In the late afternoon, the shadows of the carriage and the horses were stretched long by the setting sun. Having already briefed Benson and Melissa, Cline had dinner at Black Thorns Security and was now sharing a public carriage with Neil on his way to the dock district. Wearing his usual modest suit, he carried a quiet concern—fearful that in such settings, minor mishaps might occur, such as damaging his carefully maintained tailcoat, which would not merely be a matter of regret. As the sunlight warmed to a fiery glow, the carriage stopped, and Neil, in his classic black robe and matching round-brimmed hat, walked steadily toward the opposite side of the street to "Dragon's Den" tavern, unbothered by the gaze of others. Even though the tavern was a little distant and its heavy doors closed with a finality, Cline could still hear the rising waves of cheers inside, as though rallying support for some heroic figure. Just as he approached, a sudden sense of awareness stirred him; he turned toward the warehouse across from the tavern and spotted a tall, well-dressed man standing quietly in a concealed spot on the roof. The man carried a large, gray-white mechanical case on his back and held a complex, sturdy long-barreled rifle in his hand. There were clearly connected pipelines between the gray-white metal case and the rifle of the same hue. "High-pressure steam rifle?" Klein murmured in astonishment, turning to Old Neil and asking, "Can this bar have such weapons?" These were military-grade items! Even though it utilized extracted phlogiston, the size and weight of the high-pressure steam backpack remained impressive—only true iron-fisted warriors could manage it—and the bullets propelled by it achieved remarkable speed and destructive power. With proper aiming, they were nearly on par with inferior sniper rifles. "What?" Old Neil blinked, equally puzzled, "Is something wrong here?" Something wrong? Klein glanced around and indeed spotted several men with repeating rifles actively searching for something. "What's going on?" Old Neil approached the bar, speaking to the large man stationed outside. The large man clearly recognized Old Neil, his facial muscles trembling as he offered a wry, suffering smile. "The bar was nearly torn down just now." "Apparently, a wanted individual came to purchase supplies and was recognized—thus, the situation. My goodness, what has this man done? How dangerous is he, to be treated this way? Seeing those guns, my legs have gone weak—stronger than when I spent an entire evening ghosting around with the red-haired Sanni!" He had no idea who the wanted person was, nor did he know that the individuals coming to buy supplies included the extraordinary ones. "Wanted person? Do you know his name?" Old Neil asked with genuine interest. "His name? Tris?" the large man replied, somewhat uncertain. "Tris the instigator?" Clarens nodded, suddenly understanding. Tris hadn't realized he had been suspected by Joyce Mayer until he went confidently to the underground market to purchase supplies, where he was recognized by informants from the "Heart of Mechanism," or the "Sentencers," or the "Night Watch," sparking a heated confrontation. "Was he caught?" Caine tapped his silver-embossed black cane. The atmosphere around him suggested he hadn't yet been. The broad-shouldered man gave a slight shake of his head and pointed with his chin toward the top of the opposite warehouse: "He made it out before those terrifying ones arrived. Honestly, I've never seen anyone run so well!" In truth, you haven't yet witnessed the true skill of the "Assassin," otherwise you'd be taken to an indescribable place for re-education. Caine muttered this to himself. "Is the market still open?" Old Neil asked, shifting focus to the key point. "Only just restored," the broad-shouldered man confirmed. "Good." Neil took a few brisk steps, extended his right hand, and pushed open the heavy door. Klein followed closely behind, nearly overwhelmed by the thick heat and the aroma of wine. At the center of "The Dragon's Pub," a boxing ring stood, where two men in the buff were engaged in a fierce struggle. Dozens of patrons around them cheered passionately for their favored fighters, occasionally spilling some coarse remarks. Neil paid them no mind, leading Klein past the ring toward a back room housing a billiards hall. Two men with pool cues were chatting and laughing; upon seeing Neil push the door open, they paused for a few seconds before quietly stepping aside to allow him and Klein to pass through the adjacent inner door. After navigating several rooms in succession, Klein was suddenly struck by a sense of spaciousness, now gazing upon a room as large as a lecture hall from a previous life. Here, people are setting up stalls piled high with bottles and jars, while others walk among them—some observing, some chatting, some comparing prices. "Every income must go to Sviyn at one-twentieth, ah, he's the owner of the Dragon's Tavern, the former captain of the 'Penalty Team,' older than me, a man who hopes to die of chronic drinking," Old Neil said, speaking at length. Klein thought for a moment and offered a sincere assessment: "A quite profitable venture." Since the only costs involved are space and shelter. "If you're interested in an item but don't have enough cash, you can go to Sviyn and borrow money—though, of course, he charges very high interest," Old Neil said, momentarily gritting his teeth. Indeed, just like a casino, he offers high-interest lending services... Klein, holding his cane, glanced around curiously and asked: "Mr. Sviyn, is he a 'Seafarer'?" The captain of the "Substitute Penalties" team should be in position seven. "No, just the 'People of Wrath'—Tingen isn't coastal, so the goddess's church holds more strength there than the Storm King's." Old Niel chuckled. "Sven actually had a chance to become a 'Navigator,' but he was afraid of losing control and chose to step aside." Kaine was about to ask the bar owner if he himself had ever nearly lost control when he suddenly sensed something unusual on his left. Something seemed to be hidden there, whispering, speaking. Kaine turned and saw a young man with pale skin, wearing a worn linen shirt and blue-gray work pants typical of the laboring class. His eyes were scattered and yet filled with wild intensity, constantly murmuring to himself. "His inspiration is so vivid... or perhaps distorted?" Kaine murmured, frowning. It was precisely the other man's inspiration that had just stirred Kaine's own! Typically, the awareness brought by "inspiration" inevitably creates some kind of interaction and is hard to conceal—though this "others" refers specifically to those who have the ability to perceive such inspiration, or to other accomplished individuals with similar talents. For extraordinary figures like Caine, however, it's quite difficult to detect such subtle cues unless the other person's inspiration reaches a particularly high level or exhibits unusual distortions. Throughout the entire process, not a single customer or vendor exchanged a glance. Klein pressed his tall hat to his chest, staring in wide-eyed astonishment at the old Neil beside him, using his gesture to convey both surprise and inquiry. "Never mind—he's called Admessor, an orphan nicknamed 'The Monster.' He's born with exceptional intuition and often sees things that shouldn't be seen, hears sounds that shouldn't be heard, so he frequently speaks incoherently and suffers frequent injuries." The old Neil shook his head and explained. Did you notice that I've already died once in this body? Klein furrowed his brow, lowering his voice in quiet curiosity. "Didn't the Night Watchers, the Substitute Sentinels, or the Mechanists consider incorporating him into their ranks?" "No—we simply don't have any sequence-specific magical potions suitable for him." The old Neil sighed. Ah, that effectively solidifies his position at the halfway point of the sequence pathways. Klein asked with further interest. "Then, which sequence path would he best fit into?" "He's suited for the Sequence 9 known as 'The Monster'—that's where his nickname comes from. Unfortunately, this sequence pathway has only been mastered by the School of Life." Old Neil spoke softly. He had deliberately kept their conversations private, avoiding the surrounding crowd to prevent information from leaking to the mystics. The School of Life? Caine recalled the materials he had read before. This secretive organization emerged in the early era of this age, though its origins remain unclear, primarily relying on master-apprentice lineages. Their specific theories and beliefs are rarely shared outside. Caine knew they divided the world into three layers: the world of absolute rationality—also known as the world of absolute truth; the world of spirits; and the world of matter. It's said this organization has produced 'Prophets'... But shouldn't that correspond to the Sequence Pathway of 'Seers'?... That doesn't make sense. Caine shook his head in confusion, watching Adimissor struggle to rise and wander toward other corners. He settled his thoughts and followed Old Neil, passing through one stall after another, noticing moonflowers, golden hand citruses, night-scented pelargoniums, along with silver, yellow quartz, and red rubies. "Indeed, quite comprehensive..." Klein murmured softly. The various mystics around him—some older, some younger, some male, some female—would pause, identify items, or engage in conversation, making the scene lively and bustling. "Go on, browse around. I'll settle the bill." Old Neil pointed to one of the two rooms at the far end. "Alright." Klein nodded casually. Holding his black staff, he strolled slowly to a stall selling handcrafted amulets and studied it carefully. Just as Klein was about to speak, he suddenly heard a voice from behind asking, "Is this powdered root of the cow's tooth peony?" Cow's tooth peony? Wasn't that a supporting ingredient for the 'audience' potion? Klein paused, thoughtfully turned, and faced the inquirer. For this material, since the word "justice" was repeated several times, he already had a strong impression of it.