, folded the documents, and, based on the draft of the "Mysticism Course," went over once again the content he had studied in the morning. Only then did he pick up the application and walk over to the adjacent office, gently knocking on the door. Dunn was waiting for his lunch, and upon seeing the documents Crane handed him, a slight upward curve appeared at his lips. "Did Neil teach you this?" "Yes," Crane answered without hesitation, revealing Neil. Dunne picked up the dark red pen, signed off briskly: "I've just been preparing to apply to the church and the county police for funding for July, August, and September. I'll include your request under that. Once the approvals are granted, I'll draw the funds from Mrs. Oliviana, and you'll be able to collect them by afternoon." "Good," replied Caine simply and firmly. His tone and gaze carried clear delight. Before leaving, he casually asked, "Shouldn't the funding for July, August, and September have been applied for by June?" How could one wait until July to apply for July's funding? Dunne paused for a few seconds, then took a sip of his coffee before saying, "June was packed with three consecutive cases—so busy that some matters were inadvertently forgotten." Indeed, a captain with a rather poor memory... Caine realized he'd asked an unnecessary question and smiled politely, then hurried out. Thus, he began a simple yet regular life: thirty minutes of meditation in the morning, two hours of esoteric courses in the morning, one and a half hours of mastering historical materials, a short nap in the lounge after lunch to restore his energy. Then, he collected his bullets, went to the "Shooting Club" for practice, returned home for a walk to Welch's nearby residence, changed his route, and walked back to the Iron Cross Street—thus saving a public carriage fare. If he had time left, he would refine his skills in clairvoyance and pendulum reading, and in the process, buy some groceries. She carefully gathered the various leftover materials she had taken from the family treasury and exchanged with others, took a deep breath, and prepared to close her eyes and drink the "Audience" potion. Just then, a series of "woof-woof-woof" sounds came from outside the laboratory, causing Odile's brow to furrow immediately. She gently placed the cup, whose silvery liquid was gently rippling, into a dim corner, turned around, and walked toward the door. "Suzy, who is it?" Odile turned the handle and asked the golden retriever sitting at the doorway. Suzy wagged her tail with a friendly expression, while the nearby corridor revealed the presence of the personal maid, Anne. Odile stepped out of the laboratory, closed the door behind her, and looked at Anne. "Didn't I tell you?" she said, "Not to disturb me while I'm conducting chemical experiments." Anne replied with a look of concern. "There's an invitation from the Duchess, from Lady Della." "The Duchess of Nigan?" Odile took a few steps forward, approaching Anne. "Yes, she has invited Madame Vivi, the court pastry chef, to host a tea for the lady and you." Anne described the invitation. Audrey subtly puffed out her cheeks, saying, "Please tell my mother I'm feeling a bit dizzy—perhaps the sunlight is too strong, and I'm a bit dehydrated. Could you kindly ask Madame Dela to forgive me." As she spoke, she adopted a frail demeanor. "Miss, this isn't just a tea gathering—it's also a literary salon," Anne added. "But that won't cure my dizziness. I need to rest." Audrey firmly declined. In her mind, she quietly murmured: "If I insist, I'll collapse right in front of you—my etiquette teacher said that gesture is absolutely perfect... I think I hear something?" "Very well," Anne exhaled, "shall I assist you back to your room?" "No, I'd like to tidy up my laboratory first." Audrey longed to return immediately and take her potion. But she held back her impatience, watched Anne go away, and only then turned to walk back toward the laboratory entrance. Suddenly, she noticed that Suzy, the golden retriever who should have been outside, was missing, and the laboratory door was half open. "I forgot Suzy could open doors with handles... What sound was that? Oh no!" As clear sounds came from inside, Audrey suddenly had a thought and rushed into the laboratory. Before her lay the broken cups and Suzy, the golden retriever, licking off the last drop of silvery liquid. Audrey stood frozen at the doorway, as if turned to stone. Suzy immediately sat down, gazed at her owner with an expression of innocence, and wagged her tail. . . . Off the coast of Port Prizel, on an island always shrouded in storms, an ancient sailing ship lay at anchor in the harbor. The man with soft yellow hair, dressed in a long robe adorned with lightning patterns, looked at Aljer Wilson across the table, deeply puzzled. "Aljer, you could easily return to the kingdom, become captain of the Penitent Squad, or even a dignified bishop. Why choose to sail instead? Why become the captain of the 'Azure Avengers'?" Staring at the silvery potion that looked no different from before, she was moved to tears. Inhaling deeply, she took a quick, small sip of the "Audience" potion. ……… On Friday, a heavy rainstorm struck Tingen, the rain drumming steadily against every window. Inside Blackthorn Security, Kline, Rosan, and Bright sat on the sofa in the reception area, enjoying their lunch on the table. Since there was only a boiler for heating water and no way to reheat leftovers, Kline couldn’t possibly eat black bread every day or take the public carriage back—otherwise, after walking from the Iron Cross Street to Rosan’s residence in the afternoon, he’d have to return by carriage, which would be very costly. Thus, he settled for the so-called "office meals," following Rosan and the other colleagues. — Every morning at 10:30, a server from the older Willy’s restaurant comes by to ask how many people need lunch. Once the number is confirmed, they deliver the meal at 12:30, served in containers similar to lunch boxes. At 3:00 in the afternoon, they return to check if dinner is booked and to collect the tableware. This meal consists of meat, vegetables, and bread—though the portions are modest—it’s sufficient to keep one person satisfied, and costs between seven and ten pence, depending on the tier. Klein, ever polite, always chooses the seven-pence option. Typically, it includes half a pound of oat bread, a small piece of meat prepared in various ways, a generous spoonful of vegetable soup, and a touch of cream or butter. “Only one night watchperson is here today…” Rosan says, spooning the soup into her mouth. “It’s reportedly a case in the Jin Wutong district, involving religious elements. The police have therefore requested two night watchpersons to be sent over,” Bright says, setting down his bread. Klein dipped the remaining oat bread into the last of the meat juice and took a bite, saying nothing. Gently wrapped around the inner sleeve of his left hand was a silver chain, with a yellow crystal pendant hanging from it. At that moment, a steady knocking sound came from the half-opened door. "Please come in," Rosan paused, set down her spoon, quickly wiped her lips with her handkerchief, and rose to speak. The door opened to admit a man wearing a half-high hat and a black suit, the left shoulder of which was damp from the rain. His hair was slightly gray at the temples, holding a folded umbrella in his hand. He looked at Klein and the others and asked, "Is this where the former mercenary squad used to be?" "Yes, that's accurate," Rosan replied promptly. The tall, slender man cleared his throat and said, "I have a task I'd like to entrust."