A living man and several dozen corpses playing poker in a dimly lit room for half the night—such a scene grows more and more terrifying with every thought, sending shivers down one's spine. Cain suppressed his instinctive fear, gazing at the twenty-eight-to-thirty-year-old man before him—pale-faced, with deep malice in his brown eyes, radiating a touch of madness—and feigning awe at his presence, stepping back one pace. Kasparus then left the card room and closed the door behind him. The man spoke in a low tone: "Are you here because you need a bodyguard?" "Yes," Cain deliberately swallowed. The man's strangeness both frightened and reassured him. The stronger the bodyguard, the safer he felt! The pale man in the black jacket raised his chin. "Why do you need a bodyguard? How much would you be willing to pay for one?" "Klein didn't answer immediately. After thinking for several dozen seconds, he said: 'I'll first tell you the specifics of the task. Then you assess and give me a price. If I can pay it—or if I can offer something of equivalent value—then the deal is settled. If not, I'll have to walk away and seek someone else.' The man with a clearly hostile gaze remained silent, merely giving a slight nod, indicating that Klein should proceed. Klein deliberately glanced at the undead, treating them as ordinary patrons and silently asking, 'Before you respond, should we clear those people out of the room?' 'No,' the pale man replied in a steady voice. Klein then carefully described: 'I've offended a powerful figure—possibly one backed by an entire nation.' Suddenly, the entire card room fell completely silent. The man, whose eyes held both malice and a hint of frenzy, stiffened in place, as though turned into a statue of plaster. After nearly a minute, he spoke slowly: "This task is priceless." "You may go." Ah? Kline didn't immediately register the words. It wasn't until the man turned toward the table that he realized the deal had fallen through. You've been playing cards with a group of the living dead in the room, showing both grace and strength—yet you've been scared off like that? You're clearly quite eccentric yourself... Kline found himself at a loss, unsure whether to cry or laugh. "The distinguished gentleman isn't as free in Beckland as one might think." The man in the black suit didn't respond, simply sat back down, and the living dead resumed shuffling, dealing, and placing chips. Kline exhaled, stepped out of the room, and found Caspar Kandling—the half-century-old man with a sunken nose and severe wounds—waiting outside. "The deal didn't materialize," Kline said, spreading his hands. Caspar didn't show any surprise. After a moment's pause, he said: "He asked for too high a price." "No, he thought the task was too difficult." Kline didn't hide his opinion. Caspar's brow furrowed slightly. "Marich is the most formidable person I know—he doesn't even fear bullets. Since he considers the task difficult, I don't think I can find any other capable individuals to assist you." "That's a pity," Kline sighed. Caspar clenched his right fist and struck it against his left chest. "May the storm be with you." "Well, then, I'll have to meet my end," Kline joked with a touch of resignation. "Thank you." "You can try reaching out to other capable individuals for me—I'll pay you a certain fee, yes, I'll come back again tomorrow evening." After receiving a positive response, he left the Hall of the Brave with a somewhat melancholic air, even without the desire to play a game of pool. Am I being too honest? If the delegation were described more simply, Marič should have agreed already…though one would wonder just how much he would demand in return…Ah, having someone else bear the hidden burdens while I face danger head-on—this isn’t my style…As a remarkable one, if I consistently contradict my true feelings and personal principles, I may not be far from losing control…Caine, half-sighing, half-relieved, switched to another carriage and returned to Minsk Street.……After his morning routine, Caine didn’t waste the charcoal and immediately entered his bedroom, drawing the curtains to isolate the room from the outside world. On the way back, he carefully reflected and realized that the dangers he had anticipated were, in fact, not insurmountable. For the unknown ambassador, his primary and fundamental objective was to locate Ian Wright. He dispatched agents against me specifically to gather clues about Ian—only after failing to obtain direct answers through face-to-face inquiries did he consider resorting to murder as a means of gaining insight. If he could learn that I myself was unable to find Ian, under the watchful eyes of the military's special units, he would have no reason to risk sending a mere enforcer. Of course, my unexpected presence and the strength of my performance exposed their operations, dealing a significant blow to their efforts. Were I in his position, I would certainly consider retaliating and expressing frustration—yet absolutely not now, not at this moment when the situation is tense and fraught with underlying currents. Indeed, that assumption holds true only if the ambassador is intelligent, not merely someone who relies on connections and acts out of mere stubbornness. The fact that he has been entrusted with such an important responsibility suggests he is reasonably reliable. In short, the core issue lies in Ian Wright's current whereabouts! Well... there's still a potential threat. After the ambassador ultimately fails, will he deliberately inform the military's special departments about Merso's exceptional nature, making them aware that my capabilities are questionable, and use their support to retaliate against me? This is just something I've casually thought of—nothing difficult—yet it must be watched carefully. Klein clearly assessed his own situation and suddenly felt a strong urge to hire someone to eliminate the unknown ambassador. But considering the powerful sequence holders possibly present in the ambassador's circle, he felt a wave of discouragement. "Uncertain whether the messenger can accept my assignment without first obtaining Mr. Azk's approval... probably not. We need to keep a close eye on this and find the right opportunity to eliminate him." Since he sent people to kill me, killing him won't weigh on my conscience at all... Oh, why not announce this mission at the Tarot Circle's meeting? Perhaps the Lady Justice and Sir Temperance can find a way... Maybe we can secure the services of that Mr. A—or someone of equivalent strength—at a substantial fee..." Suddenly, Klein had a flash of inspiration, recalling the Tarot Circle. With a clear plan in mind, he felt more at ease, retrieving paper and a pen, and writing down the divination: "The whereabouts of Ian Wright." After ensuring no concealed extraordinary beings were present in the room, Klein glanced at the curtains that shielded the outside view, recalled Ian's appearance, and silently repeated the divination phrase, leaning back against the chair. He soon entered a dream, where in the hazy, ethereal realm, he saw a dark, narrow, and dingy room with high and low beds, where four people shared the space. Ian was at the highest bed, curled up, pressing against an old shoulder bag, asleep. The dream shattered, and Caine opened his eyes, interpreting the message: "Such a lodging setting exists only in the East District and the Beckland Bridge area—yet that's an exceptionally vast region. Even if every police officer in Beckland were to mobilize, they could never fully investigate it all..." "Ian has been so careful—nothing has been left behind here. Otherwise, I could have detected his presence through divination with the staff wand..." After thinking for several minutes, Caine picked up his pen and added a few sentences before and after the divination statement, transforming it into a defense: "I have no knowledge of Ian Wright's whereabouts. Since I discovered Zerel's body, I have not seen him at all." The sheet of paper remained on the desk, the pen resting gently against its edge. Having completed all this, Caine stood up and returned to near the bed, quickly checking—subtly, as if tossing a coin—to ensure that no one was observing his movements. After receiving a negative answer, he swiftly retreated four steps, silently reciting a spell, and stepped into the gray mist. Inside the ancient, majestic palace, Kline did not pause to examine the surroundings; instead, he repeated the divination he had just performed. Seeing that the negative answer remained unchanged, he no longer felt tense. He looked toward the side and noticed that the core of the newly formed deep-red star cluster had begun to glow with a golden hue reminiscent of sunlight. "Is this the source of the warmth I sensed?" Kline extended his spiritual awareness, gently and reverently touching it as if in response to a plea. Light and shadow shifted, and a hazy scene swiftly materialized before him. The young girl he had attempted to draw into the gray mist, along with a woman of brown, wavy hair, stood before the "altar," while a man wearing a white hard-shell mask softly chanted the eternal name of the blazing sun, casting out warm, pure light. Was this a search for someone to expel evil? Kline almost chuckled. At this point, he finally understood the reason behind the earlier situation. It wasn't that someone had pierced through the gray mist and locked onto him—rather, it was similar to how "Justice" and the others recited their names in prayer. Once the mist received the information, it naturally and instinctively responded to him. However, since this wasn't a prayer, the layered, ethereal sounds transformed into a warm current. "This is merely a notification—clearly a signal, not an injury or impact," Klein made a firm judgment. Previously, he could not actively observe the deep-red star's designated target unless the other party made a request, in which case he would receive the corresponding scene. There was also a situation where, when he provided feedback, he could see the live visuals and hear synchronized sounds—yet once the response concluded, he lost access to any further information. Now, however, it felt as though he were watching a videotape of a long-running reality show, one that had been consistently blurred with static for an extended period. He witnessed the petite woman conversing with a man wearing a golden mask in the study, hearing her companion refer to her as "Hue," and understanding that she was seeking exceptional materials corresponding to the "Constable's" potion. This continued until the two women returned home, when Kline regretfully realized he could not clearly see their house numbers—the "video" ended. As the golden light, like sunlight fading, gradually dissipated, he nodded thoughtfully, vaguely grasping the reason for this anomaly. "That is to say, the purifying force has been helping me maintain the corresponding channel? Well, Wright's thirty pounds certainly worth it... I'm not sure when I'll be able to maintain it myself..." Caine shook his head, smiled, and manifested a sheet of paper and pen, intending to continue divining Ian Wright's whereabouts atop the gray mist.