In a modest house in Queens, Hugh and Folsom casually settled into seats and examined the items written on the board. Mr. A, dressed in a long cloak with a hood, remained quietly and alone in the front armchair, observing the group with an elevated posture. "Sequence 8: Potion Formula for the Constable, 450 pounds..." Hugh silently read the familiar content, exhaling a long, relieved breath. One of her greatest fears was finally having saved enough money only to find no one willing to sell the formula! "I'll take 400 pounds, plus my existing savings of 150 pounds—this should cover the immediate costs... though I'll certainly need a substantial sum for the primary ingredients later on... Ah, yes—perhaps I can shift my focus and explore whether any extraordinary individuals might be interested in this formula..." Hugh suddenly felt a surge of inspiration, as if he had discovered a path to financial success. To be honest, if it weren't for the urgent need to purchase materials to advance in potion-making, she wouldn't have disclosed the recipe. On one hand, most people naturally prefer to have fewer exceptional members within their own sequence, valuing uniqueness; on the other hand, with more competitors along the same path, material prices are significantly raised, and the same applies to subsequent recipes. After careful consideration, Xiu gradually grew uneasy, knowing that it's quite normal for a recipe to remain unsold for a long time. Moreover, the "Arbitrator" path belongs to the royal and military sequences, strictly controlled across all aspects. The recipes dispersed outside mainly stem from a few declining noble families, whose recipes often only amount to a few scattered ones and rarely form a complete mid-to-lower-tier sequence. Combined with the strict control over primary materials, it's difficult to access, making the number of exceptional individuals willing to choose this sequence quite scarce. She's been weaving through the various enigmatic circles of Beckland for quite some time now, yet never encountered a single "arbiter" besides herself—perhaps the others have masked their identities well, but this situation also suggests something more significant. Heavens, think of Folshe, how fortunate I've been—so far, she's never had to deal with any follow-up recipes from her apprentices. When Hest saw Mr. A's servant approach, she promptly wrote a note requesting the recipe for the "Officer's Elixir." Not long after, she was guided to the ground-floor study, where, before entering, she took a long, hooded robe from the servant's hands and draped it over her. The seller in the study wore the same attire, so they could neither see nor recognize each other. "Here is the recipe for the Elixir of the Officer," the seller said, pressing the note firmly onto the desk, his voice hoarse. "Now, my money?" Hest produced the cash, which she had counted several times already, and handed it over. After repeatedly verifying the authenticity and the total amount, the seller finally released the hand that had been holding the recipe. Hui stepped forward immediately and swiftly seized the paper. Her eyes scanned directly to the section on primary ingredients—the very heart of the matter: "One pair of eyes from the Fearworm, the right paw of the Silver Warbear." Both were extraordinary materials known but never before sold. Hui exhaled, slightly crestfallen, and withdrew from the study, removing her robe. Back in the living room, seated beside Fotherse, she gradually grew concerned about the mysterious title of the noble and the possible malevolent spirit that might be haunting her. "Ten pounds, no—twenty pounds, no—thirty pounds," she declared. "Please, someone skilled in exorcism, perform a purification ritual for me." With determination, she exchanged a few quiet words with Fotherse and then called for the servant of Mr. A. When the free exchange period ended, they noticed their newly submitted entry—“Possible haunting, requesting assistance from someone experienced in exorcism, 30 pounds”—had been added to the list on the blackboard. A short while later, Mr. A's servant approached them from the side and quietly invited them to the first-floor sitting room. There, they found a man wearing a white hard-shell mask, gazing at the two cloak-draped, gender-ambiguous seekers with a gentle smile. "I'd like to make a brief self-introduction, just to reassure you of my capabilities," he said. "No, thank you—we have confidence in Mr. A," said Thorne, who had her hat pulled low to conceal her face. She deliberately kept her voice soft, so as not to reveal her youthful tone. The man in the white mask chuckled and spread his hands. "That's my habit. I'm a sun-worshipper—you know, in Beckland, and indeed throughout the kingdom, that's not very common." "Only at this moment can I live authentically," he said. Due to the profound tensions between the Church of the Eternal Sun and the Church of the Storm Sovereign, the former had never secured the right to preach within the kingdom of Ruin. "Sun followers?" Fols disappeared from his languid gaze. "This is the first time I've ever seen a living Sun follower! As for the senior diplomats, I haven't seen any of them." "Should I therefore feel honored?" The man wearing a white hard-shell mask extended his arms upward, gesturing in a manner of homage to the sun. Fols didn't answer his question, but smiled instead. "The Sun's servants are particularly skilled in exorcism and purification—we're confident to begin." The man, who had identified himself as a Sun follower, said nothing further. He produced a badge bearing the symbol of the sun and placed it upon the central round table. Then, using the dual ritual method, he lit two candles. After diligently completing the preparatory tasks, he spoke with a resonant voice, expressing profound devotion: "O eternal sun!" "You are the ever-living light!" "You are the embodiment of order." "I invoke you!" "I ask that you bestow upon me light of purification!" "I ask that you drive away the spirits of evil." ... Within the resonant Hermes incantation, Hux and Firth saw a pure, warm, bright glow surge forth from the solar emblem. The light flowed continuously, like a tide, sweeping toward them and engulfing both of them. After several seconds, everything returned to normal. Hux and Firth felt a deep warmth throughout their bodies—comfortable, serene, as if they had just taken a spa bath or enjoyed a sunbath. ... The Joewood District, Lys Police Station. Caine was squeezed among a group of thieves and drunks onto a low, narrow bench—most decidedly unimpressive. Suddenly, he felt a warmth spreading along the back of his hand, dispelling much of the coolness of Beckland's night. Peering down, Caine noticed that the four black dots symbolizing the mysterious space above the gray mist had not appeared. "Who's so thoughtful to realize I was a bit chilly just now?" he mumbled, half-joking, half-curious. As a former inspector, he glanced at the thief pinned to the pipe on his left, then at the drunk on his right—who was always shouting about wanting to fight, yet never actually threw a punch—and sighed at their current predicament, wondering when he might finally free himself. "There should be one more trial coming up—once passed, the success is assured... I hope the police's attention remains firmly on the ambassador and the Zmangh party, overlooking my relatively modest detective credentials. In theory, this seems very promising, as long as the lady Mrs. Summer and the lawyer, Jurgen, don't mention anything that captures the police's interest... Well, they've only just met me, so they can't know much more than that..." Turning the corner, the chief stopped in front of a steel door, indicating for Crane to enter. Crane took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, and turned the handle, stepping inside. The room was small, with thick-walled surroundings. A small table stood in the center, with chairs on either side. Under the elegant gas lamps illuminating the walls, Crane clearly saw the interrogator across from him—a man dressed in an uncommon black shirt. He hadn’t worn a jacket, only a casual black overcoat, with sparse eyebrows, cold blue eyes, and a face whose contours resembled sharp-edged blades, rigid and lacking in softness. The man gestured toward the chair across from him and said in a measured tone, “I ask. You answer.” Even before he finished speaking, Crane felt an unprecedented sense of pressure, as though electric currents surged through his mind, forming into sharp, stinging whips that continuously struck at his soul. This sensation was both painful and numb, as if emanating from deep within the brain, irresistible and overwhelming, leaving the person trembling and their knees weak. Kline nearly stumbled, quickly bracing himself against the small table and sitting down, his temples pulsing with intermittent spasms. This... this was an extraordinary ability. While ordinary people might attribute the current state to their own anxiety and the stern demeanor of the interrogator, Kline clearly recognized it as an extraordinary ability—one that directly attacked another's spirit. He quickly recalled information from past readings, swiftly narrowing down his suspicion: "The Seventh Sequence of the 'Arbiter' Path—the 'Interrogator'!" He thought to himself that it had been transferred to the military's special department. As long as it wasn't a Watcher, everything would be manageable. The tall, composed man in black laid out seven or eight black-and-white photographs on the small table. "Identify the ambassador you met with Merso." Klein felt as though an electric whip inside his mind had been raised high, delivering an unbearable pain that made him both unwilling and unable to lie. Of course, Klein had no need to lie at all—he simply glanced at the photo and presented it toward the interrogator, the well-dressed, strikingly handsome middle-aged gentleman. The interrogator glanced at it and made no immediate response, then asked, "Was your previous statement entirely truthful?" Klein remained awake and composed, as though being forcibly awakened from sleep, refusing to yield to the electric whip within him. He answered sincerely, "Yes, entirely true." The interrogator leaned forward, placing both hands on the small table. "When was the last time you saw Ian Wright?" "Yesterday, in the early morning." "Klein spoke with difficulty, beads of cold sweat forming on his forehead, "I followed Mersch to find the body of Detective Zerel. Since I didn't want to deal with the police officers, I had Ian identify the body and then let him call the authorities himself. The body was found at the entrance to the sewer tunnel just after a right turn at the bottom of Iron-Carbon Street in the East District." After a brief silence, the interrogator finally nodded, and at that moment Klein felt the immense pressure, along with the inner 'whip' within him, vanish completely. "You may go," he said, his tone completely even. Klein stood up, opened the door, and stepped out, his steps slightly unsteady. He felt more exhausted than after a full battle with Mersch. Any slight misstep and his mental strength would be completely overwhelmed. He would simply answer whatever questions were asked, honestly and directly. No. If it weren’t for my unique ethereal nature, having endured prolonged tests of fragmented speech and sharp cries, I would have likely lost my composure and rationality by now—probably already collapsed—just a moment ago. Klein returned to the corridor feeling a coldness spreading down his back. At that moment, the earlier police chief approached and said, "Come with me to handle the paperwork. Judge Yurgen is waiting to secure your release." Relieved, Klein exhaled slowly, finally relaxing completely. He knew the danger had finally passed.