After sharing some interesting anecdotes and whispers among the noble families, Audrey paused her writing, adopting a serious, reflective expression. Relying on the exceptional memory of her audience, she carefully organized the scattered remarks and occasional lessons from her father, the Count Holberg, as well as the news she had picked up at banquets, balls, and salons, into coherent paragraphs. Only after mentally rehearsing everything did she begin to write: "Regarding your inquiry about the political situation in Beckett, this is not within my area of interest, and thus I can only convey the impressions I've formed, based on incidental details I've come across. Just recently, my father informed me that following the repeal of the 'Grain Act,' grain prices have plummeted sharply, and rental rates for farmland and pastures have also dropped dramatically—though I don't recall the exact figures, I can illustrate this with a single example." "You know, Duke Nigan is the wealthiest noble outside the royal family, boasting over 12 million pounds worth of land, pastures, and forests. Last year, his rental income reached a record high—130,000 pounds. This year, however, the expected total rental income is 85,000 pounds, a shortfall of exactly 45,000 pounds, an amount that exceeds the entire share of property I can now receive. "Given the significant decline in rental income, as far as I know, some noble families are now facing financial difficulties. Count Wolfsold sold his rural lands amounting to 840,000 hectares, raising 290,000 gold pounds, while Viscount Conrad sold his collection worth 55,000 gold pounds to the National Gallery." "Besides a few bold nobles who have already shifted their focus to industries such as steel, coal, railways, banking, and rubber, the rest have suffered severe setbacks during this grain bill crisis—let us therefore praise our beloved Count Hall!" "My father informed me that the financial strain will weaken the nobility's control over party politics in the House of Commons, and it is quite evident that the number of MPs from land-based noble families will decrease significantly in next year's elections." "Moreover, to raise funds, both the Conservative Party and the New Party have pledged to secure a peerage for any individual—provided they have no criminal record—once they have made sufficient donations. Of course, this requires the individual to own a minimum land area commensurate with the title in question. For instance, Mr. Sindras, a wealthy man, acquired the minimum land area of 600,000 hectares required for a barony, then donated £100,000 to the Carlton Club, £400,000 to the Conservative Party, and a total of £300,000 to charitable causes. As a result, he was duly granted a royal charter and became a noble Baron. I have heard that there is a clear pricing structure: a barony costs £300,000, a hereditary barony ranges from £700,000 to £1,000,000; as for viscounts and earls, the figures remain somewhat unclear, though I believe the claims are undoubtedly exaggerated." "... During that year, many noble families facing financial difficulties began seriously considering marriage alliances with wealthy merchants, with three such unions taking place within just two months—each accompanied by generous dowries that were particularly attractive. Meanwhile, the workers who had initially protested the Grain Act did indeed see a reduction in food prices, yet their standard of living remained unchanged, if not deteriorated, as bankrupt farmers moved into the cities, competing for jobs at low wages, thereby rapidly driving down labor wages. I remember that day, after recounting all this, my father asked me, 'Do you think the real winners of this Grain Act episode are the merchants or the workers?' 'My dear Alfred,' he said, 'you must know the answer by now. You are certain to earn a hereditary title through your own efforts.' ... Hugh Dillchar and Follye Wal, who had received Audrey's letter, were now returning by carriage to the Beckland Bridge region." With her golden hair tousled, she gazed out the window, her eyes bright as though two flames were burning within them. She kept murmuring the word "four hundred and fifty pounds," as if reciting a spell—each repetition strengthening her courage and resolve. "Dakholm hasn't come to see us yet to update us on the latest investigation. Let's just go straight to his house!" Suddenly, she turned to look at Firth. Dakholm was the head of a crime syndicate in the eastern part of Beckland, controlling many beggars and petty thieves. Though he always appeared kind, with a smooth, warm smile that radiated approachability, Rest knew he was a cruel and ruthless villain—he had once broken the hand of a young thief, only fourteen or fifteen, simply because the boy had hidden his earnings. If it weren't absolutely necessary, she would have preferred not to see Dakholm at all, yet he was one of the few people truly familiar with the lives of the city's homeless. Forsyth brushed her wavy brown hair behind her ears and said, "As long as I don't have to delay my lunch." "Absolutely! Maybe after this week, I'll treat you to an Indis meal!" Hugh offered with great confidence. "Shall I thank the gods for that?" Forsyth asked with a smile. Unlike Hugh, she was only a casual devotee of the gods of steam and machinery. As they spoke, the two girls transferred to another public carriage and arrived in the eastern district of Bakersland, where they found the Dacholm home. It was a row house nestled in a narrow alley, with lush green plants growing on the walls and a somewhat untidy exterior. Hugh approached the door and raised her right hand, gently tapping it with a distinct rhythm several times. The door, which hadn't been fully closed, creaked open in response to her taps. Hugh's initially puzzled expression instantly turned serious, as if a lion had suddenly bristled up. She drew forth her three-edged dagger, carefully pushing open the door and entering slowly. Folsom also shifted from her casual demeanor, producing a knife from somewhere. They hadn't detected any unusual odors, yet their rich experience made them acutely aware of the discrepancy. One step, two steps, three steps—Hou and Folsom entered the house of Dackholm. Then they saw the pale, severed arms draped over the gas lamp, the heart, liver, spleen, lungs, and kidneys arranged on the side table, and a trail of blood and flesh scattered across the floor, hanging from the coat rack! The white bones, neatly shaved and scattered, lay haphazardly in front of the entrance. Among the bones, one head remained, its eyes hollow and staring blankly—Dackholm himself. His round face still bore a gentle, reassuring smile, as if everything were normal, and there was not a single trace of blood in the air throughout the house. As a former clinic physician and now a best-selling author, a Sequel 9 Exceptional, Firth had seen more repulsive death scenes than this. She patted down Hugh, who was tense and clearly about to retch, and surveyed the room, speaking in a steady tone: "Zinglars? 'Hurricane Admiral' Zinglars?" "He discovered Dakhholm was investigating the missing wanderers, so he tracked him down directly?" "Or did Dakhholm find Zinglars' whereabouts, only to have him catch on to that?" Hugh suppressed the wave of nausea, his expression solemn, and nodded: "Indeed, no surprise—such a renowned pirate admiral for his tenacity and cunning. And the strangeness here fits perfectly with the magic object he possesses." "Cunning..." Firth suddenly gasped, exclaiming, "Could it be that he's still lingering nearby, setting up a ambush to investigate his mastermind?" Hugh paused, then responded with a touch of urgency: "Most likely!" "That's a Sequence 6 'Wind-warden'—a great pirate who commands a magical artifact—while these two are only Sequence 9! That's a remarkably simple and straightforward comparison! ... Across from the Dac'hom family's house, a man in his thirties with a distinctive broad chin and deep green eyes stood by the window, coldly observing as Thu and Folsen pushed open the door and entered slowly. This was none other than 'Storm Commander' Zilings. Suddenly, the black glove in his left hand began to move with life of its own, its surface blooming with a fine, dark golden scale pattern. Zilings' expression turned cruelly pleased, and his deep green eyes transformed into cold, golden, unyielding pupils. ... Folsen turned her head quickly and hurriedly pulled Thu to the other side, stepping away from the direct path to the doorway. Then, she bit down firmly on her white teeth, removing a pendant chain concealed beneath the hem of her sleeve." On this silver bracelet, three coarse, deep-blue stones are set, their surfaces marked with burn patterns and uneven in texture. Folshe yanked one stone free, whispering in ancient Hermes: "Gate!" She clutched Holdirch tightly, watching the stone glow with a faint, ethereal blue light. The forms of the two women blurred, approaching near-invisibility. They saw beings of indescribable form, some transparent as though they didn't exist at all, and witnessed a succession of clear, luminous beams of varying colors, each radiating boundless knowledge—entering the mysterious realm of spirits. In that strange, otherworldly world above the real world, Folshe drew Holdirch forward in a direction. After three breaths, they emerged from the translucent, ethereal state, returning to reality, back to Beckland. Yet the place where they now stood was no longer their home in Dakhholm, but an empty cemetery. … Zingler stepped quietly up to the door of Dackholm, his gaze cold and fixed upon the interior. He paused, furrowed his brow, and murmured to himself, “The Traveler?”