The cement roads, worn muddy from prolonged rain, glowed with a bright, hazy light from gas streetlamps standing at the height of adult men—their glass domes dampened and diffusing the illumination. A hired carriage moved through the night, its passengers either wearing hats or carrying umbrellas. Crane leaned against the carriage wall, idly observing the evening streets of Beckland. Suddenly, he felt a noticeable drop in the temperature inside the carriage, a cold, swirling breeze drifting around him. He turned sharply and saw a young guard, dressed in a black Gothic court gown, seated across from him—she had appeared without any prior notice. Her voice, ethereal and faint, said, "The 'Eye of Wisdom' has sensed my presence." Indeed... Crane nodded, unsurprised: "He possesses several magical items—perhaps it is through these that he detects me. I even suspect there's an organization behind him." Otherwise, relying solely on the strength of the "Eye of Wisdom" itself, even after thirty-some years, it would have been quite unlikely to gather several powerful magical items. The previous "Storm Commander" Qilinges, one of the seven naval admirals of the pirates, had only one such item—the "Crawling Hunger." Indeed, the latter might have simply had a higher standard, overlooking ordinary magical artifacts, since the "Crawling Hunger" alone could achieve comprehensive coverage with few weaknesses. Hmm, it's entirely reasonable that the "Eye of Wisdom" itself is well-funded—organizing so many gatherings and securing suitable magical items without hesitation—after three decades, amassing several such treasures isn't particularly surprising. Oh well, this is just the kind of thing that comes with a family fortune or a bank. Ren remarked to himself. He didn't specify that he actually suspected the "Eye of Wisdom" belonged to either the Church of the Gods of Steam and Machinery, or the Church of the Gods of Knowledge and Wisdom, for fear of revealing to the young bodyguard that he had only recently become an extraordinary being. The young bodyguard with light golden hair gently nodded, as if agreeing with Caine's suspicion. Suddenly, her brows furrowed, and she turned toward the opposite window: "There's a strong scent of blood." A strong scent of blood... Caine turned, glancing out the window. Under the sparse light rain, there lay a quiet alleyway. Near the alley's entrance, a woman in a vibrant long gown lay sprawled. As pedestrians passed by, one paused to examine her closely and then suddenly cried out. The cry startled the horses, and the driver quickly tightened the reins, causing the carriage to slow down. Under the glow of the gas streetlamps, Crane saw the woman lying on the ground at the alley's entrance pale and ashen, with a deep gash across her abdomen as though her internal organs had been emptied. Blood from around her was seeping slowly, rich and crimson. This... as a competent former nightwatchman, he quickly recalled numerous cases with similar modus operandi. These cases were invariably linked to demon worship! When it came to demon worship, it was hard to overlook an ancient order that first emerged in the Fourth Age—the "Blood Cult!" According to records, this was a loose alliance formed through devotion to demons, comprising several so-called demon families—such as the North, Andrelad, and Belia families—each independent and non-subordinate. They tirelessly propagated their demon faith, resulting in numerous bloodshed incidents. One of their victims was Mrs. Oliviana, the accountant of the Tinggen Nightwatch team, who had fortunately survived. Of course, not every similar case was handled by them—many people found the events fascinating and began emulating the crimes. "Very much like the Blood Church did," the bodyguard whispered, her figure quickly fading and vanishing, without bothering to check whether Klein had understood or not. At that moment, the carriage had already passed the scene of the incident, and Klein noticed police officers arriving on the scene, so he restrained himself from getting off to observe, instead presenting himself as a mere passerby. Well, Mr. Moriaty—the citizen… The Blood Church holds the "Criminal" Path, also known as the Demon Path. It's said that after Sequence 7, the extraordinary ones gradually demonize, but only under specific circumstances and in particular situations. Sequence 9, the "Criminal," possesses a strong physique, acute intuition, and various criminal abilities, yet their sense of conscience remains intact. Sequence 8, once known as the "Cold-Blooded," is now called the "Winged Angel Fallen," meaning they have lost their conscience, flowing with evil desires, becoming more inhuman, and gaining certain demonic-like magical abilities. Sequence 7, the "Serial Killer," has mastered many knowledge and rituals of demon worship and delights in orchestrating special serial murder cases to please the demons. As for the sequences beyond that, I no longer know what they are. The knowledge of the Blood Church and the Demon Path unfolds one by one in Klein's mind. The light rain outside seems to have intensified, the rainwater gathering and flowing down the windowpane, making the entire world quieter, less clear. "What's the point of me being involved in all this? Someone from the Exceptional Team must take it up—perhaps the Substituted One, perhaps the Night Watcher. I don't need to worry about it." Kline shook his head, murmuring under his breath. When he returned to 15 Minsk Street, he had completely forgotten about the case he'd just handled. First, he knocked on the Sommer family's door next door, asking Mrs. Staline to pass along a message to Mary to let her know she could collect the evidence the next afternoon. Then he brushed his teeth, read the newspaper, and stayed updated on the current situation and the latest news from Beckland. On the following Saturday morning, Kline took his time enjoying breakfast, went out to pick up freshly washed photographs, and selected one that clearly showed the faces of Dora Gale and Erika Taylor, capturing their fiery enthusiasm. After placing the photo, he made a quick trip to the Lese Police Station again, just before Mrs. Mary arrived, and successfully retrieved the ten pounds' bond. During this time, he also spotted the real Chief Inspector Fashin, who seemed rather uncomfortable. After withdrawing the remaining £500 in cash from his account, Klein finally found himself free from any immediate tasks. Before preparing his lunch, he paid the remaining £600 in expenses to the bodyguard, leaving him with a total of £146 8s. 5d—his entire available assets. Aside from his obligation to Miss Justice, he had no other debts... Klein relaxed and grilled a bone-in steak, pouring over it a black pepper sauce. As he savored the medium-rare texture with a pleasant mood, the doorbell suddenly rang, its clear chime echoing continuously. "Mrs. Mary? It's so early," Klein remarked, setting down his fork and knife, and walking toward the door. He paused for a moment, and naturally, an image of the visitor outside formed in his mind. He was a classic gentleman—dressed in a light gray coat, wearing a half-high silk hat, carrying a black cane with gold inlay. His sharp blue eyes gave him a keen, observant gaze, with a few streaks of gray at his temples and deep lines etched across his face, making his facial muscles appear slightly sagging. "May I ask, which of us are you looking for?" asked Caine as he opened the door. The gentleman spoke with a rich accent from the eastern coast of the Mediterranean. "Are you Charlotte Moriaty, the detective?" "Do you have a matter to commission?" Caine nodded, stepping aside and guiding the gentleman into the living room. After a brief hesitation, he finally asked, "Would you like coffee or tea?" "Simply a cup of hot water, thank you," replied the gentleman, removing his hat and settling into his seat. Well, that's straightforward... Perhaps I should consider hiring an assistant to serve tea, pour water, and clean the rooms... Caine thought as he turned toward the kitchen to rinse a cup. After placing the hot water before the elderly gentleman, he walked to the single sofa, sat down with his hands folded, and asked, "How shall I address you?" "Miller Carter," the gentleman replied succinctly. "Mr. Carter, what would you like to entrust me with?" Klein didn't offer any small talk—he asked directly. As he spoke, he quietly activated his spiritual sight, observing the man across from him. The gentleman appeared quite healthy, though the color of the energy at his left knee joint was slightly off—likely due to arthritis. His emotional tone was primarily calm and reflective, in blue, with a hint of anxiety. Klein had only glanced at him briefly before forming a clear assessment. Miller Carter lifted the white porcelain cup, running his fingers along the outer rim. "Here's the situation: I've purchased a house on Williams Street. I'm from the County of the Sea, and due to my business, I'll be settling in Beckett." Williams Street... where is that? Less than a month since arriving in Beckettland, Klein, who used to rely on maps or his instincts when going out, has been making a conscious effort to appear steady and dependable. Miller Carter glanced at him and, at his cue, continued: "The house was originally owned by a ruined viscount—something from the past two or three decades. After several changes of hands, I eventually purchased it. I've planned to make some modern updates, but during the process, I discovered a hidden door in the basement leading to a large underground structure. Given the potential risks inside, I've paused construction and kept the workers and servants from venturing in unilaterally. I'd like you to help assess the condition of that underground space." Miller Carter rubbed his eyes: "I don't want too many people to know about this, especially the government." "If we confirm there's no danger inside that underground structure, I plan to incorporate it as part of the house and reconfigure its use." "I know this poses a higher risk for you. I'm willing to pay 50 pounds for that, but the assistants you bring in must be no more than three. Afterward, depending on the specific circumstances, I can also provide additional compensation." Fifty pounds—that's a rather high price... If I were an ordinary detective, that would be equivalent to two or three months' salary. He had just arrived in Beckland, knew no other detectives, and had to hire people through the newspapers, so he'd come to me. Klein paused for a few seconds, then said: "I'll think about it." He suddenly offered a polite smile and pointed toward the back. "I'll go to the restroom." Miller Carter nodded slightly, sipped his hot water. Entered the bathroom, closed the wooden door, and looked into the washstand mirror. Pulling out a half-penny copper coin, he couldn't go to the gray mist above to verify—there was the guard lady there—so he relied solely on his own intuitive judgment. "I should take this commission." ... He silently repeated it seven times, then released the coin, watching it roll and fall as his gaze deepened. *Plink!* The coin landed in his palm, king's head up—indicating affirmation. He gave a slight nod, then spoke softly into the air: "What does your intuition say?" Instantly, the figure of the guard lady appeared in the mirror, her expression unchanged. "There's some risk, but not severe." Good. Klein folded the coin, washed his hands, turned, and stepped out of the bathroom into the living room. He looked at Miller Carter, smiled, and said: "I'm taking this commission."