After forming a general impression, Caine didn't rush to verify it, instead acting as if nothing had happened, and simply rotated the paper so it faced him directly. All the intelligence he had written about Ian Wright was absolutely accurate—any confirmation through divination techniques would yield the same positive results. Thus, he believed the people at the embassy would follow this lead and achieve tangible results, leaving him no immediate motivation or time to retaliate. Likewise, he would keep the paper spread out on his desk, ensuring that the military's special units' surveillance personnel could see it, thereby diverting their attention from him and shifting their focus toward Ian Wright, where they would compete with the ambassador to find leads. In this way, Caine would be even safer. "It feels like walking a tightrope—isn't that precisely the unique quality of the 'clown'? He chuckled and shook his head, opening the bulging window to breathe in some fresh morning air, but the thick, sharp haze outside made him close it again without a word. Holding the ink bottle steady against the paper bearing Ian's intelligence, Caine quickly freshened up in the adjacent restroom, then removed his black double-breasted suit and half-high silk hat from the coat rack, making his way down to the first floor. He had arranged to meet with his lawyer, Jurgen, for breakfast today. Drawing out a black silver-handled cane from the umbrella stand in the lobby, Caine walked along the edge of the street, the visibility barely exceeding ten meters, until he reached the gray house at 58 Minsk Street and rang the doorbell. As the chime echoed, a sleek black cat with bright green eyes and a high, arched tail suddenly came to mind. The cat, Brody, walked in a straight line, paused for two seconds, then leapt with force, extending its paw to grasp the door handle. Afterward, it inevitably descended, using its weight to turn the handle and open the door. With a creak, the morning breeze blew in, and the door slowly retreated. Brody, the black cat, looked down his nose at Caine with dignified composure and continued on his way to the side. "Such a clever cat," Caine praised the elderly woman, Doris, who wore a white apron. Doris smiled, her wrinkles smoothing out. "It depends on her mood—most of the time she acts quite foolish, as if she doesn't understand a word you say. Oh, I've prepared my finest dish: a bean and cabbage soup, served with bread." Bean and cabbage soup... the name sounded like a dark dish. Caine smiled. "I'm looking forward to it." As he spoke, Juror Jürgen stepped out of the bathroom, still impeccably dressed even at home, just after waking up—his white shirt crisp, his brown-yellow vest tailored, and the lines of his trousers as if freshly pressed. "The contract you requested is ready—please take a look and let me know if anything's missing." Jürgen's blue eyes swept over him without ceremony, straight to the point. His brown hair was neatly combed back, with a clear sheen of oil visible. "Good," said Caine, leaning on his cane, removing his hat and unbuttoning his coat, following Jürgen into the downstairs study, where he took a thick contract. Standing there, he flipped through it casually, growing more and more troubled with each page, eventually only briefly reviewing the key clauses. I hope everything's covered—there are even additions for clauses I previously overlooked. For instance, instead of a one-time payment of 100 pounds to Raphard, we're setting three milestones, with payments made at intervals based on his progress—first installment: 50 pounds... That's good. This way, I won't need to go to the Bank of Beckett and withdraw the remaining 100 pounds from my non-named account. I'll be fine with what I have on me. Caine closed the document, smiled warmly at Jürgen, "I'm very satisfied. Your professionalism exceeds my expectations." As he spoke, he produced two one-pound banknotes from his pocket. Jürgen took the cash, handed the remaining several contracts to Klein, and said formally and seriously: "If any errors occur when signing, there are two additional copies here. Remember to shred the final contracts using the paper shredder." The current shredder was a hand-cranked mechanical model. As Klein was about to nod, Mrs. Doris from the restaurant suddenly called out loudly: "Two young men—time for breakfast!" "My grandmother's hearing has slightly declined," Jürgen explained, making a gesture of invitation. Following him into the dining room, Klein saw Mrs. Doris ladle a spoonful of thick, yellowish-green liquid from a black pot into the corresponding plate. "Here you go—try this, the bean and savoy cabbage soup. That's your bread," Mrs. Doris said with a bright smile, pointing to the suspicious pile of food. Klein glanced at Jürgen, who now looked even more serious than before, and his heart suddenly sank. He managed to sit up straight, Klein broke off a piece of white bread, dipped it into the rich, yellow-green soup, and, with the spirit of an adventurer, took a bite. "...Hmm," he was surprised to find the taste quite excellent—subtle saltiness with a refreshing sweetness that stimulated his appetite, perfectly complementing the soft, rich aroma of the bread, creating a clear and layered experience. "My grandmother used to be an excellent cook," said Jurgen, savoring his breakfast with a relaxed demeanor. "...Then why do you keep frowning? You seem completely uninterested in eating," Klein muttered under his breath, now fully immersed in the pleasure and relaxation brought by the meal. Then he returned to the Joowood district and browsed through the past year's editions of The Tassok Gazette at the public library, searching for news related to Ambassador Intis stationed in the Kingdom of Roon. Finally, near noon, he spotted the black-and-white photograph of the ambassador, confirming it was the very person he had seen in his dream divination. "Beckland Jean Madan," he murmured the name of the ambassador of the Republic of Intis, and then stepped out of the library, casually choosing a small restaurant for lunch. ........ At 2:50 p.m.,克莱恩 feigned a brief rest, drew the curtains, took four steps backward, and entered the gray mist. First, he divined whether the military's special department had relaxed its monitoring of him, receiving a positive response. Only then did he write down the divinatory phrase he had prepared in the morning: "The intruder from last night." Leaning back against the chair, he silently repeated the phrase, lowering his eyelids and entering a deep sleep. In the ethereal, fragmented, hazy world, his bedroom came into view. At that moment, Crane noticed a shadow moving through the gap at the base of the door! A long, iron-black nematode worm crept in, arching upward at its central section before settling down, repeating this motion continuously as it moved toward the desk. Its movements were stiff, as though filmed in slow motion, frame by frame, with a strangely eerie quality. When it reached the desk, it climbed to the top, leaving behind a trail of rapidly evaporating mucus. It stopped in front of the sheet of paper bearing Ian Wright's intelligence, lifting its head suddenly and raising its central section, leaving only its tail to support its body. For a moment, it looked remarkably human. After gazing at it for a while, the nematode pushed the paper slightly to the side before returning along the same path and vanishing. So it was like that… That is, the intruder last night hadn’t been unwilling to retaliate—simply lacked the ability… Unless this iron-black worm is particularly toxic… Kline nodded in sudden clarity, then confirmed via divination that the extraordinary being manipulating the iron-black worm had been dispatched by Ambassador Beclan Jean Madan of Intis. Having completed all this, he completely enveloped the cornered paper bag in gray mist and then transmitted the message to “Sun” Deric. When the hands of his watch aligned, Kline drew “Justice,” “The Turner,” and “Sun” into the circle simultaneously. The Tarot gathering for this week arrived as scheduled! … Familiar gray mist and hazy silhouettes came into view. Audrey, having been promoted to rank 8, sat up slightly, raised her skirt gently, and greeted warmly: “Good afternoon, Sir ‘The Fool’~ Good afternoon, Sir ‘The Turner,’ and good afternoon, Sir ‘Sun’!” Klein, who had awakened his spiritual vision early, noticed through the special qualities of the gray mist that the surface of the stellar body within the etheric form of the "Justice" lady had undergone further subtle changes—its uniform hue now appeared purer. He smiled lightly. "Welcome, our 'Empath' lady." Audrey offered a composed smile, modestly acknowledged, then turned to face her counterpart. "Mr. 'The Hangman,' it's time you submitted your weekly six-page journal entry." Perhaps Mr. 'The Fool' would then recall something further, and share with us another bit of 'common sense'—she leaned slightly, her lips slightly upturned, with quiet anticipation. Alger nodded and began to materialize the six pages of Roxel's journal with Klein's assistance. Previously, he had considered whether to seek approval from Mr. 'The Fool,' and even contemplate submitting the remaining entries through a sacrificial offering. But seeing that the latter seemed uninterested and not actively suggesting it, he ultimately abandoned that idea. This aligned well with his perception. The journal had a certain effect on the divine "Fool," yet it was not profound—He gathered information, but never with urgency. The six-page journal was completed swiftly, and just as Aljer was about to present it to the "Fool" at the very top of the bronze long table, he suddenly remembered something and respectfully interjected, "Sir Fool, I have learned a confidential report concerning the Conclave." On the vast oceans, information did not remain sealed, though it often arrived with a delay. The great sea-dragons valued intelligence as much, frequently dispatching representatives to colonial islands to exchange news they had gathered—through this very channel, Aljer had learned of a specific Conclave matter. "Excellent," said Kline, gently nodding, signaling to the "Hanged Man" to proceed, without regard for the presence of the "Justice" lady or the "Sun" student. This would aid the former in gathering further Conclave updates, while the latter remained entirely unaware of the content. At the same time, he caused the six pages of the journal to materialize in his palm. "The Hangings" Aljer spoke calmly and steadily, "The Conclave has a certain connection with the Republic of Intis." The Republic of Intis... indeed, Emperor Roscel is Intisan, and Chalatu first encountered him in the capital of Intis, Trier... the Conclave also played a role in that notable event within Intis... well, it's not surprising at all that the Conclave still maintains some ties with the Republic of Intis today. Kline verified the information step by step, confirming that "The Hangings" had provided genuine details. Ah, perfect—next on my list is the ambassador of the Republic of Intis. Kline didn't immediately turn to Roscel's diary; instead, he looked up at the only three members present.