Sir De维尔's bedroom was larger than the living room and dining room combined at the Klein household, composed of sleeping, sitting, dressing, bathing, and bookshelf-and-desk areas, with refined furnishings and luxurious details. Yet, in Klein's perception, the room was dimly lit, with a temperature at least half that of the outside. At the same time, he seemed to hear a continuous stream of weeping and the labored, dying cries. Klein felt slightly disoriented, as everything then returned to normal: bright sunlight streamed through the windows, filling the room evenly; the temperature was neither hot nor cold; the police, bodyguards, and house staff remained silent, without a word. This... he turned his head toward the classical and opulent bed, and noticed that within the shadows, a series of blurred eyes seemed to swirl, like moths that dared not die beside a gas lamp. After walking a few steps toward it, however, the scenes he had just seen vanished from his spiritual vision. Not a standard ghost, nor even a malevolent spirit… What exactly was it? Kline furrowed his brow, recalling the esoteric knowledge he had gathered recently. In his view, assigning today’s task to the "bier bearers," the "grave diggers," or the "spirit communicators" should have been straightforward—yet clearly, this was not his strongest domain. Suppressing the urge to turn toward divination and investigation, Kline slowly scanned the room, seeking additional clues to support his several hypotheses. "Mr. Devereux," he said hesitantly, "do you have any findings?" "If it were that simple, I believe my colleagues would have reported by now," Kline replied, instinctively glancing at the philanthropist. Just as he was about to shift his gaze away, he suddenly noticed a pale human silhouette reflected in the mirror behind Devereux. Not one—several, overlapping and wavering, shimmering with a soft, pale hue! The figure vanished in an instant, and Klein once again heard the faint sound of weeping. Huff—he exhaled a thick breath, easing the fear that had nearly sent him to draw his gun. With heightened inspiration and his spiritual sight activated, he knew he’d eventually go mad from this constant strain. Klein eased his own tension by constantly making sarcastic remarks, then turned his gaze back to Sir Deville. This time, he saw something different. Around Sir Deville, who was in this bedroom, faint, wavering white shadows occasionally flickered into view, dimming the light in those areas. Each time these shadows appeared, a ghostly, ethereal sound of weeping and moaning—unheard by ordinary people—rose up. Unheard by ordinary people? Because of the daylight? Klein nodded thoughtfully. Now he had a preliminary judgment of the case: The persistent haunting of Sir Deville stemmed from a series of lingering spiritual echoes—residual emotions that humans often find hardest to release before death! This resentment and lingering presence, if allowed to accumulate further and grow stronger, would eventually transform into a terrifying spectral entity. Yet Sir De维尔 is well known as a charitable patron; even someone as discerning as Bensun holds him in deep respect. How could there be so much "residual death resentment" clinging to him? Inconsistency? A deliberate scheme by an exceptional being? Klein mused over these possibilities. He paused, then turned to De维尔, speaking: "Sir, I have a few questions." Updates are not easy—please share the web page. "Please go on," De维尔 said, settling into a weary, frail seat. Klein organized his thoughts and asked, "When you leave this place and journey to new destinations—say, to the countryside or to Beckett—do you always experience at least a brief period of peaceful rest during the night, only to find that the condition gradually worsens, until even during the day, when you sleep, you hear moans and cries?" De维尔半眯着的眼睛倏地睁开了，蔚蓝的眼眸中多了一抹光彩：“是的，你找到了问题的根源了吗？”这才让他意识到，由于长期失眠，精神状态不佳，竟已忘记将这条至关重要的线索告知警方！当克莱恩的问题得到肯定答复，督察托勒暗自松了口气，心中明白值夜者已找到了线索。警长盖特则既惊讶又好奇，不禁数次凝视着心理学专家克莱恩。 这正符合怨念逐渐缠绕、逐步集聚的特性……获得反馈的克莱恩已基本确认了答案。 眼下，他有两套方案可助德维尔爵士摆脱困扰：其一，直接在德维尔爵士周围布置祭台，借助仪式魔法彻底清除“死亡怨念”；其二，运用其他神秘学手段，追溯问题源头，从根本上予以解决。 Given the rule that "the existence of extraordinary powers should be kept as secret as possible from ordinary people," Caine decided to first try the second approach—only then, if it failed, would he appeal to the goddess. "Sir Devereux, you're suffering from a psychological disorder, a mental illness," he said to Devereux, speaking seriously and making up the statement as he went. Devereux frowned and asked back, "Are you saying I'm a mental patient, someone who needs to go to a psychiatric hospital?" "No, not that severe—actually, most people have some degree of psychological or mental issues," Caine added casually, "Allow me to reintroduce myself. I'm a psychologist with the Ahovah County Police Department." "Psychologist?" Devereux and his butler both turned to their acquaintance, Toller. Toller nodded firmly, confirming it was true. "Then, what would you like me to do to assist with your treatment?" Moreover, I don't understand why my butler, my bodyguard, and my servants can all hear cries and moans...” De维尔 grasped his cane with both hands, looking puzzled. Klein responded with professional composure: “I'll explain it to you later.” “Could you please ask your butler, your servants, and your bodyguard to step outside? Torle, Detective, and Gat, Chief Inspector, could you also join them? I need a quiet setting to begin my initial treatment.” The spell of “healing”… Torle Detective silently added, nodding to Sir De维尔. De维尔 remained silent for several seconds, then said: “Carlen, please have them go to the lounge on the second floor to wait.” “Yes, Sir.” The butler, Carlen, did not object, as the request had been made by a formal officer—Detective-in-training and a psychology specialist. As he watched them leave one by one and closed the door behind them, Caine turned to Deville, whose dark gold hair and blue eyes caught the light, and said: "Sir, please lie down on the bed, relax, and try to fall asleep." "...Yes, of course." Deville hung his coat and hat on the stand, walked slowly to the bed, and lay down. A sorrowful weeping hovered in Caine's ears, and he "saw" a series of faint, translucent figures materializing around him. Ho, ho, ho—painful groans came through, and with his waning sense of thought, Caine extended his right hand and touched one of them. Suddenly, those figures transformed into moths rushing toward a flame, one after another, flinging themselves at him. Caine's vision blurred instantly; his mind seemed split in two—one half calmly observing, the other seeing a "mirror." In the mirror stood a young girl dressed as a factory worker, strong and sturdy, walking through a dusty factory, her head throbbing in waves. Her vision occasionally blurred, and her body grew increasingly thin. She often felt someone calling her Charlotte, saying she had developed a common hysterical condition. Hysteria? She looked at the mirror and saw a faint, almost imperceptible blue line running across her gums. … The scene shifts, and Klein seems to see once again—transformed into a girl named Mary. She is walking through the lead-smelting factory, young and lively. Suddenly, her one side of the face begins to twitch continuously, followed by the same side of her arm and leg. "You have epilepsy," someone says, as she convulses throughout her body. She collapses, the convulsions growing more intense until she loses consciousness. … Another girl, listless and bewildered, wanders aimlessly through the streets, even experiencing difficulties with speech. She suffers from severe headaches, has blue lines across her gums, and occasionally convulses. She meets a doctor, who says: "Laforte, you are affected by lead." The doctor gazes at her with compassion, watching her convulse repeatedly, watching the light fade from her eyes. … A series of scenes unfolded in Klein’s mind, half immersed in them, half observing with calm clarity. Suddenly, he fully grasped the girls’ plight: they were female workers long exposed to lead white and dust, suffering from lead poisoning that ultimately claimed their lives. Sir Deville himself owned a lead manufacturing plant and two ceramic factories, all employing relatively low-cost female labor! Klein silently "watched" all this, sensing only one aspect still unexplained: the "death resentment" was remarkably faint—no matter how many such cases accumulated, it could not meaningfully impact reality or Sir Deville himself, unless, unless a stronger, more persistent resentment unified them into a cohesive whole. At that moment, he "saw" a young girl once more. The girl was no older than eighteen, assisting in glazing porcelain at the factory. "Hélène, how have you been lately? Have you been experiencing any headaches?" "If it's very severe, please let me know—Sir Deville has specified that people suffering from severe headaches must no longer be exposed to lead and must leave the factory." An older woman asked with concern. Hélène touched her forehead and smiled, responding, "A little, fortunately." "Then tell me tomorrow whether it has worsened," the older woman advised. Hélène agreed and returned home, occasionally pressing her forehead. She saw her parents and brothers coming in from outside, their faces filled with sorrow. "Your father and brothers have lost their jobs..." her mother said, wiping tears from her eyes. Her father and brothers bowed their heads, speaking softly, "We'll go to the docks to look for work." "But we don't even have money for bread for tomorrow—perhaps we'll have to move to the very end of the next street..." Hélène's mother looked at her with red eyes, "When will your salary be paid? Is it ten shillings, isn't it?" Hailie pressed her forehead again: "Yes, Saturday, Saturday." She said nothing more, as usual quiet, and returned to the factory the next day, informing her supervisor that her headache had improved and there was no issue. She smiled, walking five kilometers to work each day and five kilometers back home, gently massaging her head more and more frequently. "Have you not yet found work?" Hailie looked at the black bread simmering in the soup and asked her father and brothers. Her father sighed, expressing his concern: "The economy has been sluggish lately—many places have laid off workers, even the docks work one day, rest the next, and only receive three shillings and seven pence per week." Hailie sighed, said nothing further, as always quiet, simply subtly concealing her suddenly twitching left hand behind her. The next day, she walked to work again, the sunlight gradually brightening, and the number of pedestrians on the streets steadily increasing. Suddenly, she began to convulse, her entire body trembling. She lay on the roadside, foaming at the mouth. She gazed upward, her vision blurring. She saw people coming and going, saw figures gathering around, saw a carriage pass by, and saw the white dove emblem of the Deville family rising into the sky, wings outstretched. She tried to open her mouth, but no sound came out. So, as always, she remained silent—just as quiet as usual. Yet unlike any other time, she passed away.