Ho! The whistle echoes through every corner of the platform, the massive steam locomotive, resembling a monster, drawing twenty-plus carriages and coming to a slow halt. Sir Klein, dressed in a tailored suit and wearing a half-high silk hat, strides confidently onto the ground of the capital city of Béklând, the royal seat of the Rûn Kingdom. The city is divided into two parts by the Tassok River, which flows southeast toward the sea, connected by the Béklând Bridge and ferry services, boasting over five million inhabitants and standing as the most vibrant metropolis in the northern and southern continents. Klein gazes far and wide, only to find everywhere a pale yellow mist, severely reducing visibility. The gas lamps suspended on the platform have already been lit one by one, dispelling the gloom and dimness. "It's only half past six?" Just like nine or ten o'clock... Kline gave a barely perceptible shake of his head, suddenly remembering a joke he had seen in the "Tassok News": "A gentleman who had just arrived in Beckland got lost in the thick fog and asked a man who passed by, dripping wet, 'How do I get to the Tassok River?' The man was very kind and replied, 'Just keep going—don't stop. I just swam up from there.'" (Note 1) Every time he reads the newspapers or magazines from Beckland, he notices the journalists and editors constantly mocking the air pollution, mocking the growing number of foggy days. The Beckland Daily had once conducted a specific study showing that the number of such days had risen from around 60 back in the 1990s to approximately 75 today. As a result, many well-informed citizens have established organizations such as the "Coal Smoke Reduction Association" and the "Smoke Emission Reduction Association." It's said that one of the proposals in the September session called for the creation of a "Royal Atmospheric Pollution Investigation Committee." Klein set down his large leather suitcase, gently squeezed his nose to ease the sudden discomfort. Then, following the golden chain, he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a gold watch, pressing it open with a snap and checking the time. After finally saying goodbye to his brother and sister, Klein made a special trip to a department store, spending four pounds and ten shillings to purchase a gold pocket watch, and an additional one pound and five shillings for the accompanying gold chain. — For him, a lack of clear, precise timing at all times brings a sense of panic. Originally, Klein had planned to buy a silver pocket watch, feeling it would suit his own demeanor; however, considering the true essence of the clown, he ultimately chose a more showy and flamboyant gold watch. "Six thirty-nine... not even a few minutes late..." Klein tucked the watch into his coat, lifted his cane and suitcase, and followed the crowd, moving slowly out of the steam train station. Suddenly, without any warning, he turned sharply, leaving someone who had been quietly trailing behind, reaching into his coat pocket, empty-handed. Klein paid no attention to this interruption, moving through the bustling crowd along the concrete avenue toward the intersecting crossroads ahead. There, he saw a central lawn and garden, encircling a column that rose like a chimney. "No, it might very well be a chimney," he observed, noting the thick plume of smoke rising from its top. Some of the steam rose into the sky, while the rest condensed into fine droplets, spreading out around. Klein paused again, set down his suitcase, and unfolded the newspaper and map held in his other hand. —During the steam train journey, he had already planned where he would go and what he would do next. The experiences of this period, along with the morning's immersion in the role of a clown, had finally revealed to Klein the true essence of being a clown: "Although one can slightly anticipate fate, one still feels helpless before it, thus masking all sorrow, pain, confusion, and despair with a smile." At that moment, he clearly felt the effects of the clown's magic potion, believing that if he continued in this role, he would soon be ready to advance. Yet the issue remained: he did not yet know what the sequence-7 magic potion was called, let alone its specific recipe. How could he obtain the recipe? The secretive order appears infrequently—they seem to be interested only in items from the Antigonid family... This is also why so little is known about them, well... considering two approaches: first, engaging with the local circle of extraordinary individuals to see if any leads can be uncovered; second, actively setting a trap, using the Antigonid family's treasure as bait to lure out members of the order. After all, I possess that strange vertical pupil composed of numerous enigmatic symbols. "But the risk is too great—we must be sufficiently cautious. The bait we offer shouldn't be too 'good' nor too 'bad'. If it's too 'bad', no one will be interested; if it's too 'good', we'll easily attract a giant shark that can swallow us whole. Charathus, the head of the Conclave, was once a mentor to the great Roxelian Emperor—perhaps he even secured the largest share of the feast during that era of transformation. Of course, he may not have survived until now; all this happened nearly two centuries ago." As thoughts flowed through him, Caine felt the cold of Beckland seep through, shivered involuntarily, and decided to find a place to stay as soon as possible. Flipping through the newspaper, he once again browsed the housing rental section and spotted the entry he had circled before: "15 Minsk Street, Joe Wood District... townhouse... weekly rent of 18 sulers." As for where to live, he had pondered it repeatedly. Though Beckland's population exceeded five million, he remained vigilant about the possibility of being recognized by local night watchmen—whether it was the newly assigned Dely, or the long-time residents like Loretta, El Hassan, or Borgia, all of whom would surely recognize him. Thus, he ruled out the northern district, home to the Night Goddess Church's Beckland parish headquarters, St. Samuel's Church. He also excluded the Queen's District and the West District—the two areas known for their excellent security and strict oversight, which belonged to the nobility and top merchants, with the Queen's District being more prominent than the West. After eliminating a few industrial districts, the port area, the eastern district where the poor were concentrated, and the region around the Beckland Bridge, Klein's options were limited to two: first, the Hillsdon district—home to the Beckland Stock Exchange, the Bill Exchange, the Futures Center, the headquarters of seven major banks, various trust funds, and numerous railway and bulk commodities trading companies—known as the economic, commercial, and financial heart of the Roon Kingdom; and second, the Jowood district, densely populated with small companies and residential areas. Both districts had high foot traffic and relatively good security, making them suitable for concealment. After careful consideration, Klein chose the Jowood district for its more affordable rental rates. He had opted not to approach organizations such as the "Metropolitan Housing Improvement Association" or the "Metropolitan Housing Improvement Company for the Working Class," as these required certain forms of identification that he currently could not provide. "If we can't secure a rental apartment today, let's find a small inn that doesn't require identification and stay there temporarily..." Klein closed the items in his hands, lifted his leather suitcase, and followed the map's directions toward what looked like the entrance of a department store. That was the entrance to the Beckland subway. Yes, the subway! When Klein first encountered the term "subway" in newspapers and magazines, he was genuinely surprised—never expecting such a mode of transportation to have already become a reality before the age of electrification. It was established twenty-five years ago, originally connecting the two banks of the Tassok River, and now it has expanded to the main urban districts, though the number of stations remains limited. Through the entrance, Klein followed the people ahead of him, stepping steadily toward the ticket counter. After waiting in line for a few minutes, he finally spotted a ticket clerk with beautiful golden hair. The girl didn't look up; she pointed to a price board hung near the window: "Ten minutes during peak hours—seven to nine in the morning, six to eight in the evening—and fifteen minutes otherwise. First class: six pence, second class: four pence, third class: three pence. Return fares: nine, six, and five pence respectively. Annual passes: eight pounds first class, five pounds ten shillings second class, and no annual pass for third class." Cheaper than I expected... no distance restrictions at all... Melissa will certainly prefer this over the horse-drawn carriage—this is the very essence of mechanical progress. As Klein thought about it, he suddenly felt a bit uneasy. He beamed, pulled out four copper pence, and handed them to the ticket clerk: "Second class." *Plink!* The clerk tore a ticket and stamped it, then handed it to Klein. Finding the line heading toward the Joewood district, he passed the relatively lenient inspection and descended the stairs, soon arriving at the platform, where he located his second-class seat according to the ground markings. Woooh! Not long after, he heard the booming, resonant whistle, like thunder, and saw a massive steam locomotive, powerful and majestic, surge through the glow of the gas lamps, clattering to a stop. Its grand form, sinuous body, dark iron finish, and intricate machinery blended together into a unique elegance. The subway in Beckland still operates steam trains, whose plumes of smoke, guided by a special design, rise through pipes above and into the chimneys, flowing outward into the open air—this is precisely the true purpose of the central lawn and park. Amid the sounds of metal rubbing against metal, Cline waited for the passengers ahead to alight, then took his cane and suitcase, walked steadily up the platform, and underwent the ticket check. Unlike third-class seating, second-class seats are individual, so there was no worry about being bumped for a seat. As soon as Cline settled in, placed his suitcase, and leaned against his cane, he heard a sudden flurry of hurried footsteps. He instinctively turned his head toward the door and saw a slender, fresh-faced boy hurrying into the carriage. The boy was wearing an outdated coat out of place for his age, a round hat on his head, and a worn satchel slung over his shoulder, his head bowed low. "I'm sorry, I've gotten on the wrong carriage—I'm third class," he said, showing his ticket to the attendant and apologizing before quickly making his way toward the third-class carriage. Klein returned his gaze, double-checked his destination, and waited for the carriage doors to close. At that moment, he heard a hurried, disordered series of footsteps, and then saw several men in black coats and half-hats rushing into the carriage. Following that boy, perhaps in his late teens or early twenties? That was the thought that immediately came to Klein. He gave a slight shake of his head, resumed reading his newspaper and map, and blended seamlessly with the other passengers. Note 1: This joke originates from a former British magazine, The Guardian.