Phew! Mike Joseph wiped his mouth with a handkerchief and coughed several times. The mist in the works area was thicker than anywhere else—the air hung grayish-yellow, as if dust were floating through it, occasionally releasing a sharp, irritating scent that even seasoned reporters from Beckland found hard to bear. He turned to Klein, who was also coughing softly. "I've always supported the government's establishment of the Royal Air Pollution Investigation Committee and the creation of the Alkali District Prosecutors. But today, I realize just how severe the situation has become." "Unless effective measures are taken, we might well face a major crisis," Klein struggled to clear his congested nose. "It could well blanket the entire Beckland in fog, reducing visibility to just five meters—perhaps even within that fog, the divine beings will manifest or be born..." He added this quietly to himself. Old Kole didn't quite grasp their conversation. He cleared his throat, thick with phlegm, and led the journalists and detectives past the guards, slipping into a pale gray factory. The workforce here was predominantly female, busily engaged without any protective measures, and a distinct dust hung in the air. Gazing at the floating and drifting "tiny particles" suspended in the atmosphere, Klein felt as though he saw the poison itself—those young women, unmasked, like sheep awaiting slaughter. In that moment, he felt as though he had returned to Tingen, back to when he had once assisted Sir Deville in addressing the lingering grievances. He seemed to have already witnessed the futures of these women—one by one—some experiencing sudden headaches, others blurred vision, some becoming hysterical, others showing blue lines along their gums. Ultimately, some would go blind, others would die swiftly. This is like a grand, bloody sacrificial rite—only this time, the target is those shimmering monetary symbols... If organizations such as the Aurora Conclave or the Rose School could harness similar events, as Larn Uus did, the situation would indeed become dire. Kline covered his mouth and nose, silently gazing on. Mike Joseph, meanwhile, spoke in a tone of both astonishment and fury: "Could they really do this?" "How could they possibly do this?" "Didn't the newspapers and magazines already devote considerable attention to lead poisoning just a while back? Yet they made no preparations at all?" "Wouldn't even have bothered with a simple mask?" "These factory owners are committing murder!" Indeed, a journalist of genuine integrity—though not particularly young, with a restrained style and excellent acting skills—had managed to preserve his初心. Yet, how could he have come to know so much about lead poisoning? By the way, I've completely forgotten—I've had Sir Deville widely promote the dangers of lead poisoning across newspapers and magazines. It seems he's done quite well, yet for some people, the deaths of a few working-class individuals seem like nothing at all. There are so many people waiting for jobs! Caine thought solemnly. As a seasoned journalist, Mike hadn't lost his composure. He quietly observed and asked a few of the rotating workers before leaving the lead-white factory. Subsequently, they visited one factory after another, their discussions dampened by the filthy conditions and the workers' intense labor. Near noon, Caine suddenly noticed a gathering of people outside one of the factories, mostly women, who were excitedly shouting and trying to enter. "What's going on?" Mike asked the old Kole. The old Kole looked equally puzzled: "I'll go and find out." He jogged to the factory, blended into the crowd, and only returned to Klein and Mike after several minutes. "They want to smash those new machines!" Old Kole exhaled, getting straight to the point. "Why?" Mike had never handled news like this before and thus knew little about it; Klein, on the other hand, had a vague sense of the reasons. Old Kole pointed to the factory building. "It's a textile mill. They're switching to the latest generation of textile machines, and the number of operators will shrink accordingly—seemingly, they're planning to lay off one-third of the workers!" "The female workers want to smash the machines to reclaim their jobs. Otherwise, they might not survive—or they might have to become street vendors." Mike opened his mouth, as if he had meant to say "stupid," but ultimately said nothing, merely gazing silently toward that direction, without even moving closer. "Go on. My interviews and investigations are complete." "A long time later, Mike sighed. The three of them immediately turned and headed toward the factory district, moving in silence, with no one speaking. As they were about to part ways, Mike glanced at Kline and spoke softly, "Do you think, if we shut down the unprotected lead-white factories or take their owners to court, will the female workers be able to find other work?" Kline thought seriously and replied, "If only a few factories are affected, it won't be a problem. But some workers might have to endure hunger and cold while searching for new jobs, gradually losing their strength, since they have no savings at all." "If, however, too many factories are closed in a short period—especially those workers who lose their jobs due to the adoption of new textile machinery—then it will be a disaster." "Just within the Bekland factory district, there could be thousands—perhaps even tens of thousands—of unemployed workers, homeless and lifeless, drifting aimlessly through the streets, or lowering their wage demands to compete for the jobs of others... How many more people across the entire eastern district will die, or suffer even more hardship? The scene would be hellish—even without any supernatural forces, it would bring immense disaster. Now, the various deities of evil are quietly watching, waiting... Caine swallowed many of his words. Mike again fell silent, paid the fee of ten pounds and six shillings, and then departed by carriage, leaving behind the factory district choked with smoke. Caine watched the carriage recede into the distance and remained silent for a long time. During his shifts as a night watcher, he had encountered and interacted with the lives of the poor, but none of those experiences had left such a profound impression as this one. A comprehensive, three-dimensional view had now fully revealed to him the depth of human suffering in this place." The East District is truly full of hidden dangers, like embers waiting to be ignited—just one wrong move and a strange sect could set it all ablaze. After a moment's reflection, Caine said, "Kole, I'd like to ask you to keep an eye on the overall situation in the East District, yes, during your regular work hours." "I'll pay you a regular fee so you can build relationships with other workers. Each week, we'll meet at the same café we visited before." Kole's eyes lit up immediately. "I'm certain!" He didn't mention the amount, fully trusting the kind detective. Caine paused thoughtfully. "Each time we meet, I'll give you 15 sols for expenses and compensation. If the information you provide meets my expectations, I'll add an extra 5 sols as a bonus." "One pound?" Kole exclaimed, surprised. The most comfortable and joyful years of his life had seen him earning only 21 sols per week—equivalent to one pound and one sol. "Yes." "Klein nodded. "You must be mindful of your words and actions—don't rush to gather information. Maintain a state of asking few questions and listening closely, otherwise, you'll face certain risks." The cost for such a source is, in theory, reimbursable. Yet now, I'm essentially a self-sustaining five-pence party member—Klein gave a half-sigh, half-self-mockingly amused smile. "Of course, research into the mind and spirit isn't solely the domain of psychologists and psychiatrists—many professionals in the esoteric fields are also engaged in similar work. Among them, the most renowned, well—ah, I've strayed from the textbook. Let's return to our earlier topic and begin with psychoanalysis." Audrey clearly sensed the subtle appeal in the speaker's tone, so she feigned bewilderment and curiosity, asking: "Teacher, I'd actually like to know more about psychological research within the esoteric fields." "You know, I've always been particularly interested in this area," Islanter said, pressing her lips together and furrowing her brows, hesitating: "But there are certain confidentiality obligations—I mean, these theories, these research findings, are considered the inner secrets of certain esoteric circles and are shared only within them." "Ah, I see. Then, shall I be able to join?" Audrey asked with eager anticipation, "I assume they won't be involved in anything particularly sinister?" "Hah, how could they be?" "That was just a workshop organized by enthusiasts," Islanter mentioned, then deliberately changed the subject. "Let's talk about this later. Let's continue with the course for now." If this was the general trait of psychological alchemy members—knowing when to stop, taking things step by step—then I wouldn't have to worry so much about having people like Mr. A, the eccentric or the mad among them. Audrey deliberately gave the impression of being reluctant to pursue that topic further, yet politely listened to the foundational theories of the psychoanalytic school. When the session ended and Islanter had left, she returned to her study, carefully closing the heavy wooden door, and addressed her golden-haired dog: "Susi, what do you think of her?" "She's not sincere!" Susi answered directly. "But what she said was quite interesting—I think it's more interesting than meat or snacks or biscuits!" Susi, do you intend to become a psychiatrist someday? Specializing in treating mental health issues in animals? Like the horse at the Glaister household, possibly suffering from depression... Audrey suddenly found herself reflecting, wondering whether to prepare a custom white coat and a pair of gold-framed glasses for Suzy, making it look more professional.