Worn out, Kline removed the sealed spiritual wall, allowing the cool night breeze, carrying the scent of grass and trees, to brush against his face and clear his mind a little. He stroked the smooth, classical seal in his hand, number "3–0782," and sincerely murmured, "Who could have imagined that this insignia contained a single drop of divine blood... probably the stronger members of the Eternal Radiant Sun Church searched for it, but never found it." He moved his neck slightly, unable to think of any other course of action, and fastened the "mutated solar emblem" to the inner side of his thin wind coat. Following the chain, he produced a silver pocket watch engraved with vine patterns, snapped it open, and glanced at the time—discovering that there was still over an hour until the corpse-bearer, Fleur, arrived for his shift. "My eyelids need two matches to stay open... this is the aftereffect of pushing myself to the limit!" With no other choice, Kline reached into the series of small, dark pockets and withdrew a small metal bottle, removing the stopper and bringing it close to his nose. The sharp, mingled scent of mint and disinfectant surged into his nose, stimulating his skin into a fine network of bumps and instantly rousing him, banishing his drowsiness. This was the formula he had learned from the "coroner" Fley, known as "Crag's Oil," which helped combat foul odors of decay and also invigorated the mind. For the next hour, Kline endured intense discomfort, frequently rising to walk around, being bitten and drawn upon by mosquitoes in the forest several times. Finally, he saw Fley—tall, with a high nose, thin lips, black hair, and blue eyes—wearing a light windbreaker and carrying a cane, stepping out of the town. Though Fley still maintained his cold, lifeless demeanor, Kline felt as though he had encountered a savior. He wiped his mouth with a hand, yawned so hard tears filled his eyes, and approached him, pulling out the sealed object "3–0782" from the inside of his clothing. "What has happened?" Fley asked, noticing the paleness and distress on his teammate's face. Klein sighed, "I just finished watch duty at the Charnis Gate last night, and I didn't sleep well this morning either—so now I'm extremely tired." He didn't elaborate on this, changing the subject, "Is my shift four hours long?" "Seven hours, Captain doesn't need to sleep at night." Frey took the "mutated Solar Saint Emblem." Meditation brings joy... Klein silently criticized the captain in his mind, then bid Frey good day and headed toward the town. On his way toward the inn, he casually checked his watch, "Hmm, it's nearly ten minutes earlier than agreed." "Such a warm person..." Klein smiled, quickened his pace, and reached the inn, pushing open the half-drawn door, ascending to his floor, and entering his room. He locked the door, removed his coat and shoes, and without washing himself, simply collapsed onto the bed. It was just a matter of a few seconds before his breathing first grew heavier, then deep and steady. In his sleep, Crane returned to Earth, facing a game he hadn't yet finished—on his left stood a chilled cola and spicy chicken wings, and on his right, a bitter bamboo shoot and meat slice soup served with rice. Though he never ate the bamboo shoots himself, he greatly enjoyed the soup made with them, which was refreshing, slightly rich with a pleasant oily aroma, and perfectly paired with rice. With a good dipping sauce on the side, he could eat an entire bowl more than usual. As Crane prepared to savor his evening meal and dive back into the game, his dream scene suddenly shifted, reappearing as the interior layout of No. 2 Xianzhen Street. He suddenly became alert, fully aware that he was dreaming. He saw himself seated slightly to the side of the table, holding a copy of the Tinggen Daily, with tomato beef bone soup, pan-seared lamb chops, mashed potatoes, and oat bread placed before him. He instinctively turned his head toward the entrance, and suddenly saw a figure standing at the projecting window facing the living room, quietly gazing at the figures inside the house! Cain was startled, then recognized the figure as Dunning—his deep gray eyes—half of his face pressed against the window, silently watching the people within. ...Captain, don't scare me in my dreams, please! Isn't this how you create nightmares? Cain thought, feeling both exasperated and amused, and reached for a spoon, scooping up a piece of beef and placing it in his mouth. Hmm, that's my skill! He silently remarked, now understanding why he had suddenly awakened in the dream and why the Earth setting had vanished so instantly. Whenever someone intruded upon his dreams, he naturally became alert! At that moment, Dunning stepped away from the projecting window and quietly pushed open the front door of the Moretti house, walking in a calm, composed manner to stand directly across from Cain. He removed his hat, gave a gentle nod, and sat down, taking the knife, fork, and spoon without the slightest hesitation, and with remarkable speed, finished off every dish—tomato-braised shank soup, seared lamb chops, mashed potatoes, and oat bread—clean and completely. "Klein's嘴角微微抽动，无奈地想道, 'So the captain's real goal is to make sure I don't even get a night snack in my dreams? That truly is a nightmare—what a creative way to play the part of a nightmare!' He chuckled and stepped out of the dream, then settled back to sleep. At 5:30 a.m. the next morning, Klein had to rise early, brewed coffee, ate toast and bacon, and hurried to replace Dunn outside the town. At 7 a.m., they set off promptly back toward the city of Tingen. By just before ten, they arrived at 36 Zötländer Street. Dunn, full of energy, returned the sealed object '3–0782' to the Charnes Gate. Then, Frey took a seat at the typewriter and, before any administrative staff arrived, personally drafted yesterday's task report and submitted the corresponding expense claims. Klein watched quietly and was satisfied to see that all the materials he had used were duly listed—this included the portions he had employed to repel mosquitoes and pests." He didn’t head home right away, as he had already arranged, via coded letters, to meet with Dr. Dastur of the asylum at one o’clock in the afternoon at the agreed-upon location. “Then there’s the three o’clock Tarot gathering… Why should I, as a boss of a secret organization, have to live such a hectic life?” Klein murmured to himself, lying in the night shift lounge for two hours, catching up on his sleep. He didn’t worry about forgetting the knowledge and events he had acquired last night—he could recall them through divination. What worried him was the possibility of overlooking their very existence, of losing even the thought to invoke divination for them. So, before going to bed, he mentally reviewed the details once again, reinforcing his memory. This was precisely why Klein made it a weekly habit to write summaries and organize his various situations. After lunch, he checked his watch, put on his hat, and left the Black Thorns Security Company, heading toward the Shooting Club at 30 Zothlan Street. Pushing open the door and entering the reception hall, Caine did not immediately head for the target range designated for the night watch. Instead, he found a seat in the hall, crossed his hands over his black cane, and patiently waited. Their agreed-upon meeting place was precisely this "Zotlan Street Shooting Club!" Their method of communication was by letter: whenever Caine needed to meet with Dastar, he would write as a patient's family member to Dr. Goodrider, inquiring about a special condition known as "dissociative personality disorder." In these letters, Caine would subtly reference the word "audience" in various ways, using the hidden ink dots positioned at concealed locations to confirm his identity. The time mentioned casually in the letter would serve as the exact time for their meeting. As for the meeting venue, it had already been established during their first conversation. Should Caine wish to change it, he would simply mention it during their meeting. When Dast Guerdran wishes to meet but does not require urgency, he may send the letter to the Hound's Inn or to this shooting club, addressed to "Mr. Hornechis," and wait for Cline to collect it at a scheduled time. If there is an urgent matter, the letter must be delivered directly to the owner of the Hound's Inn, Litt, with the remark, "Seeking a mercenary"—thus ensuring that Litt, as a peripheral member of the Watchers, immediately forwards it to Black Thorns Security. After a while, just two minutes short of the hour, Cline saw Dast enter the hall of the Shooting Club. He wore a distinguished, refined air, a black silk hat, a well-fitted tailcoat, a silver-handled cane in hand, and gold-framed spectacles on his nose. Dast glanced around casually, noticed Cline giving a slight nod, and then turned his gaze, walking toward the front desk to smoothly request access to the range and to rent a firearm. — He had already been here once. "Small Range 7, thirty sols per hour for the service; six sols and six deniers for the revolver rental, including six rounds of ammunition..." The attendant swiftly arranged everything. After confirming the time with Dastre and paying a fee of ten sols, he received the revolver and an additional supply of ammunition, then followed the server into the designated range. Klein waited an extra five minutes before slowly rising, taking his cane and stepping outside to the entrance of Small Range 7. He tapped firmly on the door. A creaking sound, and the door opened slightly. Dastre first scanned the surroundings with cautious alertness before stepping aside. Klein immediately stepped inside and locked the door behind him. "Good afternoon, Mr. Dastre," he said, withdrawing a ten-sol bill and handing it over. "We will not have the outer members bear the cost of this meeting." "Since I can claim it..." he added quietly. Dastor didn't hesitate, accepted the cash, and then asked in a steady voice: "Officer Moretti, what brings you to see me today?"