"Very well," Caine nodded firmly. Chief Fashin ran a hand through his short hair and said, "There are a few arrangements I'd like to go into detail about—please make your own decisions." His gaze shifted toward the living room area. With polite courtesy, Caine gave a slight gesture of invitation, watching as Chief Fashin closed the door, then walked over to the sofa and sat down. "What arrangements?" Caine didn't remove his coat; his hands remained tucked into his pockets. Fashin leaned slightly forward, hands clasped, and said, "You're certainly aware that you've upset the ambassador—tonight or tomorrow will be your most critical period." "The higher-ups have presented you with three options. First, stay at Saint Wind Church for two days. I know you're a devoted follower of the deities of steam and machinery, but Saint Hilan's church is quite distant, and travel there could easily go awry." Caine gave a barely perceptible nod, waiting for the second option. Suddenly, his vision blurred, his head grew heavy, and he felt as though there were a thick layer of glass between him and the world around. He noticed the slow opening and closing of the police chief's mouth, and realized his own thoughts were gradually becoming sluggish. This sensation was so familiar—Caine instantly recalled the puppet of the Antigonus family, the seal "2–049." Back then, he had experienced this effect repeatedly, yet had been awakened by Captain Dunning Smith and others, who kept making deliberate arm movements to ensure others noticed his condition. The Antigonus family mastered the "Seer" path—this ability was remarkably similar to that of the family's puppet. He was, in fact, a mid-tier Seer of that path. It was him—Caine suddenly realized. But by now, there was no Dunning Smith to wake him up. The muscles on Chief Marshal Fa-xin's face began to move in an odd, strange way. Soon, he transformed into a man with black hair and blue eyes, handsome with a subtle beard. With a smile, he said, "Given enough time, this is one of the most difficult abilities below high sequence." As he spoke, Crane noticed the woman in a black court gown emerging from the convex window glass. She moved stiffly and haltingly, stepping out one moment, then pausing again. Her light golden hair, refined features, and pale complexion made her seem less like a living person and more like a doll. "I didn't expect you to have secured such an accomplished bodyguard. If I hadn't foreseen the issue beforehand, I might have died right here. What exactly did you pay for this? By the way, my name is Rosagó." Rosagó didn't turn around, smiling at Crane, yet she didn't expect the man under her control to respond smoothly. At that moment, he suddenly felt a cold, crisp breeze brushing against his neck, making each hair stand on end and each small bump rise prominently. It seemed as though an invisible person were blowing gently against his neck from behind! Rosagho chuckled, raised his left hand, and tapped his fingers once. *Tap!* Suddenly, flames erupted behind him, a transparent, ethereal silhouette blazing to life before gradually turning to ash. In Caine's vision, these actions unfolded frame by frame, as if in slow motion. It wasn't that Rosagho had slowed down—it was that his thoughts were growing increasingly sluggish. He had already gained control over me… why not simply… eliminate me outright? Don't antagonists always love to chat? No, he wasn't an unthinking person. He was using conversation to conceal something. Caine strained to think, searching for answers, yet the flow of his thoughts could no longer keep pace. He focused intently on Rosagho, observing every subtle detail in his movements. Finally, he saw figures emerging in both of Rosagó's eyes—figures composed of pale golden hair, blue eyes, a pale complexion, and a deep black Gothic court gown! At that moment, the woman was still moving behind Rosagó, approaching the rounded window, walking steadily and deliberately, as though manipulated by some unseen puppeteer. He had not yet fully mastered her—she was still struggling, resisting, fighting. They were engaged in an ongoing struggle within the mysterious realm. He needed to do something—shift the balance. Klein focused his attention on the "Word of Filth" talisman held in his left hand, which felt cold and slick, strangely alien. He was grateful that he had never relaxed his vigilance, always remaining ready for battle. He could only harm himself and others. Klein drew strength, struggling to speak. His vocal cords seemed to have rotted; his throat moved with great difficulty. He uttered the ancient Hermes word—rough, intermittent—“Impurity!” The sound resonated, and on his left palm, a searing pain of corrosion surged. In his ears, layered, dreamlike, mad mutterings swirled and piled upon one another. This was a state he was familiar with, and it did not impede his next attempt. That attempt was to infuse the vast majority of his spiritual essence into the “Impurity” sigil—no physical movement required. Three seconds later, the Voice of the True Creator would descend into the material world, entering the ear of the nearest living being! “3!” The prelude—noisily, fantastically, darkly, evilly—muttered instantly spread, sending shivers through克莱恩’s scalp, his mind buzzing with a constant pulse, his blood vessels throbbing, his thoughts scattered and unable to focus. Rosagó, only a tea table away, appeared momentarily dazed, her face swelling and pulsing, and the image of the woman within her eyes suddenly sharpened. “2!” The pale woman in the black court gown behind him quickened her movements slightly, then furrowed her brow, her expression turning one of painful distress. At this moment, Kline finally felt the influence waning, regained the smooth flow of his thoughts, and discovered that the "lubricant" had once again flowed back into his joints! Having endured the trials of fragmented speech for years, he held firm against the rising frenzy and agony, drawing and hurling the "impure words" talismans from his left palm toward Rosagho. "One!" The iron-black talisman, adorned with numerous symbols and strange patterns, melted into the air. Rosagho, who had just begun to recover his footing and attempted to rush to the side, suddenly saw a thick, profound darkness and heard a stream of fragmented speech—rich with knowledge and reaching the height of utter madness. No human could adequately describe that sound; every blood vessel in Rosagho's head swelled and threatened to burst. He rolled, then collapsed, twisting and struggling, his skin cracking inch by inch, revealing the flesh beneath. At the same time, Klein and the lady with pale golden hair and blue eyes, who had not directly heard the voice of the True Maker, also collapsed with unbearable pain, shrieking as though pierced through their temples by iron skewers. Their eyes suddenly swelled with blood, and fresh red fluid flowed from their nostrils, leaving them blind and disconnected from the outside world. Among the more experienced of the two, Klein recovered first, staggering to his feet, and saw Rosago tear away her garments, shedding her outer skin to reveal all her flesh and veins. She lay there like the legendary red monster stripped of her hide, writhing and groaning, as if on the verge of losing control. Klein did not wait to see what would happen, for he could not bear the possibility that Rosago would gain advantage and become a devoted follower of the True Maker. He believed that the chaotic deity likely harbored deep resentment toward himself as well. He drew out the revolver, adjusted his aim, and took two steps forward, circling to the side of the coffee table, positioning the muzzle against Rosagò's head. Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! In his black double-breasted formal suit, he watched the enemy, firing five consecutive shots. He watched as Rosagò's head swelled and tilted back, then burst open, splattering red, white, and black across the floor. Captain, thank you for your earlier demonstration... Klein lowered the revolver, took deep breaths, and smiled. Before him, Rosagò's lifeless body wavered slightly and then collapsed backward beside the sofa. Only at this moment did the woman in the black Gothic court gown gradually cease her cries, and her rolling, struggling motions slowed, though her skin now appeared noticeably translucent. Seeing the flesh on Rosagò's body still twitching, Klein immediately summoned his self-created "funeral incantation." With a sense of calm and stillness, the body finally came to rest. Witnessing this scene, Caine thought quickly and drew out another talisman, softly chanting, "Red-flecked!" Then, he infused it with a touch of spiritual energy and tossed it toward his bodyguard—the woman with pale complexion and golden hair. The force of sleep spread out, and the woman, still weakened from the lingering effects, instantly grew still and fell into unconsciousness. Caine, still uneasy, added a second "Sleep Talisman," fearing she might disturb his next attempt. The tranquility of 15 Minsk Street returned once more, this time without any broken objects—only the ground was subtly contaminated, due to the strange and concealed nature of the three-way contest. Glancing at Rosagho's body and then at the now-sleeping bodyguard, Caine chuckled to himself, "Frequent near-death experiences do have their benefits—at least, they grant a certain immunity." He didn't hastily attempt a spirit communication ritual, because Rosagó was currently contaminated by the "True Maker"—direct communication would mean suicide. That didn't mean Caine had no solution. He intended to conduct the ritual atop the gray mist, bringing Rosagó with him! At his current spiritual level, even with the Azk copper whistle reinforcing the process, he couldn't move the portable camera, let alone the corpse, which was several times heavier. Yet spirit communication wasn't about moving the body—it was about connecting with the lingering spirit of the other. Caine quickly arranged the ritual, lighting candles, and summoned himself, responding to himself, transforming into a special spiritual form. In this spiritual state, he perceived Rosagó's faint, indistinct residual spirit, noticing that his bodyguard's condition was somewhat unusual—similar to his own current state, yet distinctly different. Without delay, Caine, carrying the Azk copper whistle, enveloped Rosagó's lingering spirit and entered the gray mist above. Presented the corresponding ritual items and arranged a simple altar, Caine swiftly began his spirit-summoning ritual. During this process, he was astonished to find that he no longer needed to ask for anyone's assistance—he could summon spirits directly, just like a true spirit-medium! Hm. That must be my special privilege in this mysterious space above the gray mist. Caine thought it over, and then recited the divination incantation: "The magical recipe for the path of the 'Seer.'."