Three o'clock in the afternoon, Dong Bailang Dock, Dock Workers' Association. Caine wore a thick wool sweater, a brown-yellow jacket, and a simple soft hat, dressing himself to resemble a typical investigative journalist rather than the one who frequently attends banquets and interviews well-connected, high-status figures—a wardrobe choice that cost him one pound and ten shillings. At this moment, he wore gold-framed glasses, his hair neatly combed and gleaming with oil, his face clean-shaven except for a deep, dark streak running around his lips, and his height now at least five centimeters taller than before, deliberately contrasting with his worker appearance from last night to ensure that those not particularly familiar with him could not make the connection. In his pockets, he carried no "Eye of All Black," no talismans or herbal essential oils, only a deck of tarot cards, a stack of notepads, a water-filled steel pen, a leather wallet, a few coins, a set of keys, and a fake press credential. — He had no idea about Lan'urus's current condition, nor where the exceptionally powerful individuals surrounding him originated from, so caution was paramount; he brought no items that might raise suspicion. Glancing ahead toward the two-story building, Caine walked down the street, feigning that he had only just noticed several sets of eyes observing him. Pushing open the door, he found the dock union's layout quite modest—no receptionist lady, no spacious hall. The staircase to the second floor was centrally located, flanked by corridors packed with offices, and the floor was simply poured with concrete, with neither wooden planks nor rugs. Caine glanced at the man standing by the door, then approached and said, "I'm a reporter from the *Bakerland Daily*. I'd like to interview your staff and learn about your concerns and aspirations." The man wore an outer coat with numerous patches, and at several corners, even dirty fibers had spilled out. Inside, he had only a linen shirt. Upon hearing the word "journalist," he immediately became alert and repeated in a steady tone: "No! We haven't organized any strikes recently—no!" "I think you've misunderstood. I'm here out of sympathy for you. I intend to write a feature story describing the work the union has done to support workers and the real challenges they've faced. Believe me," Klein used the extraordinary ability of the 'clown' to make his eyes appear especially sincere. "Ah, then—go see Mr. Land, he's our publicity committee member. Turn right and take the second office on your right." The man hesitated for a few seconds. "Thank you," Klein said, bowing slightly as if relieved, sensing that the watchful gaze from the dim corner had faded. He turned slightly to the right, his back a little damp with sweat, and knocked on the door of the corresponding office. Creaking open the door, a middle-aged man with sparse hair stared at him in puzzlement, asking, "Could you tell me your name?" "Is that Mr. Land? I'm Stanion, a reporter from the *Bakerland Daily*. I'd like to cover the union theme in a feature story to help bring more attention to your work." Klein was almost convinced he had become a reporter himself. "That's me, Land," the man replied, glancing at the reporter's credentials, clearly reluctant and hesitating. "I find it hard to believe journalists are coming to support us." "I was born in the East District, and I know how difficult life is for workers," Klein said with a sudden smile, adding, "If you're still not convinced, you can follow me at all times and keep an eye on every question I ask. I have actual interviews and firsthand materials to back up my reporting—better than a story written entirely from imagination. At least, you'll be able to present your own perspective and shape the narrative in a way that reflects your hopes." Rand ran a hand through his hair, hesitated, and replied, "Alright." "I'll be right with you throughout." "Thank you!" Kline nearly lost control of his emotions. Afterwards, under Rand's guidance, he entered one office after another, interviewing staff members of the Workers' Association according to the pre-set questions. No results on the right corridor, no results on the left... Kline maintained his composed expression and stepped onto the wooden stairs, ascending to the second floor. This time, Rand led him into the office directly facing the staircase, introducing him to the person inside: "This is Mr. Stanison, a reporter from the *Bakerland Daily*." "He'd like to interview you, but I must remind you that you have the right to decline answering certain questions." Kline smiled warmly and took a few steps forward, making a gesture to shake hands with each person in the office. At that moment, he noticed a figure that seemed slightly familiar. Though the other's skin had turned a bronze hue, his plain, ordinary round face now seemed more defined, and his glasses had shifted from a circular frame to a gold-embossed elongated one, Klein still sensed a subtle, inexplicable familiarity through the intuitive sensitivity of a seer. Immediately, his body trembled, and his smile nearly faltered. "No, excuse me," he stammered, "I suddenly—suddenly—I have a stomachache. Could you tell me where the restrooms are?" Holding his abdomen with the hand not gripping his pen and notepad, he asked awkwardly. Neither Rand nor any of the office staff expressed doubt; they all pointed toward the door. "Go out, turn left, and when you reach the end, you'll see the sign." Klein smiled politely, stepped back, and quickly exited the room, hurrying straight toward the restroom. Inside, he chose the stall closest to the window, sat on the toilet, and locked the wooden door behind him. Bending forward, his mouth spread into a broad smile, he laughed silently—so deeply that he could hardly straighten up, and a single droplet of clear liquid fell to the floor. Klein had confirmed it—that was Lan'urush! This wasn't based on the slight familiarity he had, but rather on the distinct aura he sensed in the other man—an impression so powerful and striking that it had nearly caused Klein to lose control right then and there. The physical tremors stemmed from instinctive fear and apprehension, while the emotional collapse arose from deep-seated shock and sorrow. That was... that was... that was the very essence of the "True Creator"! The essence of the True Maker could only emanate from Him Himself, from His offspring, and from things extending from that foundation—such as the gifts He bestowed, or His divinity—this perfectly aligned with what Larnuus had told Hude Egen. Added to that, there was a peculiar sense of familiarity. Without needing to ascend into the mist for divination, I could confirm it was Him. If I hadn’t already engaged in several encounters with the True Maker and frequently experienced His spiritual influence, I would have been unable to recognize the presence that lacked power and personality as distinctly His. Kline felt deeply weighed down, yet his demeanor remained composed. Standing on the street, he deliberately smoothed out his interview notes. During this moment, he noticed a figure among the homeless that seemed slightly familiar. Hude Egen? Kline instantly formed that conclusion based on the unfolding circumstances. Without pausing, he tucked away the notes and walked toward the streetcar station. At that moment, a carriage suddenly stopped in front of him. "We've met before," said the slender yet refined middle-aged gentleman seated inside. His hair, already silver at the temples, carried a distinguished air—he was the accomplished detective, Ainsworth Stanton, who assisted the police with investigations. As for Cline, his appearance was much the same as usual, merely taller and dressed in new clothes. "It's quite coincidental," Cline deliberately replied, "that I've been thinking about our last interview." Ainsworth immediately grasped the point and smiled, steering the conversation elsewhere. "I've come to this area to investigate the case—I'm primarily responsible for the death of Hibel, whose place of death is very close to the East Baylawn Dock." "Is this a case of imitation crime?" Cline pretended to be discovering this for the first time. After a few pleasantries, he boarded the streetcar and did not head straight home, but instead transferred to a service bound for the Crags Club in the Hillsborough district. In the club's lounge, he swiftly moved through the gray mist, confirming that no one was following him. Only then did Caine truly relax, feeling a deep sense of relief. The presence of the "True Maker" hovered in his mind like a nightmare, making his clothing against his back dry and damp, then damp again. To be safe, Caine materialized before him a brownish sheepskin parchment and a deep-red steel pen, then skillfully wrote down the divination phrase he had carefully prepared: "The origin of that previously inexplicable sense of familiarity." Setting down the pen and leaning back against the chair, he silently recited the words as he entered the dream. Immediately, he straightened up, preparing to respond to the prayer of the "Justice" lady. Cain controlled his emotions and spoke in a low, calm tone: "Confirmation is not needed." "That is Laneruus." "Notify the Church of the Night Goddess and inform them that Laneruus bears the divine essence of the 'Fallen Creator.'" …… Audrey, who had been watching her father train the hounds alongside Suzy, was momentarily stunned upon hearing the response from the "Fool." "The 'Fallen Creator'—isn't that the 'True Creator'? Does the very fraud bear the divine essence of the 'True Creator'? This—this simple task has now involved the divine essence of the 'True Creator'! Of course, I always suspected the 'Fool' had deeper intentions. He is targeting the 'True Creator'—indeed, he is the true 'Fool'!" A wave of thoughts surged through Audrey instantly.