Is it possible that he merely reveres the moon and holds the goddess in little esteem? Caine couldn't help but express a look of thoughtful inquiry. He had first heard of such a phenomenon while studying the School of Life, yet it came as a surprise that even the Wizard King, who had witnessed the full cycle of life and death on the Southern Continent, should hold a similar view. — After the "Age of Pale Light" in the Fourth Age, the turbulent sea became truly formidable, severing communication between the northern and southern continents and cutting off all exchanges. The School of Life emerged in the early Fifth Age, clearly unable to develop on the Southern Continent before the Rossilians established safe sea routes. King Karalman himself belonged to this early period, with his active years stretching over a thousand years before the northern nations launched their invasions. Thus, two extraordinary powers—separated by the continents and unable to communicate—concurrently chose to revere the moon itself while overlooking the goddess of night. Such a coincidence surely demands further reflection. Could it be that a new deity has arisen, drawing away the authority once held by the moon? Yet, as a deity, He ought not to have remained so obscure... Or perhaps, although the goddess seized the mantle of the moon, devotees of the primordial moon deity have persisted, tracing their lineage back to the Fourth Age, even the Third Age, and branching into two distinct traditions after the division of the northern and southern continents—one devoted to the King of Witches, the other to the School of Life? Kline made these observations tentatively, yet struggled to find concrete evidence to narrow the scope. For now, he set aside further contemplation, seized the moment, and swiftly turned to the later sections of The Book of Secrets. In the preface, King Karalam stated directly that many of the book's rituals, mysteries, astrological practices, and invocation techniques originated in the ancient moon worship, and provided the corresponding titles: "The Unique Red Moon, the symbol of life and beauty, the mother of all spiritual powers." Indeed, a title! Yet there lacks a more accessible, everyday designation—something akin to "Goddess of the Night" or "Mother Earth"... If such a hidden deity truly existed, her followers would surely have developed simpler, more orally transmissible titles suited for praise, rather than revert to the original lunar worship... Klein noticed an oddity and began analyzing it with his own esoteric knowledge. "Moreover, using 'Lady of the Crimson' clearly points toward the goddess; yet when a very similar but more refined and detailed title is employed, it bypasses the goddess entirely, instead directing toward their source of power—the so-called primordial moon. It's unclear what strange entity this might be..." Klein found himself both curious and unsettled. With little time remaining, he swiftly skimmed through the subsequent details and found, as King Karalman himself had described, that numerous mysteries and rituals consistently pointed toward the moon. For Caine, this didn't require much attention—he wouldn't simply replicate those elements and risk disturbing the primal moon, which he didn't yet understand. What he sought to learn were the overall structures, design principles, and fine details of the mysteries and rituals. Only by grasping the underlying patterns could he develop his own mysteries, rituals, astrology, and invocation techniques pointing toward the "Yellow and Black King." Perhaps much later, I would evolve my own distinct system of mysticism. Caine removed the pendulum from his wrist and finally verified the authenticity of The Book of Secrets. After receiving a positive confirmation, he didn't immediately use the wolf's exceptional traits for divination—after all, he wouldn't sell them. Likewise, he intended to delay his investigation into the origins of the biological toxin vials. He swiftly returned to the real world, pulled back the curtains, and was greeted by the sun, which failed to illuminate the earth, hidden behind clouds and smog, appearing rather pale. "Ahem!" Suddenly, Caine reached up to cover his mouth and nose, sneezing. At that moment, he realized he had a mild headache and felt unwell—clearly coming down with a cold. As a Sequence 7 extraordinary being, he had unexpectedly fallen ill. Caine pulled out a sheet of paper and blew his nose. After a moment's reflection, he quickly understood the reason: The negative effect of the biological toxin vial was to gradually weaken the bearer until illness developed—over time, even potentially leading to death. This effect could not be eliminated by spiritual bindings! The night before, after the great battle, when his spiritual energy had nearly depleted and his body was already weakened by toxin buildup, he had carried the vial for half an hour at the "Leverage Church." Adding the time spent returning to Minsk Street, he had shamefully fallen ill. "Good thing it's not severe... won't affect anything much..." Caine sneezed again and then went to take a hot bath. After washing up, he treated himself to a specially prepared egg, perfectly golden and fragrant. "A volume of the Wizard King's *Book of Secrets*, a magical item—the toxin vial—comparable only to the sun pin, and a remarkable trait inherited from the Sequence 7 'Werewolf'—this has been quite a haul... though it's a bit of a disappointment that I didn't secure the 'Undead' trait." Kline sat at the table, savoring his meal while calculating his gains. What pained him further was that he'd used no less than eleven extraordinary bullets, each costing nearly ten pounds! That meant he'd spent around one hundred pounds—quite literally throwing money at the wall. It was no wonder most extraordinary beings of mid- and lower sequences were so eager for money. Kline glanced down at his breakfast. Together, they amounted to only a few pence! After breakfast, Kline settled into reading the newspaper, occasionally sneezing and wiping his mouth and nose with the pages. The church bell’s chime had just ceased when his doorbell rang. Crane unsurprisingly saw the reporter from The Daily Observer, Mike Joseph. The reporter, with his handsome blue eyes, a neat mustache, and rather rough skin, bowed slightly and then got straight to the point: "Moriati Detective, do you have time to take on my assignment?" Though slightly under the weather, this level of activity was not unusual over the past few days... Having just completed a case, Crane smiled reassuringly. "I'm a bit unwell, but that doesn't affect my combat or shooting skills." Mike beamed with gratitude. "Thank you for your help." "Shall we go then?" "Well, Moriati Detective, have you had breakfast? I'd like to treat you—after all, as your employer, I should cover your meals today." Treat me to breakfast? Crane paused. "I just finished." "However, I suggest you have breakfast in the East District—then you'll be able to see so much. All I need is a cup of coffee when you're ready." "...Certainly." Michael pointed outside. "My hired carriage is waiting." Cain studied him carefully and said, "Sir, you'd better dress a bit more plainly, or my work will be extremely busy." Michael looked down at his woolen coat and nodded in understanding. "Is that too conspicuous?" "In the East District, it is." Cain gestured inside. "I have some specially prepared garments. Honestly, our body types are quite similar." Michael couldn't help but exclaim, "You truly are professional." Professional in crime, perhaps? Cain muttered to himself. After changing into more ordinary working attire, the two boarded the carriage and headed toward the edge of the East District. "Ah—cough!" Cain pulled out a sheet of paper to wipe his nose and mouth, then cleared his throat with a few sniffs. Since there were no trash bins nearby, he folded the papers neatly and put them back into his coat pocket. "The food here is decent, of course, compared to what Eastside residents usually expect," he said, pointing to the slightly greasy café at the corner of the street. Occasionally, when he lived in the one-bedroom apartment nearby, he'd come here for breakfast. "It seems to be one of the better restaurants around," Mike didn't think of it as a café at all. It was already just past nine, and the café was sparsely populated—Eastside residents typically finished their breakfast by seven and then headed off to work or job hunting. After accompanying Mike to order potatoes with beef stew, bread, and coffee, Clain surveyed the room, looking for a spot by the window. Then he spotted a familiar face—the middle-aged man he had previously pretended to be a journalist to help out. It was he who had first brought me here. How come he wasn't having breakfast yet? Clain thought, and then said to Mike, "You've got your interviewee already." He spoke as he carried his coffee cup toward the "homeless man." The man still wore the same thick jacket, his slightly whitened hair a bit greasy, his beard quite noticeable, but there was no longer the previous sense of weariness in his eyes, and his complexion no longer pale and alarming. "Good morning, it's good to see you again," said Caine, sitting down across from him, and noticed that the man's breakfast consisted of whole grain bread with a meager cup of inexpensive tea. The middle-aged man lifted his head, looked carefully, and exclaimed in surprise: "Mr. Journalist, is it really you?" ... Caine managed a dry smile and pointed to Mike beside him. "This is my colleague, who would like to conduct a more in-depth investigation into my previous interview." Mike, an experienced and well-traveled journalist, simply smiled and nodded, offering a polite greeting. As for Moriarty pretending to be a journalist, he hadn't just found out about it today—hadn't he even borrowed a fake journalist's credential from him before! "Actually, you *are* a journalist!" the middle-aged man exclaimed in surprise. "But that doesn't diminish your kindness and good nature at all." Klein smiled and asked: "How have you been lately?" The man sipped his tea and replied: "Thanks to your help, I've finally been able to sleep well, eat properly, and no longer feel so weak." "I originally wanted to go back to my original job in shoemaking, but they wouldn't hire me—said my hands shook too much..." He looked down and chuckled, skipping over that part: "Later, I went to the docks and found some work. It's tiring, but at least I'm earning money. I've rented a small shop space in someone else's home, paying just six and a half pence a week. Of course, I can only sleep during the night." "Hey, it's like this at the dock—today I came early, didn't eat a thing, just held out my hands, shouting my name and the foreman's name, but still wasn't selected. So I had to come back here." "Good news—there's still a chance in the afternoon. The people in the morning might be busy until late, so they probably won't compete with us." Klein listened quietly, sipping his poor-quality coffee now and then, while Mike took out a notebook and began taking quick notes.