Klein had originally intended to ask whether, before these unfortunate events began to pile up, Alan or his family had brought home any particularly unusual items—such as a slightly soiled stuffed toy. But as the words formed on his lips, he found the question too direct, too revealing of his deep familiarity with the mysterious realm. While it could be interpreted as a sign of a seasoned detective’s broad experience, he felt it unnecessary to risk exposing that. So he instead phrased his question more indirectly, asking whether Alan’s family had also been experiencing misfortunes. Upon hearing his question, Alan Cris paused and reflected carefully: “No, aside from the steam train accident that happened alongside me, they’ve been as steady as ever—most of the time, neither particularly lucky nor particularly unlucky. The rest have experienced a mix of both, but not especially unfortunate.” "That doesn't make sense... If it were something like the Fated Puppet that required sealing, it would definitely affect people within a certain radius. Could it be that Alan dropped blood on it, establishing a strong connection between the two? In Kline's spiritual vision, Alan's aura and emotional tone matched perfectly with his physical and mental states—there was nothing out of the ordinary. He pondered, asking, "At your hospital, have you encountered anyone else as unlucky as yourself?" "No, so I believe I must have been cursed by someone." Alan adjusted his tie, appearing both restless and uneasy. With Talim observing curiously, Kline thought for a moment and added, "Before your misfortunes began, did you experience any particularly unusual incidents—such as cutting yourself? In folk traditions, blood serves as a powerful medium for a curse to take hold." "I suspect the curse took effect, and I've verified this—over the past three months, I've not bled at all." Alan pressed his knife and fork, responding solemnly. That was a bit strange... they couldn't perform more complex divinations in front of them. Kline asked again: "Then what else seems odd?" "Alan, take a moment to reflect again—such things can't happen without reason. Recently, have you offended anyone? Or become an obstacle to someone?" Taliem added, with a concerned tone. Alan lowered his gaze, gazing at the food on his plate, lost in deep thought. Kline remained active, clearing the dishes before they grew cold and lost their appeal. Only when he began to enjoy the dessert did Alan finally lift his head and say: "I'm not particularly good at social interactions. My relationship with my colleagues isn't especially warm, yet it's hard to believe they'd go out of their way to curse me." "Hmm... thanks to your reminder, I've recalled something that might be connected to the esoteric arts." "What is it?" Klein and Tallym both stirred with renewed alertness. "Before this string of bad luck, I was in charge of a patient—a child under ten—who was quite pitiable, as he needed his left leg amputated due to certain complications," Allen pushed his gold-framed glasses as he recalled. "I had just become a father, and I was always deeply sympathetic to the child's misfortunes. Every time I visited his room, I'd chat with him, encouraging and comforting him." Pausing, Allen spoke more fluidly: "I remember it was the day before his surgery. I went to see him again specifically. He was clearly anxious, playing with a deck of tarot cards—something he'd brought with him upon admission, even refusing his family to take them away." "To help him relax, I joined him in playing tarot readings." "At that moment, I drew a card: the Wheel of Fortune in reverse." "The child looked at me, smiled with such pure, innocent grace, and said: 'Doctor, your luck will get worse.' 'Doctor, your luck will get worse...' Talim took a deep breath. 'I feel a bit cold just thinking about this scene—this very dialogue. Did the child eventually pass away on the operating table?' Alan shook his head. 'The surgery was a success. He recovered quite quickly and was discharged soon after, expressing special gratitude toward me.' 'So I've never doubted this, but now, reflecting on it, I realize this was the only time in the past two months that I've come into contact with something rooted in esoteric studies—whether it proved useful or not, tarot cards are fundamentally meant for divination.' Klein, without realizing it, had picked up a copper-colored coin in his hand. It was now dancing and rolling between his fingers, as if symbolizing the analytical process of a renowned detective." The coin bounced up and then settled back into Klein's palm. With a glance over his shoulder, he concluded his thoughts: "What's the boy's name? Where does he live?" Alan answered without hesitation: "His name is Will O'Connell. As for where he lives, I can't recall." "Detective sir, what is your suggestion?" "Do you know any experts in the field of mysticism?" Klein sipped his红茶, smiling at the expectant looks of Alan and Talim. "My suggestion is to go to the church of the deity you believe in, describe to the bishop the misfortunes you've recently endured, and ask him if there's any solution. Alan, I remember—you're, er, a devotee of the Night Goddess, aren't you?" He almost called out the goddess aloud, but fortunately remembered that, at present, he was a detective devoted to the deities of steam and machinery. "Yet, I've prayed to the goddess, attended Mass, and made financial and material donations—none of these have yielded any results. I believe I must find someone with real skill in divination." Alan did not agree with Moriarty's suggestion. Talim nodded in agreement beside him. "Indeed, the gods do not care whether you're fortunate or not. Fortune is grace; lack of fortune is a trial." Your faith is rather lukewarm, my friend. Be careful—the Storm Lord might send you a lightning strike. Klein glanced at both of them and smiled. "This suggestion rests on a very simple logic. If, indeed, there exists a genuinely effective, practical form of mysticism in the world, then the seven established churches would surely be the most proficient in it—otherwise, they would have long since been supplanted by other powers that master mysticism." "If there were no such thing as genuine esoteric knowledge, then seeking diviners or healers would offer no help—at best, one might find solutions through the higher-ranking bishops." After careful consideration, Alan finally nodded. "That makes perfect sense." "Perhaps the bishop will need to relay my request so that the goddess might bless me." No—more accurately, as he thought internally, it was only because the night-watchers would notice his unusual qualities once the bishop had conveyed his message. He hadn't intended to assist Alan at all, since resolving the latter's issue with fortune would require not only identifying its root cause but also establishing certain rituals. Even if he understood the true rituals of fortune-shifting, he would inevitably reveal his extraordinary abilities before unfamiliar people, thereby introducing new risks. Since I can have the night watchman himself step forward, there's no need for me to go through the trouble myself... I just wonder whether the issue stems from the boy or from the tarot cards he holds. If it's the latter, then perhaps it's quite suitable as a seal for me. Unfortunately... Sherlock gently shook his head, suppressing the sudden surge of greed that had arisen within him. Well, since I'm no longer a night watcher, my understanding of the esoteric has grown increasingly odd—on one hand, I've gathered many secrets concerning high-sequence deities, while on the other, I'm only familiar with more elementary ritual magic; the more complex ones, I know only about sacrifice and bestowal rituals, and even the use of sigils has remained confined to just three for a long time. Klein sighed inwardly, feeling a strong need for a more comprehensive and in-depth esoteric text. As for the knowledge that could separate divine spirit contamination from the extraordinary traits—currently, there's not even a hint of it. After passing through the fortune-telling pavilion and the tents selling pies, pancakes, fruit tarts, and alcoholic beverages, Crane found a small theater along the edge of the circus grounds. A blackboard at the entrance read that during non-holiday periods, there were four performances daily, each lasting one hour. The first performance of the afternoon began at two o'clock, and it had just started. With a ticket in hand, Crane entered the theater and heard the applause. On stage, a trainer was directing a black bear to perform with endearing grace, while a tiger with spotted, yellow-and-black patterns lay at rest beside it, and a baboon with thick, curly fur sat nearby. With a crisp crack of the trainer’s whip, the black bear awkwardly rolled over. "I said, that fellow just wanted to give you a good slap!" someone suddenly shouted from the front row, prompting laughter from the few spectators present. They assumed this was the circus’s new way of entertaining the audience. But Kline didn't think so. He noticed the trainer's emotional tone was leaning toward anger and frustration. He smiled, walked to the front row, and sat down, enjoying the performance to make good use of his ticket. At that moment, the man who had just spoken called out again: "That tiger wants to snap your neck, and that curly-haired baboon wants to lift you right up and use you as a cushion!" Amid the audience's laughter, the trainer's movements grew noticeably stiff. Hmm... though those remarks seemed disruptive, why did I suddenly hear a hint of something more intentional? Kline turned his head to the speaker sitting beside him, recognizing a man in his thirties with a round, pleasant face. The tone, the manner... it felt familiar. Kline murmured this silently to himself.