Who? How did they know I purchased the "Sheriff" formula? Hux's墨 green eyes narrowed, and he glanced around in surprise, but found no suspicious glances. According to Mr. A's account, the transaction should be both safe and confidential... In the end, Hux turned to the single armchair and noticed Mr. A, still quietly observing the group with his hooded shadow concealing his features, showing no signs of anything out of the ordinary. She gently肘-collided with Firth and whispered, "Should I go?" Firth took the note, glanced at it, and replied without hesitation, "Go. At least right now, Mr. A is still here watching—no one dares do anything to you. You can use this opportunity to find out exactly what the other party is after. Maybe you'll even secure the ingredients you need." "That makes sense," Hux said. Being someone with strong initiative, he nodded to the waiter and followed him once more to the outer office, donning the long cloak with the hood. The hat covers my entire face now—I can hardly see the path ahead. Hurry, pull the hood over your head, open the door, and notice a man seated behind the desk, dressed in a black tailcoat. This man wears a mask of golden hue, revealing only his eyes, nostrils, mouth, and cheeks—making it impossible to imagine his original appearance. As the golden mask’s hazel eyes shift, the man gestures toward the chair across from the desk and says, “Sit.” His voice is deliberately deep and resonant, though otherwise unremarkable. Hurst closes the door of the study, straightens his posture, and sits with steady confidence at the appointed seat, then asks, “Do you have the primary ingredients for the ‘Constable’ potion?” The man with the mask chuckles. “Yes, I have both the eyes of the Fearful Insect and the right paw of the Silver Warbear.” “In fact, the very recipe for the ‘Constable’ potion was one I commissioned someone to sell on my behalf.” "It's no wonder... Though often mocked by her friends for being overly impulsive, she's far from reckless in the extraordinary circles, among the East District's gangs, and in the working-class communities—she possesses a primal instinct for danger. She asked quietly, "Why are you doing this?" "The mask man smiled lightly. "I'm selecting the right partners. Given your financial situation, it's difficult to raise the funds needed for these two types of extraordinary materials within a short timeframe. Of course, you could sell your recipes at other gatherings of extraordinary individuals, but believe me, that would expose you to unnecessary risks. Our circles don't always overlap, but I'm not alone." "Given that you have a vast organization—recipes for officials and arbitrators, even—why do you still need my help?" asked Teyla, frowning. "Some things, we don't want to step in ourselves—there are many reasons, but I don't need to go into detail. Still, every 'Arbiter' who has forged their own path to extraordinary status has, to some degree, noble connections, and that's exactly what we need." The man in the mask offered this explanation. It seemed he wasn't aware of my background, nor of my reputation in the East District... Relief settled slightly in Hux's posture. The man continued: "Just consider this a commission from outside the Arbiter gatherings. I'll assign you tasks and pay you accordingly. If you feel the tasks are risky, you're free to decline—this is a fair, free arrangement. Once you've saved enough, you can come to me to purchase materials." This... was precisely the financial concern Hux had been grappling with. After a moment of composed restraint, he said, "As long as I retain the right to decline tasks, I'll consider it." "Perfect." "The man in the mask chuckled and said, 'Now we can settle on a place and a way to meet in the future. To reassure you, I'm handing the initiative over to you.' 'Very well,' said Thorne, though still completely puzzled as to why the other had chosen to involve himself. Still, he agreed. At least, she didn't see any immediate threat. ………… Throughout the entire Sunday morning, Cline was busy purchasing chairs, tableware, and repairing garments, spending a total of six pounds and nine shillings, restoring the living room, dining room, and his own quarters to their original condition. 'It's been a real loss,' he remarked. 'I hope the police department will eventually claim a portion of my expenses from Murillo's estate. Unfortunately, that seems unlikely—only a partial reimbursement, at best.' He neatly arranged the invoices and receipts, setting them aside to use when needed. Of course, purely from a financial standpoint, he had actually made a solid profit. Murillo's exceptional qualities were worth at least three hundred pounds, if not more. All of this, however, depended on Cline's ability to gain access to the circle of the extraordinary." After dinner,克莱恩 dressed in a solid-colored sweater and a gray-blue worker's jacket, put on his baseball cap, and stepped out once more, transferring twice, eventually arriving at Iron Gate Street in the Beckland Bridge district. Just a few steps in, he spotted "The Brave Beer House"—its heavy black wooden doors and a broad, sturdy man with arms outstretched, nearly two meters tall. The man glanced at克莱恩 without obstructing him as he entered; only when he heard the cheers and clinking glasses inside did his throat subtly move. This was precisely the peak of the bar's business hours, and even before entering,克莱恩 felt a wave of warmth rushing over him, smelled the rich aroma of barley beer, and heard the lively, bustling sounds. As expected, he saw two counter areas at the heart of the bar: one hosting a lively dog-chasing-mouse competition, and the other featuring two boxers patiently waiting, ready for their upcoming match. The aroma of wine mingled with the scent of sweat drifted toward him. Caine lifted his gold-framed glasses, pinched his nose, protecting his belongings while pushing vigorously toward the bar counter. Before the bartender could speak, he interjected, "A South-Welsh beer, please." This was the finest beer produced in the Kingdom of Run. "Five pence," the bartender replied with familiarity. Caine produced a handful of coins, counted out five pence, and received a large wooden cup filled with golden liquid—the beer's fragrance rich and inviting. "In front of this, many beers would hardly qualify as beer at all, but merely as beverages," the bartender chuckled. Caine lifted the cup and took a long swallow. It was crisp and refreshing—initially bitter with a hint of aroma, then the malty flavor surged forth, leaving a slightly sweet aftertaste. Setting the cup down, he glanced at the fine, creamy foam and seized the opportunity to ask, "Where is Caspar Kallin?" The bartender paused his cup-wiping motion, looked at him for several seconds, then pointed toward the side: "Room three, table tennis." Acting with a spirit of efficiency, Kline carried the cup and walked to Room Three, Table Tennis. With a gentle tap, the door creaked open. The two men holding table tennis rackets stopped and turned to face the entrance. "I'm looking for Kaspar Kallin," Kline said, quickly adding, "the one the old man introduced." Upon hearing this, the middle-aged man with a broad nose and a linen shirt responded quietly, "Come in." He had a large, inverted scar running from his right eye corner all the way to the side of his mouth, and his nose was a classic wine-stained, nearly entirely red. Kline carried the cup and stepped in, and as he did, Kallin's table tennis opponent smoothly set down his racket, stepped out of the room, and closed the door behind him. Kaspars Kanlin waddled over, asking, "What do you want?" "A custom-made revolver with strong power and fifty rounds of ammunition," said Caine, who took another sip of Southwold beer. "Three pounds ten shillings," Kaspars quoted. "That's certainly more than you'd pay at a regular weapons store—it includes the risk I'm taking." "Deal," said Caine, pulling out five one-pound banknotes he had prepared in advance and counting four to Kaspars. Kaspars glanced casually at the notes, nodded, and said, "You're more spirited than your appearance suggests. Wait five minutes." He placed the notes on the pool table, adjusted the cue stick, and waddled toward the door. As Kaspars walked out, Caine turned and idly surveyed the current style of pool, finding it remarkably consistent with mature snooker on Earth. It must be you, Emperor Roscel—almost, he almost shook his head and smiled. After a moment's wait, Caspares stepped inside, holding a parcel wrapped in brown paper and two five-sol banknotes. Cain took the money and the item, opened them immediately, and saw a silver-white revolver with a slightly longer barrel; its grip appeared to be made of hickory. In addition, there were fifty bright yellow cartridges neatly arranged in a box. Cain tested the empty gun, loaded five rounds, slipped the revolver into the gun satchel he had already purchased, and then gathered up the remaining cartridges. He looked up at Caspares, hesitating before speaking: "If I want to hire a truly excellent bodyguard—one who exceeds human limits—whom should I look for?" Caspares rubbed the redness from his large nose, and his gaze instantly grew cold. He studied Cain for two minutes in silence, creating a sense of overwhelming pressure: "I can ask around, but I can't guarantee anyone will accept the assignment." "It seems I've met no fewer than a few extraordinary individuals... Cain smiled slightly. "Regardless of the outcome, please allow me to express my gratitude in advance." Kasparas collected the cash from the pool table and stepped out once more, returning to the room only after ten minutes, by which time Cain had already finished his large glass of Southwelle beer. "He'd like to see you before making a decision," Kasparas said in a steady tone. "No problem—had it been me, I'd want to assess the task's difficulty first," Cain nodded with a smile. He followed the steadily walking Kasparas through the crowded side of the boxing arena and into the area near the kitchen. Suddenly, Kasparas paused, lightly tapped a door, and upon being granted entry, led Cain through. This was a card room, where about fifteen people were playing Texas Hold'em. As Kaspar and Klein entered, a man in a white shirt and black jacket slowly rose to his feet, while the other players at the table halted mid-motion, none of them speaking. Klein's brow slightly furrowed, barely perceptible. He noticed that aside from the man who had risen, all the other guests carried an inexplicable, eerie atmosphere—pale-faced, with eyes like those of wild beasts. With a light tap of his left teeth twice, Klein quietly activated his spiritual sight. His muscles instantly tightened, nearly making it difficult to control his facial expression, as the aura colors of the players were all deep black! This meant that among the dozen or so people playing cards, only the man who had risen was alive—everyone else was dead! Not merely dead—dead people typically have no aura color! These were all the living dead! A sense of decay washed over him. The man in the white shirt and black jacket approached Klein. His own face was pale, and a deep sense of malice seemed to dwell within his eyes.