Instinctively, Crane bent his knees, leaned sideways, and rolled toward the other direction—toward the bathroom door. *Swoosh!* A slender black arrow embedded itself in the sink countertop, its tip resembling bone and glowing a vivid, watery blue, strikingly beautiful. If Crane had hesitated even slightly, he would have been caught off guard by this sudden assault! As he rolled, he reached into his coat pocket, trying to draw out a few Tarot cards. But at that moment, a gust of wind rushed past him, and in his peripheral vision, he saw a dark figure closing in at supersonic speed, approaching him with a posture beyond ordinary, then braced his feet and drove a leg upward in a powerful strike. Unable to evade, Crane abandoned his original plan and used his elbow to block the attack. *Thud!* He felt his entire left arm instantly go numb, his body being forcefully propelled backward—much like the popular tennis and squash games among the middle class, or the football game favored by working-class laborers today. What a powerful force! Klein's heart tightened, and though he was nervous, he quickly adjusted his body in midair, shifting his posture, managing to maintain his balance—much like performing acrobatics. Plip! Plip! Plip… At that moment, the tree-bark-colored flute had just landed on the bathroom floor and bounced against the wall behind, gradually slowing down. As Klein prepared to stretch out and steady himself to face the next assault, a sudden image flashed through his mind: The black-clad enemy had moved faster than he'd anticipated, arriving sooner than he'd expected, bending low and sweeping his arm, delivering a solid punch to his chest. In an instant, Klein's body retracted and spun half a circle, like a ball that kept falling and being thrown again. Plip! With his head down and feet up, he reached out to the floor, spreading his legs like a pair of scissors, deflecting the enemy's incoming punch so that it missed entirely, passing through the gap and exploding into the air. The punch, originally aimed at克莱恩's chest, now struck only at his legs—legs that could open wide. With a press and a push, his legs folded inward, and克莱恩 nimbly leapt to the other side, finally steadying himself. *Crack!* Before he could even assess his attacker, the black figure had leaned sideways, generating a strong gust of wind. Remarkably quick!克莱恩 immediately raised both arms to shield himself. *Thud!* He felt as though struck by a black bear, the force overwhelming—unable to bear it, he staggered back, his arms nearly losing sensation. Meanwhile,克莱恩 finally recognized his assailant. The man had dark skin, lean and vigorous, with deep-set eyes—none other than Merso, the "Executioner" of the Zmang party, who had visited Moriati detective this morning! *Crack! Crack! Crack!* Merso, eyes blazing with determination, closed in swiftly, swinging his arms in rapid succession—either a left hook or a right block—launching a relentless barrage of attacks. Klein's strength was clearly inferior to his opponent, and he could not meet the onslaught head-on, managing only to barely evade the series of punches through agility and instinct. Not good! I must leverage my strengths! With this thought flashing through his mind, Klein abandoned further attempts at close combat, bent his body low, stopped his legs momentarily, and rolled sideways. Crackle! A chair was shattered into fragments by Merisso's swift leg kicks. Klein pushed off with his hands, engaged his back and core, continuing to roll, seeking an opportunity to draw out his tarot cards and homemade incantations. Thud! Thud! Thud! Merisso closed the distance quickly, alternating his leg strikes, not falling behind at all. He was like a massive bear endowed with natural agility—well-rounded in every aspect—leaving rolling Klein only time to focus on evasion and defense, with no room to reach for his cards or spells. Crackle, crash, crash! Chairs shattered, tables overturned, wardrobe toppled. Klein had wound around in a near-complete circuit, and his situation grew increasingly precarious. It could not continue like this! He kept dodging, rolling and flipping, seeking every opportunity to turn the tide. Suddenly, his peripheral vision caught the coffee table in the living room, and an idea struck him at once. Thud! With one hand braced, he launched himself backward, rolling toward the living room area despite the pain. At that moment, Merle's leg muscles suddenly swelled, as if inflated. He pushed off the ground with a decisive stride, causing the floor to tremble, and shot forward like a bullet, reaching close to Klein before extending his leg. Klein managed to parry, only to be sent flying, crashing into the coffee table with a loud clatter—ceramic cups and saucers flew into the cabinet, scattering round-bodied pens, standard contracts, and various newspapers across the floor. Seeing the black double-breasted suit of the detective now wavering, unable to stand or roll, Merle's eyes flared with determination. Amidst the cascading sounds of breaking porcelain, he slid forward and drove his knee into Klein's body. Klein's gaze deepened as he watched this scene, already grasping a standard contract in his hands. He had fled toward the living room, disregarding the intuitive cues, rolling again and again across the coffee table—only to secure a standard contract or a newspaper! As Merzouk's knee surged powerfully toward him, Klein's wrist suddenly trembled. At that moment, a vivid image flashed through his mind—the scene of Merzouk arching his neck. Swoosh! With a gentle press of his wrist, Klein released the standard contract from his grasp. Swoosh! The contract launched like a steel-tipped dart, flying straight toward Merzouk's throat—now less than a meter away, and closing in even closer as Merzouk advanced. A white silhouette came into view; Merzouk instinctively arched back, attempting to evade the blow. Puff! The standard contract embedded itself precisely into Merzouk's throat, piercing his trachea. Foamy blood began to seep out, and Merzouk collapsed before Klein, his knees striking the floor with a heavy thud. “Lotus, lotus, lotus…” He pulled out the stained, standard contract, tightly pressing it against his throat. Yet he could not stop the steady flow of blood from his wound, his eyes growing increasingly blurred. Eventually, his body convulsed a few times, and then went still. He laughed, as though he had encountered something he could be happy about for life—laughing so hard he nearly bent double, his laughter echoing throughout the entire room. After several seconds, Crane composed himself, his expression solemn, and walked over to the side of Maître Mersault's body. He wanted the dead man to speak! With a familiar spirit medium ritual and self-recall, Crane inhaled the fresh, delicate fragrance and softly murmured, "The chief agent of Mersault's actions." Soon, his eyes darkened, and he entered a dream, seeing a hazy world. Within that haze, light and shadow shifted, coalescing into a series of scenes and images: Before Mersault stood a middle-aged man without a hat. The collar and sleeves of his white shirt were adorned with intricate, layered, petal-like embellishments, making him exceptionally elegant. Combined with a fitted black jacket and slim, long trousers, the overall effect was strikingly elaborate and somewhat extravagant. The middle-aged man had brown hair and blue eyes, a lean face with a hint of beard that gave him a distinguished look—he was a very appealing man. He looked at Merso and said in a steady voice, "No matter what you do, find Ian Wright and do everything possible to keep him alive. If he dies, bring him to me within one hour—ideally within fifteen minutes." "Yes, Mr. Ambassador," Merso replied without hiding his reserve, though he still bowed slightly. The scene broke, and Klein furrowed his brows: Mr. Ambassador? Is this matter now involving other countries? From the style of his shirt, this ambassador appears to be the one representing the Republic of Tis in Beklan. Ian is just a young boy. That man has the gift of clairvoyance—or at least, someone close to him does. Klein thought for a moment, then repeated the phrase about dream divination: "The purpose of finding Ian Wright." In the hazy, ethereal dream, Klein once again saw the middle-aged gentleman he had just encountered. He gazed at Meursault and spoke softly, "You needn't know why—just follow my instructions." "I offer you the magic potion, I offer you money, so that you may become the behind-the-scenes figure of the Zmang Party. I'm not asking you to question—I'm asking you to act!" "Ah… you simply need to know that Ian Wright may be involved with something of great importance." As this scene faded, Klein stepped once more out of the dream. Something of great importance… Indeed, Ian—what could it be? The magic potion… Meursault was clearly a special one. It explained his exceptional strength and formidable combat skills—indeed, he must be a specialist in this area. As thoughts flowed through him, Klein felt a growing weariness. Responding to his own spiritual requests had proven to be an increasingly draining effort. To regain his previous spiritual prowess, he estimated he'd have to reach Sequence 7. After concluding the ritual, dismantling the spiritual barrier, Kline gazed at Merlot's body, observing it carefully for a long time. Eventually, he noticed a subtle gathering of spiritual luminescence at the wound in Merlot's throat, slowly coalescing into a distinct patch. With gentle care, Kline picked it up, now holding in his hand a deep-red object resembling a earthy jellied sphere. "Is this Merlot's remarkable trait? I wonder which Sequence magic potion it might be—this one should be straightforward to determine; a divination visit to the Gray Mists will reveal the answer. Theoretically, a low-Sequence trait, even without auxiliary materials, can directly grant the corresponding ability to the user, though the recipient often experiences sudden madness or loss of control upon ingestion. Low-Sequence potions typically contain minimal spiritual essence in their auxiliary components." Kline allowed his thoughts to drift, then deliberately refocused. There he stood, facing a corpse, utterly puzzled about what to do next. PS: The frog has launched a new book, *The Full-Time Martial God*. The opening chapters are quite stylish, especially the protagonist's name.