Tinggen, 2 Xanthus Street. Klein left a note, locked the door, and hurried toward Leonard Mitchell, who was waiting by the roadside. Leonard's short black hair had grown a bit longer since last month and was somewhat untidy. Yet even so, with his good features, his emerald-eyed gaze, and his poet-like demeanor, he carried a distinct, unconventional elegance. Indeed, any hairstyle truly depends on the face—Klein unconsciously remarked, pointing toward the Iron Cross Street, "Is Frey waiting over there?" "Yes," Leonard said, smoothing the shirt collar slightly, as if casually asking, "Have you found any clues in the documents?" Klein, holding his staff in his left hand, walked along the street's edge, "Not yet. Neither the manner of death nor the timing reveals any pattern. As you know, rituals involving deities or demons always require specific times or unique methods." Leonard touched the custom revolver concealed at his waist, beneath his shirt, and smiled lightly. "It's not absolute. In my experience, some deities—or even demons—can be quite easy to please, as long as they're genuinely interested in what's to come." "And among these death incidents, a significant portion must surely be ordinary. We have to eliminate those to arrive at the correct answer," said Crane, glancing at him. "So that's precisely why the captain assigned us to re-examine the cases and filter out the ordinary ones." "Leonard, the tone and your description suggest you have ample experience in this area. Yet you've only been a night watcher for under four years, with no more than two extraordinary cases per month on average, and most of them are straightforward, easily resolved." He has always found his teammate, Leonard Mitchell, strange and enigmatic—not only questioning himself constantly, feeling special, but also at times eccentric, self-important, frivolous, and deeply introspective. Could it be that he too has had a series of extraordinary experiences that make him feel like the protagonist of his own drama? Klein, drawing on his broad experience from films, novels, and television series, made rough speculations. Upon hearing his question, Leonard smiled and replied, "That's because you haven't yet fully entered the state of a Watcher—you're still in the training phase." "Each year, the Sanctuary compiles extraordinary cases reported across various parishes and churches into books, editing them according to confidentiality levels and distributing them to members accordingly." "In addition to your studies in Mysticism, you may apply to the Captain to join the Charnes Gate and access the historical case files." Klein nodded with a moment of realization: "The队长 has never reminded me about these things." To date, he still hasn't had the opportunity to enter the Charnis Gate. Leonard chuckled lightly: "I thought you'd grown accustomed to the队长's style, but it turns out you're still naively expecting him to remind you." With that, he added meaningfully, "If one day the队长 remembers everything and forgets nothing, then we might indeed need to be on our guard." That implies a loss of control, didn't it? Klein nodded seriously, then asked: "Is this truly the队长's unique style?" "I thought it was just a problem that came with the 'Insomniacs' sequence..." night work leading to memory loss, etc. "Actually, it's more characteristic of the 'nightmares'—a blending of reality and dreams, often making it hard to distinguish what's real and what needs to be remembered, and what's merely passing through your mind." Leonard had wanted to add something more, but by the time they reached the Iron Cross Street, they spotted "the undertaker" Flea waiting at the streetcar stop. Flea wore a black rounded-brimmed felt hat and a matching thin overcoat, his pale complexion making one wonder if he might collapse at any moment, and his cold, shadowed presence causing the passengers around him to naturally drift away. After exchanging polite nods, the three remained silent, simply merging their paths, and together crossed past "Slin's Bakery" and proceeded down the lower part of Iron Cross Street. The clamor surged directly at them, street vendors shouting loudly about oyster soup, pan-seared fish, ginger beer, and fruit, their voices strained, compelling pedestrians to slow down naturally. It was just past five, and many had returned to the Iron Cross Street, where the sidewalks began to crowd with people—some children among them, observing the scene with detached calm, their eyes fixed on everyone’s pockets. —Benson and Melissa still maintain connections with some of their former neighbors, since they haven’t moved too far. Crossing through the bustling area filled with street vendors, the three of them entered the true heart of the Iron Cross Street’s lower district. The pedestrians there wore worn and tattered clothing, watching the strangers in fresh, bright attire with a mixture of suspicion and greed—like vultures eyeing decaying flesh, ready to strike at any moment. But Leonard’s revolver effectively prevented any unexpected incidents. "Let’s begin our investigation with the incident of last night," Leonard said, flipping through his notes and pointing toward a building nearby. "Mrs. Lavoris, the one who makes molded matches. Room 134, first floor..." As they walked on, one after another, the ragged children darted quickly to the roadside, watching them with wide-eyed wonder, curiosity, and fear. "Look at their arms and legs—they’re just like matchsticks." Leonard remarked something and stepped ahead into building 134, which had three floors. A mingling of odors immediately rushed into Caine's nostrils—he could just make out the tang of urine, the sourness of sweat, the damp mustiness of mildew, and the scent of burning coal and wood. Unable to help himself, Caine lifted his hand to shield his nose. There, he found Beich Monbatton, the district police chief, who sported a warm, golden beard and greeted Leonard with deference as he presented his inspector's credentials. "Sir, I've had Lavoris waiting in the room," Beich Monbatton said, his voice distinctively crisp and slightly high. He clearly hadn't recognized the more composed, polished Caine, and was entirely focused on pleasing the three officers, guiding them into Lavoris's home on the first floor. This is a single-room house. Against the inner wall is a double bed, with a table on the right holding glue and cardboard items, and a basket piled high with matches in the corner. On the left is a worn cupboard that serves both for clothing and tableware. Furnaces, a toilet, and a few coal and wood items are crowded against the doorframes, while two dirty floor mats occupy the central space—one man sleeps soundly, wrapped in a blanket that has torn and is nearly falling apart, so that it's nearly impossible to step without disturbing him. On the lower bed of the double bed lies a woman whose skin is cold and lifeless, clearly having lost all vital signs. Beside her sits a man in his thirties, his hair greasy and disheveled, his expression listless and his eyes dull. "Lavies, these three officers have come to examine the body and ask you a few questions," said Beckett Montbatten, speaking loudly without regard for the man still asleep on the floor. The man, weary and weak, lifted his head in surprise, asking, "Didn't we check on him this morning? Didn't we ask him already?" He wore a gray-blue workman's shirt, with several patches of mended fabric. "Just answer the question! What's all this extra questioning for?" Bevyn Montbatten snapped at him, then turned to Leonard, Klein, and Fley with a smile, saying, "Sir, that's Lavoris. His wife, who's the deceased, is lying on the bed. After our initial examination, she died suddenly of illness." Klein and the others stepped carefully through the gaps between the cots to reach the bedside. Fley, with his high nose, thin lips, and cold demeanor, said nothing; instead, he gently patted Lavoris, indicating that he should make room so Fley could examine the body. Klein glanced at the man sleeping on the floor and asked curiously, "This one?" "Me, my tenant." "Louis rubbed his scalp." "This room costs three sou and ten centimes a week. I'm just a dockworker, and my wife earns only two and a quarter centimes for every basket of matches she prepares. Each basket has, has, over 130 boxes. We have children, so I can only rent out the spare spaces. A single pallet costs just one sou a week..." "I have a tenant who helps set up scenery at the theater. He doesn't rest until after ten o'clock, so I've sold him the daytime use of the pallet. He's the night guard at the theater's main gate. He pays only six centimes a week..." Listening to the man's detailed account, Caine glanced briefly at the baskets in the corner. Over 130 boxes per basket, earning only two and a quarter centimes—about the price of two pounds of dark bread. How many baskets could she prepare in a day? (Note 1) Leonard looked around and asked, "Did anything unusual happen in your wife's final months?" "Lavise, who had already answered similar questions, pointed to her left chest: 'Since last week, perhaps two weeks ago, she've often said this area feels stuffy and suffocating.' Is there any sign of cardiac issues? Or a typical, natural death? Klein interjected. 'Have you witnessed the actual process of her passing?' Lavise recalled: 'After sunset, she stopped working—candles and kerosene were far more expensive than matches. She said she was tired, asked me to talk to the two children, so she could rest. When I returned to check on her, she had already stopped breathing.' At this point, Lavise's sorrow and anguish could no longer be concealed. Klein and Leonard asked a few more questions, but found no signs of anything unusual or unnatural. After exchanging a glance, Leonard spoke: "Mr. Lawves, could you please step outside for a few minutes while we conduct a thorough examination of the body? I believe you won't want to see what's coming next." "Of course, of course," Lawves hurried to his feet. Beach Montbatten approached and kicked awake the tenant sleeping on the floor, roughly pushing him out, then promptly closed the door behind him, standing guard outside. "How is it?" Leonard turned to Fley. "Fley said, 'The cause of death was cardiac disease.'" Fley withdrew his hands, speaking with confidence. Cline thought for a moment, then produced a half-penny copper coin, intending to make a quick determination. "Is it 'The cardiac disease of Mrs. Lawves was influenced by extraordinary factors'? No—that's too narrow and might mislead. Hmm, 'The death of Mrs. Lawves was influenced by extraordinary factors'—yes, that's it!" He murmured silently, as though thinking, and soon settled on the incantation. As he silently meditated, Caine approached the body of Mrs. Lavoris, his eyes darkening and the coin springing upward. The echo of the sound lingered, and the bronze coin rolled gently to rest steadily in his palm. This time, the king's head faced upward. This confirmed that Mrs. Lavoris's death indeed bore the mark of extraordinary influence! Note 1: Toward the end of the Victorian era, one basket contained 144 matches, with a labor fee of 2.25 pence; a woman's daily limit, from morning until evening, was seven baskets.