Inside the teaching building of the medical school, now nearly abandoned, Audrey, who had just finished her gathering and was slowly moving in circles to leave, suddenly paused. She caught a familiar, dense gray mist, and within it, a blurred figure standing prominently at the center. "This is a clue," said the quiet, resonant voice of the Sir Fool. And the scene before her was nothing short of a vivid, colorful photograph! A man of nearly two meters tall, not particularly robust, dressed in a black clergy robe, stood in the shade. His hair, soft and slightly wavy, was a pale yellow; his deep brown eyes, cold and veiled with intensity, and his slightly downturned mouth gave him the solitary, wolf-like demeanor. A clue? The clue connecting the explosion at the Dharavi street in the East district and the accident involving Gavyn? Was this the murderer? Audrey stood still, then slowly came to realization. "Sir Fool" has the clue—indeed, he is remarkable, perhaps even unparalleled. With that thought, she turned to look at Firth beside her. Just as Foulis removed his mask, took off his surgical cap, and settled into the carriage, he immediately noticed Miss Audrey’s slightly unusual gaze and asked with curiosity, “Is there something on my face?” “No,” Audrey returned, shifting her gaze and taking her seat, shedding her disguise. Recalling the previous gathering, Foulis asked with interest, “Miss Audrey, why didn’t you purchase the ‘audience’ formula? That would have allowed you to establish a connection with the Psychological Alchemy Society.” He remembered Miss Audrey’s generous nature had remained largely silent throughout the evening, mostly listening, selling only a few spiritually infused materials and purchasing others in return. Audrey smiled gently, “This is my first gathering in this circle, and I believe observation and patience are more important.” “I’m eager for the potion recipes, even more so for the magical items, but I’ve told myself it’s not necessary to rush. A better strategy is to first become familiar, then take action.” "This is also the 'observer' pathway's 'professional habit,' and there's still no appearance of extraordinary materials like the eerie black panther spinal fluid or the elven spring marrow crystals that the 'World' gentleman has been seeking... Audrey quietly added. Vorth watched the young woman, still under eighteen, and suddenly felt that she had never seemed more mature than at this moment. She suddenly chuckled to herself, self-consciously: 'If I had been as composed as you back then, I wouldn't have wasted such a precious opportunity.' Audrey responded with a composed smile and then said: 'I'll visit certain special friends tomorrow morning to see if they have any leads regarding the Dalaavi Street explosion. You and Hoo will meet me at the usual place for updates.' 'Certainly,' Vorth nodded without hesitation. ...... Klein did not return to Minsk Street that night; instead, he stayed overnight in a one-room apartment on Black Palms Street in the East District. He feared that the man, dressed in a suspected black priest's robe, and possibly with allies, was still out searching for him throughout the city." Although the chances of encountering him were low, and he had previously disguised himself so that the other person likely wouldn't recognize him, since the divination indicated a certain possibility, Klein decided to proceed cautiously and settled for spending the night in the eastern district. As dawn began to break, he donned another set of deep blue workwear, put on a light brown baseball cap, left the room, descended the stairs, and stepped onto the street. A pale, slightly yellowish mist hovered around him, and the figures of people passing by were blurred and indistinct, the early morning chill seeping into his clothes. Klein lowered his head and hurried along, moving just like the other early workers. As he walked, he noticed an older man in his forties or fifties, with gray hair at his temples, wearing a thick jacket, repeatedly shivering as he paced in place, and tremblingly reaching into the inner pocket of his coat to pull out a crumpled cigarette and a nearly empty box of matches. Just as he opened the matchbox, his right hand suddenly trembled, causing the cigarette to fall to the ground and roll to Klein's feet. Klein stopped and picked up the cigarette, offering it to the other. "Thank you! Thank you! This has been my old companion for years—only a few left now." The middle-aged man thanked him sincerely and took the cigarette. His face was pale, his beard as if not shaved in days, and his weariness radiated clearly from his eyes and forehead. He added with a sigh, "I haven't slept all night again. I'm not sure how much longer I can go. I hope God will keep me strong so I can make it into the almshouse today." This was a homeless man who had been pushed out. Klein asked casually, "Why won't the king and the ministers allow you to sleep in the park?" "Who knows? But with the weather like this, sleeping outside might mean never waking up again. It's better to stay indoors during the day, where it's warmer. Then you don't have the energy or time to go out and look for work." The man lit his cigarette and took a deep, satisfying draw. His energy seemed to have recovered a little, and he walked side by side with Crane toward a place that was either the end or the depth of the mist. Crane had no intention of small talk, hoping to speed up and leave him behind—yet at that moment, he suddenly saw the middle-aged man with clear, composed speech bending down to pick up something black and dull from the ground. It appeared to be an apple core, completely devoured. The man swallowed a lump of saliva, took the muddy, earth-stained core into his mouth, bit it thoroughly until it was mashed, and then swallowed it down without a single trace. With a look of surprise from Crane, he wiped his lips, shrugged, and offered a bitter smile. "I haven't eaten anything for nearly three days." This statement struck Crane deeply, touching him in a way he could not quite put into words. He sighed silently and smiled, saying, "Sorry, I didn't introduce myself earlier. I'm a journalist working on a feature about homeless people. Would you mind if I interviewed you? Let's go to that café right there at the corner." The middle-aged man paused slightly, then chuckled, "No problem—the inside is much warmer than outside." "If you could stay a little longer after the interview, just for half an hour—no, even a full hour—that would be wonderful." Klein opened his mouth, but didn't know what to say. He simply remained silent and led the interviewee into the modest café at the street corner. The tables and chairs were quite greasy, and with the walls and windows, there were quite a few guests, so the indoor temperature was indeed noticeably warmer than outside. The middle-aged man rubbed his throat, subtly masking the slight movements of his throat as the aroma of the coffee stirred it. Caine indicated he should sit, then went to the counter, ordering two cups of tea, a plate of young peas stewed with lamb, two slices of bread, two toast, a substandard butter, and a packet of artificial cream—totaling seventeen and five pence. "Eat. You have to be full to interview properly," he said. Once the food was ready, Caine brought it back to their table. "For me?" the middle-aged man asked, full of expectation and surprise. "Everything except one slice of toast and one cup of tea is yours," Caine replied with a smile. The man wiped his eyes, slightly choked, saying, "…You're truly a kind soul." "When you're hungry, don't rush," Caine advised. "I know—I had a good friend who died for exactly that reason." The man ate slowly, occasionally lifting his tea to take long, steady sips. Klein simply finished his toast and quietly watched, waiting for the other man to finish. "Phew, it's been three months—no, six months—since I've felt this full. In the workhouse, the food was just enough." After a while, the middle-aged man set down his spoon, his plate now empty. He took a sip of tea, sighed, and spoke again: "I can only wait for the chance to enter the workhouse. As you know, each workhouse has a set limit. If I'm lucky and join the queue in time, I can have a few days of decent rest, recover a bit of strength, and then find temporary work—well, temporary, really. Soon enough, I'll be unemployed again, and the cycle will repeat itself. I don't know how long I can keep going like this." "I should have been a good worker," he mused. "How many cigarettes do you have left?" "Not many," the middle-aged man said with a bitter smile. "These were my last possessions when I was evicted from my landlord's home. Oh, I can't bring them into the workhouse—they're not allowed. I hide them in the creases of my clothes. Only during the hardest times do I pull one out and light it, to keep hope alive. I don't know how much longer I can hold on. Let me tell you—when I first started, I was a good worker, truly." Klein wasn't a professional journalist, and at first didn't know what to ask. He turned to look out the window and saw faces clearly marked with hunger. Some were still alert—residents of the eastern district; others were listless and exhausted, barely human—these were the homeless. There was no clear boundary between the two; one could easily become the other. For instance, the man sitting before me... Klein turned back and found the middle-aged man now asleep, curled up in his chair. After a silent pause of several minutes, Klein went over, roused him, and handed him a copper penny. "This is for the interview," he said. "Thank you! Thank you!" The man seemed momentarily dazed and only when Klein reached the door did he raise his voice. "I'll go to a budget hotel, take a shower, get a good night's rest, and then look for work." ... At noon, Klein attended a banquet at Summer's home, with ten guests in attendance. Here there is apple juice with steak, roasted chicken, fried fish, sausages, creamy soup, numerous dishes, and two bottles of champagne, plus a bottle of red wine. On his way back from the restroom, he encountered Mrs. Staline Summer and sincerely thanked her: "A most generous lunch, thank you for the hospitality." "The total came to four pounds eight shillings; the three bottles of wine were the most expensive, though they are all from Luke's collection—he has a dedicated wine cabinet," Mrs. Staline smiled in reply. Before Klein could speak, she added, "Just from Mary's matter, you've already earned ten pounds. If you can maintain such good fortune, you'll soon be able to host similar gatherings. For our class, it's customary to invite friends once a month and to be invited in return." Klein had long grown accustomed to his manner—polite and complimentary—responding, "Well, I'll have to wait until my annual income stabilizes at four hundred pounds before I can match your standard." Staline immediately lifted her chin slightly, making a conscious effort to keep her smile restrained: "Four hundred and thirty pounds—four hundred and thirty pounds." At first glance, her pupils contracted like needles, and she nearly turned into a statue. The customer who had entered was nearly two meters tall!