Klein kept thinking this possibility was more and more plausible—otherwise, who would casually borrow those few journals? "Well, the field of ancient ruins research at Honauchis Peak is so niche that even outside of the lecturers and associate professors, most general enthusiasts probably haven't even heard of it. Even the original owner, a history undergraduate, only learned about it through the notes of the Antigonos family... While Tinggen City is known as a university town, one would expect it to have only a limited number of people genuinely interested in this topic. Even if there were such people, they would likely be concentrated within the university campus, making a special trip to the Deville Library unnecessary..." "Most importantly, the borrowing activity coincides precisely with the recent period." "Once I analyzed this, it truly does raise serious questions. I must have been less perceptive at the time—I simply didn't see it coming. Oh well, it seems I lack the talent to be a detective, to embody Holmes. As his thoughts flickered, Swaine, the owner of 'The Dragon's Pub,' asked curiously, "Is there a problem?" "Since there were guests and the bartender present, he could only make general inquiries. "No issues at all—I was just wondering how to investigate this gentleman, as you know, Hynas Vanzant died at home." Kline had already prepared his response. He didn't want the "Penitents" to also take an interest in the ancient ruins of Honaquis Peak. "VanZant is a well-known seer in Tinggen, and he often comes to my place." Swain was indeed brushed aside, recalling, "Upon reflection, the gentleman in the portrait actually came with VanZant at the beginning..." "That's exactly what I'd like to know—did you remember his name?" Kline immediately followed up. Swain shook his head with a chuckle. "I don't usually ask my customers' names or identities unless I already know them, like old Neil." "Well," Kline deliberately conveyed a touch of disappointment. To him, it didn't matter whether Swain knew or not—he could simply go investigate at the Deville Library. Borrowing books in a private donation library would inevitably leave behind personal information, and one that was credible enough! Recall that Cline had originally secured his borrowing privileges only thanks to an introduction letter stamped by a senior associate professor. Even if that professor had forged the documents, there was still a strong likelihood of leaving traces that would aid my divination. Cline watched Swain walk toward the counter and then enter the billiards room thoughtfully. He didn't immediately head off to investigate the Deville Library—he intended to first complete his purchases, since it was far from certain whether any danger might arise later or whether ritual magic would be needed. Passing through several rooms, Cline arrived at the underground marketplace, where the stalls and patrons were quite sparse, clearly still before the peak period. Just as he took a step forward, he suddenly spotted Admessor, the "monstrous" figure who had previously described him as smelling of death, standing in the corner. The young man, pale-faced with a scattered gaze that hinted at a terrifying madness, also noticed and looked over. When their eyes met, Admessor suddenly reached up and covered his face, trembling as he leaned against the wall, moving step by step. Soon, he reached the side door and stumbled out. "Is it really necessary? I only nearly blinded you last time—what did I even do? It's as if I were some great demon!" Klein's expression remained slightly stiff. He shook his head, smiled, and set aside the matter of the "monstrous" figure, then proceeded to the already-arranged stall, beginning to deliberately select and purchase items. Half an hour later, Klein had spent most of his savings, amounting to several pounds. Counting the three pounds and seventeen shillings in paper currency left on his person, he gently stroked each metal bottle nestled in the small inner pocket of his black overcoat, feeling both pained and satisfied. "This is the 'Amande' essence used by Miss Dailly." "This is a blend of powdered dragon-vein tree bark and leaves." "This is essential oil extracted from the deep sleep infusion." "These are dried chamomile petals." "This is my own freshly prepared 'Saint Night' powder, made from the materials I just gathered." ... Repeating these details in his mind, one after another, he ensured he wouldn't fumble or lose his materials under pressure. Thanks to his special aptitude in the mysterious realm, he quickly solidified his memory and stepped toward the exit. Suddenly, in the periphery of his vision, he caught a figure that seemed slightly familiar. A young lady in a light, fresh green dress, with smooth, lustrous black hair, a round face, long narrow eyes, and a sweet, composed demeanor. Was this the same young woman who had been trembling earlier? She seemed indeed fine... He hadn't expected her to be a mystic enthusiast either. Klein slowed his pace, pondering for a few seconds before finally recalling who she was. He had to admit that, aside from the currently indistinct figure of "Justice," this young lady was the most beautiful he had encountered since arriving in this realm. The sweet, composed woman stood before a stall selling mystical books, slightly awkwardly half-squatting down, her fingers gently tracing over an ancient volume. The book featured a deep black hardcover, inscribed with the Hermetic script: "The Book of the Witch." "It contains records of the witch's black magic," the vendor said, seizing the opportunity to promote it. "Though I haven't personally tried it, others have, and it does work." The composed, gentle woman paused for a few seconds before responding, "In your mind, what does a witch look like?" "A witch?" the vendor thought for a moment. "A bringer of misfortune, illness, and suffering—an evil force." He didn’t hear their conversation, for he had already hurried out the door, eager to reach the Devereux Library, eager to finish all his errands and return home to prepare dinner for his brother and sister—tomato and beef shank soup. Beckland, Crown Racecourse. Audrey Hall stood in the grand box, wearing a white gown with lamb’s-wool sleeves, ruffled edges, and lace on the front, gazing at the horses speeding toward the finish line. She wore a lightweight hat adorned with blue ribbons and silk flowers, her hands in pale silk gloves, her gaze cool and distant, as if unable to engage with the lively atmosphere around her. As the horses crossed the finish line, her friend, the Viscount Grelint, approached, lowering his voice: “Audrey, every time I see you, you seem more beautiful than ever.” “What is it?” In the past, Audrey might have briefly absorbed the praise, but now, she sensed from the Viscount’s words and demeanor that he had something more to say. Glelindert, having lost his father at a young age and inheriting the title at twenty, was a slightly slender young man. He glanced around, then smiled lightly. "Audry, I've met a true exceptional one—not from the royal family." You always say that, and it always falls short... Audry looked ahead, her smile graceful as she asked, "Really?" "I stand by my father's reputation—I've witnessed his extraordinary powers," Glelindert whispered. Audry, no longer as enthusiastic as before—since she herself was an exceptional one—still held her eyes wide, her expression bright with surprise, and with a trembling voice inquired, "When shall I meet him?" "Well, it's good to meet other extraordinary individuals too—after all, not every small matter can be settled at the Tarot Society... And I need my own resources, something I can exchange with Mr. The Fool and Mr. The Hanged Man... Not everything can be solved with money... Heh, after sending those one thousand pounds, I'll have to tighten my budget a bit... "Klein named journals such as *New Archaeology* and said, 'I'd like the borrowing records for these journals, for the past two months.' He noticed that among the library staff, there was someone who had previously greeted him, though the person clearly didn't recognize him. 'Please wait a moment,' the staff member said, and several administrators began to busy themselves, quickly locating the most recent borrowing records. Klein carefully went through them, looking for names that matched those of journals he himself had borrowed. There were only a few such names—just one. This individual had come in several times, borrowing journals that largely included the ones Klein was familiar with. The earliest record dated to late May, and the most recent one was the day before last Saturday, the very day when Hinas Vancent died."