The notebook belonging to the Antigonus family was right across the room from the kidnappers! Though it seemed coincidental, Caine trusted his intuition. He immediately jumped out of bed, quickly shedding his old, worn nightclothes. He took the white shirt from beside the bed, draped it over himself, and swiftly buttoned it from top to bottom. One, two, three—then he noticed he was missing one button, and the symmetry on both sides seemed off. Upon closer inspection, Caine realized he had made an error from the start, having buttoned the shirt incorrectly and causing it to twist. He shook his head in resignation, took a deep breath, and slowly exhaled, using a few meditation techniques to regain composure. In his white shirt and black trousers, he managed to appear composed, adjusting his shoulder straps and retrieving the revolver hidden beneath the soft pillow, placing it inside his coat. Without tying his tie, he donned his suit, walked to the door with one hand holding his hat and the other gripping his cane. Dressed in a semi-high silk hat, Caine gently turned the handle and opened the door, stepping into the corridor. With careful precision, he closed the bedroom door, descending the stairs almost silently, like a thief. Using the steel pen and paper from the living room, he wrote two lines of words, indicating that he had forgotten to mention the company's matter last night and that he needed to arrive early today. As he stepped out the front door, a refreshing cool breeze swept over him, instantly calming his spirit. Before him, the street was dim and quiet, with no pedestrians, only the steady glow of gas streetlamps. From his inner pocket, Caine withdrew his watch, snapped it open, and found it was just six o'clock—the rose-colored moonlight had not yet fully faded, though a bright streak had begun to appear on the horizon. As he was about to seek out a costly hired carriage, he suddenly spotted a two-horse, four-wheeled untrackable public carriage approaching. "A public carriage this early?" Caine was slightly surprised, and he approached it, waving to stop it. "Good morning, sir." The coachman skillfully brought the horses to a halt. The attendant responsible for collecting fares covered his mouth with his hand and yawned. "To Zothlan Street," said Caine, pulling out two one-penny coins and four half-penny coins from his pocket. "Four pence," the attendant replied without hesitation. After handing over the fare, Caine boarded the coach, which was empty except for him—clearly quiet and dimly lit. "You're the first one," the coachman remarked with a smile. The two brown horses moved forward with a light, brisk gait. "Honestly, I didn't expect there to be a public coach service this early," Caine said casually, settling into a seat near the coachman, using the conversation to ease his growing tension. The coachman added with a touch of self-mockery: "From six in the morning until nine at night, though—I'm only paid one pound a week." "No time off at all?" Caine asked in surprise. "I rest one day each week, rotating through the days." The coachman's tone grew serious. The ticket collector beside him added, "We're on duty from six in the morning until eleven in the morning, then we have lunch and a midday break, and after dinner at six, we rotate our colleagues. Even if we don't take a break, the horses need one too." "It wasn't always like this. The system was introduced after some coachmen grew too tired and made unexpected mistakes—causing horses to lose control, carriages to tip over. How could those vampires suddenly become so kind!" The coachman chuckled. Under the morning light, the public coach moved steadily toward Zothlan Street, picking up only a few passengers along the way. After slightly easing the tension, Kain fell silent, closing his eyes and reviewing yesterday's events frame by frame, looking for any possible omissions. When the sun fully rose and the sky became truly bright, the coach arrived at Zothlan Street. Kain, holding his hat in his left hand, stepped down from the coach, walking and jumping as he went. He briskly entered 36 Zothlan Street and ascended the stairs to the outside of Black Thistle Security. At that moment, the main door was closed and had not yet been opened. From his waist, Kline drew out his keychain and located the one of copper hue, inserting it into the slot and turning it with a crisp "click." He pushed gently, allowing the door to swing open slowly, and spotted Leonard Mitchell, with dark hair and green eyes, lightly inhaling the recently popular cigarette. "In fact, I prefer cigars... you seem rather eager," the poet-like night watchman remarked with ease. "Where is the captain?" Kline asked without preamble. Leonard pointed to the partition: "He's in his office. As a remarkable 'night watcher' promoted, he only needs to rest for two hours during the day. I'm certain factory owners and bankers would love this elixir." Kline nodded and quickly crossed the partition, where he found Dean Smith already having opened the office door and standing at the entrance. "What's going on?" He wore a black trench coat and carried a hand cane set with gold, his expression steady and serious. "I've been feeling that familiar sense of 'as if I've seen this before'—it must be the family's notes, the Antigonus family's records," Klein insisted, making every effort to keep his response clear and structured. "Where?" Dean Smith's face showed no immediate change. Yet Klein's intuition told him there had been a subtle, invisible shift—perhaps a shimmer of spirit, or a subtle shift in emotion. "Right across from the kidnappers' room, where I and Leonard rescued the hostages yesterday. I hadn't noticed it at the time, until I had a dream that gave me the insight," Klein said without reservation. "It seems I missed a major achievement yesterday," Leonard, who had quietly moved to the partition area at some point, chuckled lightly. Dunne nodded slightly, his expression solemn as he instructed: "Have Coen Li take over watch of the armory from Old Neil; have Old Neil and Fley come with us." Leonard stopped acting casually and immediately notified Coen Li and Fley, who were in the entertainment room on duty—Coen Li, the "Night Watchman," and Fley, the "Body Keeper." Five minutes later, the two-wheeled carriage of the Night Watch team sped along the early morning streets, still relatively quiet with pedestrians. Leonard wore a wool hat, dressed in a shirt and vest, temporarily stepping into the role of coachman, occasionally swinging his whip to produce crisp cracks. Inside the carriage, Caine and Old Neil sat on one side, while Dunne Smith and Fley faced them. Fley, the "Body Keeper," had skin so pale it seemed as though he hadn't seen much sunlight or suffered from severe circulatory issues. He was in his thirties, with black hair and blue eyes, a high, straight nose, and thin lips. His demeanor was cold and shadowed, carrying a faint, lingering scent of long exposure to corpses. "Could you go over the details once again?" Duan smoothed the collar of his black windbreaker. Klein ran his fingers over the yellow crystal pendant, concealed by his sleeve, recounting everything from the moment he'd accepted the commission right through to his dream. The older man, Neil, sitting beside him, chuckled softly. "You and that family's notebook from the Antigonus lineage seem to be bound by some kind of fate—remarkable that you've ended up meeting." Indeed, it's rather too coincidental! If it weren't for Leonard just mentioning that the initial interrogation of the Elliot kidnapping case revealed no hidden forces or mysterious influences, merely a straightforward case driven by financial motives, I'd have suspected someone had deliberately arranged it all. Klein found this equally puzzling. Too coincidental! Duan remained silent, as if deep in thought, while the other "body collector," Frey, dressed in the same black windbreaker, maintained his steady quiet. This stillness was only broken when the carriage came to a halt and the building Klein had described appeared in the window. "Let's go up, Caine. You and Old Neil go last—be careful, be very careful." Dunning dismounted, pulled from his coat a strange revolver with a noticeably longer and thicker barrel, and tucked it into his right pocket. "Yes, sir." Caine wasn't about to rush to the front. Once Leonard had located someone to guard the carriage, the five extraordinary beings entered the stairwell in orderly succession, moving quietly up to the third floor. "Is this it?" Leonard pointed to the room across from the captors. Caine lightly tapped his brow twice, activating his clairvoyance. In this state, his inspiration surged again; he felt the door was familiar, as though he had entered it before. "Yes," he confirmed firmly. Old Neil also activated his clairvoyance and observed carefully before saying, "No one is inside, and there's no magical luminescence." "The corpse bearers," Frel said softly, "there are no malevolent spirits." He didn’t need to activate his spiritual sight to see numerous spirits—both malevolent spirits and vengeful ghosts. Leonard stepped forward, just as he had done yesterday, and delivered a punch to the door latch. This time, not only did the wooden panels around it shatter, but the door latch itself popped off with a crisp snap and landed with a clatter on the floor. Klein felt an invisible seal suddenly vanish, followed immediately by a strong, foul odor. "Corpses," said Frey coldly. "Decaying corpses." He showed no sign of nausea. Duan extended his right hand, gloved in black, and slowly pushed open the door. What met the group’s gaze first was a fireplace, unusually warm even in early July. In front of the fireplace sat a rocking chair, with an elderly woman dressed in a gown of alternating black and white, her head bowed. She had grown remarkably larger, her skin dark green and swollen, glowing with a luminous sheen—so that a mere tap would cause her to burst, releasing a putrid stench. Worms and parasites crawled in and out among the flesh and decay, within the fabric and folds—within the spirit vision, they appeared as clusters of luminous points, gathering around a dim, extinguished "darkness." Plink. Plink. The old woman's two eyeballs detached and fell to the ground, rolling several times, leaving behind streaks of yellow-brown marks. Klein felt queasy, unable to withstand the foul odor any longer, and bent over to vomit.