Beckland's East District, at a crossroads. Mike Joseph saw several children dressed in tattered clothes, with weary eyes, and wiped his mouth with a handkerchief, intending to give them some pennies. But his action was stopped by the elderly homeless man, Koller: "Those are thieves!" "Thieves? Where are their parents? Or are all these children being controlled by the gangs?" As a seasoned journalist, Mike hadn't visited the East District yet, but he had heard, vaguely, that several gangs there controlled the homeless children's thefts or begging activities. "Parents?" Either they have no parents at all, or their parents used to be thieves, or perhaps still are—of course, Mr. Journalist, you're right that many of them are indeed controlled by crime syndicates, and it's said that these syndicates even teach them how to steal: for instance, they hang a gentleman's coat on the wall, place a handkerchief in their pocket, and hang a watch outside, and through repeated practice, they learn to steal the handkerchief without the watch trembling—ah, this I heard from people when I was living as a wanderer in the workhouse. "Old Kole went on, speaking at length. "I remember the youngest thief I've seen arrested on this street—only six years old. Oh, six years old..." As if recalling his own children who had fallen ill and passed away, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a crumpled cigarette, but didn't light it, merely inhaling its scent. "Six years old..." Mike found himself momentarily stunned by this figure. Kline listened quietly and then sighed, saying: "That's the East End." He surveyed the room, adjusted his tone and said, "This place is more like the jungle than a human society." "Our interviews should be treated as adventures—we need to know not only how to avoid the territories of dangerous animals, but also how to stay clear of the smaller creatures that might not pose much threat, I mean, the mosquitoes in the jungle." "Mike, if you reveal the thickness of your wallet to those children—no matter how well you protect it and how they don't actually steal it—you'll inevitably face a robbery in your next adventure. If you dare to resist, perhaps there'll be one more body floating in the Tassok River by morning." "That's absolutely right, sir," Old Kole agreed. "So many people in the East District—several going missing every day—nobody would even notice." Mike listened intently, remained silent for a few seconds, then suddenly said, "135,000." "Ah?" "Due to his cold, Crane's voice was noticeably hoarse. Mike took a step forward and said, 'This is the preliminary population count for the East District.' 'But I know for certain that the actual number is considerably higher,' he added. 'That high?' Old Kole was startled. Though he had lived through both day and night in the East District and had a clear sense of its population density, he hadn't expected it to be this large. It was several times the population of Tinggen City—Crane subconsciously used his most familiar area as a benchmark. He glanced at the intersection a few steps ahead and asked, 'Which direction should we go next?' Old Kole looked up and replied, 'Absolutely don't go straight—the neighborhood is under the control of the Zmangh Party. They're quite fierce and uncompromising. If they spot any journalists, they'll certainly beat us up!' The Zmangh Party? Isn't that precisely the gang that caused me a loss of one thousand pounds—'the one with no idea what it's doing'? He's still the executioner, huh—well, I don't even remember his name anymore... Fortunately, the ten thousand pounds finally secured the elixirs corresponding to the Sevens, Sixes, and Fives of the Prophet, secured the "Eye of All Black," and saved the ambassador Indis... I'm not sure who ultimately obtained the manuscript on the third differential engine... Klein suddenly recalled the events that had occurred at the beginning of last month. "The Zmangh Party? The gang primarily composed of people from the plateau?" Mike asked thoughtfully. "Have you heard of them, sir?" Old Kole was surprised. "Mike," he exhaled, "they've been involved in numerous cases, have some reputation beyond the eastern district—supposedly, several members were implicated in an Indis espionage case." ...The one sitting next to you is the party involved, the one who filed the complaint, the victim... Klein quietly added. "You respectable gentlemen have all heard of the Zmangh Party—why haven't the police arrested them all?" "Old Kole asked it from the perspective of the common people." Mike's expression immediately grew uncomfortable; he cleared his throat and said, "We can only take those who've been involved in cases—we can't arrest anyone without solid evidence. And with the East District so large and its population so vast, if someone truly wants to hide, it's going to be hard to find them." As he spoke, he sighed and added, "It's easy to destroy a Zman-G party, but as long as people from the Highlands continue coming to Beckland and still uphold their tradition of bravery and competitiveness, and as long as they haven't found other ways to make a living, new Zman-G parties will inevitably emerge—only a matter of time." That's a complex social issue... Klein pointed to the left and right sides. "Choose one." Old Kole looked toward the street on the right. "The Hui-li party is active there. As long as they don't interfere with the women who run small businesses—say, those working in shops or bars—they won't notice them. Heh, it's still morning; everyone's still asleep, so there won't be any issues." The word "Huilí" in Roon means "a lawbreaker," and the gang that chose this name clearly has a strong sense of self-awareness. Kline and Mike had no objections and, under the guide's direction, entered the neighborhood. The buildings here are generally well-maintained, and the streets are not particularly dirty. The air is filled with the aromas of food and drinks left behind by street vendors—oyster soup, pan-seared fish and meat, ginger beer—and the fresh, briny scent of fish and seafood. As they walked, Kline felt an unexpected sense of familiarity, as though he had returned to Tinggen, to the Iron Cross Street, to the streets outside the apartment building where he had first lived. The only difference, perhaps, is that Beckland is closer to the sea and has better transportation, so there's a greater abundance of sea fish here. "This is one of the better apartment buildings in the area. I've wandered around here several times before and noticed that the residents—both men and women—dress rather, well, cleaner," said old Koller, pointing to a pale yellow three-story building. The three moved closer and found a sign still hanging at the apartment door, depicting a watch, a wall clock, and a screwdriver, with words such as "Clock Repair" written on it. "Is there a clockmaker living here?" Klein drew from fragments of the original owner's memory a scene similar to this. Back then, Bensen, Melissa, and he had gone to a place like this to repair their father's silver watch, which had been repaired several times only to fail soon after—until Melissa finally perfected it, making it the most dignified possession in Klein's life during that period. When Klein passed away, this watch—valued both financially and emotionally—had not accompanied him to the grave. Now, it should belong to Bensen, shouldn't it? Would he every remember me when he took out that watch? Klein blinked suddenly, and gave a slight smile. "Probably," Mike admitted, not entirely certain. If there was any issue with his watch, he usually sent it to the original clock shop, where it would be assigned to a technician under their supervision or entrusted to a long-time craftsman. As soon as they entered the apartment, they spotted a middle-aged man with a beard. This man had just come out of the bathroom, heading back to his room, when he noticed three strangers entering and promptly asked, "Do you need your clock repaired?" What a coincidence—right there, they'd just met the craftsman. Klein found this slightly unusual. Mike pulled out his watch, smiled, and said, "Yes, my watch has been running inaccurately lately. Could you take a look at it?" He didn't reveal his identity, intending to conduct the interview through casual conversation. The middle-aged man immediately beamed and led them into a two-bedroom apartment with the door slightly ajar, pointing to chairs beside a wooden table. "Just a moment," he said, "I'll fetch my tools." "Your tools aren't at home?" Mike asked, surprised. The clockmaker shook his head and smiled, "How could that be possible?" "The tools are quite expensive. I simply couldn't afford them on my own. We have to pool our funds to buy three or four sets. Whoever has a client uses the tools, so we've ended up living close together—huh, that's much more convenient. If we were too far apart, we'd have to spend extra time and public carriage fares just to borrow tools." He spoke as he stepped out of the room and walked toward the side. It turned out we hadn't merely happened upon the clockmakers by chance—many of the residents here are clockmakers... Clary suddenly realized this. Old Kole looked around the room with appreciation, saying, "Before I fell ill, I lived in a place like this. My wife would mend clothes for neighbors, and I had two children, two children..." Mike sighed and spoke softly, "I always thought clockmakers were quite wealthy." "Me too," Clary admitted, tugging at her nose. … After warmly chatting with several residents in the apartment building, Kline and the others once again set out on their adventure. They walked about a hundred meters when suddenly they heard a heated argument on the street. The two women were shouting at each other in vividly vulgar terms, introducing Kline to several words he had never heard before. The dispute stemmed from the woman on the left accusing the one on the right of making the apartment environment dirty and noisy, while the woman on the right retorted, claiming it was entirely her own issue—no one had asked her to attract guests at night or to sleep during the day. “Is that a laundry worker?” Mike asked, frowning slightly after listening. “Yes, I know her. She’s a widow, and she’s taking care of her two daughters while helping neighbors with laundry.” Old Kole confirmed. Mike paused for a moment, then said: “Let me take you to see her home.” "Old Kole nodded and led the two of them past the scene of the argument into a dilapidated house that clearly wasn't as good as the one they'd just left. As soon as they stepped outside the room where the laundry workers were stationed, Caine immediately sensed the dampness. A series of wet garments hung neatly from the walls, and a young girl of about seventeen or eighteen knelt by a large basin, carefully pressing and smoothing the fabric with a foam-producing brush. A slightly younger girl held a hot iron wrapped in a damp linen cloth, gently attending to the already washed and dried items, her movements cautious, as if she had been scorched by steam many times over. This was both their workplace and their sleeping quarters—the constant moisture seeped into the room and into their bodies. The mixed odors of decay were unmistakable. "Don't you find it unpleasant?" Mike asked, pinching his nose. Caine responded in a quiet, measured tone: "I've caught a cold..."—and there was not a single hint of humor in his voice. Mike loosened his fingers, stepped into the room, and addressed the two astonished girls: "I'm a journalist. I'd like to interview the laundry workers." One of the girls, busy rubbing clothes, shook her head numbly. "We have so many things to attend to—we can't afford to delay." Mike's request was thus rejected. He came out with a serious expression, silently walking back down the street. He glanced at the scene, pursed his lips, and said: "We'll continue." ........ In Silver City, Derek Berg, who had developed auditory and visual hallucinations, was thoroughly examined and brought to the base of the Round Tower—where residents showing signs of loss of control are housed and treated with various methods in an effort to stabilize them. As he walked down the dim, eerie corridor, he suddenly felt an inexplicable chill. "Help!" A sharp cry burst suddenly from a closed room. "S—save—" The voice cut off abruptly, and silence settled around them.