Bang! Bang! Bang! Caine single-handedly held the revolver rented from the Crags Club, pulling the trigger in succession and hitting the target with precision—his worst shot still rated above eight rings. Having practiced with numerous rounds of ammunition, and thanks to his exceptional bodily control developed since becoming the "Clown," his shooting skills had become quite solid. If he continued this routine for several more months, he could certainly be called a master marksman. Caine satisfied himself by opening the cylinder, shaking out the spent cartridges, and, amidst the rhythmic sound of shells landing, turned his head to Talim Dumont, smiling and asking, "Are you satisfied?" "Very good," said Talim, the equestrian instructor, who had already removed his black wool coat and light gray sweater, now adopting a boxing stance. "Come on, let me assess your combat skills. I can tell you frankly that I've been trained as a junior knight since childhood, and I've never let it go. "As a truly exceptional person, if I can't even beat a well-trained ordinary man, then I suppose I'm not fit to be human anymore!" Klein muttered, still wearing his double-breasted formal suit, placing his revolver neatly aside, stepping sideways two paces, and gesturing toward Taliem to begin. He'd originally intended to wave his finger to add some flair, but upon considering Taliem's strength, he decided it was too much effort to waste. Taliem was visibly excited, jumping slightly in place before swiftly advancing with a powerful right-hook. Klein deflected and caught with his left hand, then bent low, pivoted, and extended his right palm, executing a smooth backflip. *Thump!* Taliem flew backward, landing on his back—Klein had not fully exerted himself, merely using inertia to send him flying. "Impressive!" Taliem quickly rose, giving Klein a thumbs-up. "No wonder you're such a renowned detective—your marksmanship and combat skills are truly outstanding." After all, you only defeated someone like me, a rather average fighter—how did you conclude I had such strong combat abilities? Klein muttered under his breath, smiled, and asked, "Since you've already learned, could you tell me what your friend would like to commission?" "Ah, he'll be arriving at the club shortly—please go ahead and chat among yourselves," Talim replied, rubbing his back. "As for the specifics of the commission, I'm not quite sure. By the way, he's a journalist—Michael Joseph from The Daily Observer. He's probably looking for temporary protection." "Understood," Klein said, and didn't press further. He continued practicing with his gun—both the revolver and various others, including the hunting rifle, the single-shot rifle, and the repeating rifle—so that in case of any emergency, he'd be able to handle any firearm available around him swiftly. By nearly twelve o'clock, he returned to the first floor and entered the self-service restaurant, where he ordered a roasted chicken, a pan-seared sirloin, and the limited-availability lobster macaroni cheese served today at the club. After placing these, he also brought out the Fénéport seafood rice, a fruit salad, a oyster soup, and a marquis tea. Facing this sumptuous lunch, he couldn't help swallowing a lump of saliva, silently praising the goddess in his heart. If he had eaten it outside, this meal would have cost him three soules... Klein skillfully alternated between his silver knife, fork, and spoon, enjoying his meal immensely. Almost when he had cleared the table of the food, Talim Dumont approached with a man dressed in a thick, substantial coat and wearing a half-high hat. "Moriati Detective, this is the friend I mentioned—Michael Joseph. Michael, this is the renowned detective, Mr. Sherlock Moriati." Talim smiled and introduced them to each other. "It's a pleasure to meet you," Michael said, taking off his hat and bowing. He appeared to be in his early thirties, with somewhat sparse eyebrows and a notably rough complexion, his pores clearly visible. Yet his features were still quite pleasing, especially his bright blue eyes, which were particularly captivating, enhanced further by a neat pair of well-groomed mustaches, giving him a mature and refined air. Klein couldn't help but run his fingers over the thicker, more abundant beard that had grown around his lips. He stood up, invited the other to sit, and smiled, saying, "The cream cheese-baked lobster for today was quite good—why don't you try it?" "Certainly," Michael Joseph didn't hesitate. He picked up his plate and circled the table, helping himself to a variety of dishes. "He was in such a hurry to get here that he hadn't had lunch yet," Talim explained with a smile, placing a stack of newspapers on the table. "I can see that," Klein said, setting down his fork and knife, wiping his mouth with a napkin, and sipping his红茶 leisurely. He had been thoroughly satisfied with the meal just served. At that moment, Michael Joseph returned with two plates of food, quickly ate a few bites to settle his stomach, then looked up at Klein. "Moriarty Detective, have you heard anything about the recent string of murders?" Klein asked, his mind immediately sparked, with a brief follow-up question: "You mean the ones where the organs have been removed?" Talim nodded, remarking, "Indeed, every detective is closely watching this series of murders." Mike then pulled out a newspaper and passed it to Caine: "This is the latest report." Caine took it and noticed it was The Daily Observer—the paper where Mike worked. On the front page, it read: "11! Another woman slain! The West Villas Field is at a loss!" — The headquarters of the Beckland Police Department is located on West Villas Street, near the Queens border, so they are commonly known as "The West Villas Field." Eleven? The eleventh case? Caine suppressed his urge to furrow his brow and continued reading, finding that indeed, it mirrored the case he had encountered: each victim was a woman dressed in a vibrant, long gown, and each had been murdered with her abdominal organs removed. This case clearly bears the marks of demonic veneration. The scene at West Valas must have already been handed over to the Night Watch, the Substitute Penitents, or the Mechanicum Core team—each of whom conducts divination, spirit communication, and possesses various unusual, effective means. Yet, after all this, the case remains unsolved, no culprit has been apprehended? That man surely has exceptional "anti-detection" capabilities—has he disrupted the deceased's soul? Or perhaps the soul, along with the organs, was entirely removed as part of a demonic rite? Indeed, he could certainly interfere with divination efforts. After all, if a member of the "Demonic" path lacked such abilities, how could they commit a series of murders? His real reason for refusal was that incorporating this ongoing series of murders into the investigation would inevitably bring him into contact with officials who were particularly exceptional—perhaps even the night watchkeepers of the goddess church in the Becland district. "No, it's not an investigation," Mike Joseph said, swallowing the shrimp. "Not exactly. To put it more accurately, it's not a search for the killer. I simply want to complete my reporting." "Reporting?" Kenneth set down his white-glazed teacup, crossed his hands, and asked calmly. Mike Joseph explained: "If you purchase The Daily Observer tomorrow or the day after, you'll find my in-depth coverage of this series of murders. The most important part of it reveals the commonalities among the victims and alerts similar groups to be vigilant." "Hmm, what commonalities?" Kenneth asked curiously. Mike sipped his coffee and said: "Besides being women wearing vibrant, colorful dresses, there's one other significant commonality." I conducted an in-depth investigation into the victims' professions and discovered an interesting fact. "Some were maids, others weavers, some dressmakers, and others teachers—on the surface, there seemed to be no overlap. Yet, in fact, each of them had previously worked as street prostitutes." "Street prostitutes? Teachers?" Kline asked, slightly astonished. In the Kingdom of Roon, teachers were part of the middle class, with a minimum weekly salary of two pounds, sufficient for a woman to live comfortably. It was entirely unnecessary for them to become street prostitutes. Mike moved his lips slightly and sighed, "Indeed, they had all done so—before finding work that could support them, they likely faced very difficult periods." "I previously conducted a survey in Beckland: one out of every six women aged 15 to 55 has either currently or previously worked as a street vendor. Honestly, that's our country—so conservative, so vibrant—yet foreigners who arrive here are always struck by the sheer number of street vendors everywhere." (Note 1) That statistic seems a bit exaggerated, doesn't it? If it's true, then reality is even more striking than fiction. What a terrible time we're living in. Caine was utterly astounded. After a moment's thought, he deliberately remarked, "One issue is: how did the murderer know the victim had worked as a street vendor? There's no label on their clothing—only through an in-depth investigation would such a detail come to light." "Well, I'm not surprised at all," Michael Joseph replied, clearly seeing this as a promising clue. No. If the extraordinary one follows the "demon" path, perhaps their criterion is someone who appears fallen but hasn't completely fallen—someone they intuitively sense as such, possibly even seeing a deep, visible hue of that fall. Combined with the vividly colorful dress as a triggering element, the target is effectively locked in. Klein answered himself in his mind, then asked, "So, what else would you like to investigate?" Mike nodded. "Among these 11 cases, ten of the women have previously worked as streetwalkers, but one hasn't—she's still a prostitute now. That's Isabel, the youngest, only sixteen. This seems quite unusual. Quite unusual. I'd like to go deep into the investigation at 'Golden Rose,' where she works—yes, where she works—to see if anything comes to light." "I'm worried that asking questions might offend the people there, so I'd like to ask you to briefly protect me— you needn't scold them, only to ensure my safety at the most critical moments." "If nothing happens, I'll pay you one pound; if there's any confrontation, it'll be five pounds. What do you think?" Caine smiled and said, "I'll go wash my hands before I reply." With a polite bow, he slowly walked to the restroom, tossed a coin, and received a positive response. Note 1: This reflects statistical data about London from the late Victorian era.