After waiting for thirty minutes and confirming there were no unforeseen issues, Caine and Emlyn White quietly departed the lawyer's home, each lost in thought, and soon arrived at the exterior of No. 15 Minsk Street. The vampire Emlyn clenched his fist against his mouth, then cleared his throat gently. "The payment has been made. I hope we never meet again." That sounded quite dignified—Mr. White, haven't you forgotten something important? Caine smiled politely. "I'll occasionally visit Bishop Utravsky, hoping that by then you'll no longer be at the Harvest Church. And, in fact, I won't need to keep busy helping you find ways to overcome your psychological suggestions anymore." Emlyn White's expression immediately grew strange. After a moment of silence, he raised his chin. "We have many powerful mystics among our vampire lineage. I'll write to them and seek their assistance." With that, he placed a hand on his chest and bowed formally to bid farewell. He turned and walked a few steps, then suddenly slowed down, turning his head, hesitating before asking, "Are you still here? What are you preparing?" "Beef bone and radish soup, served with rice and a special chili from the Feeenport plateau." Klein breathed in the fragrant aroma drifting from the kitchen, speaking with eager anticipation. Emlyn shook his head with a frown. "Chili isn't within the Blood Family's aesthetic." To be honest, I can't quite imagine vampires enjoying chili—though I do occasionally picture them holding white buns and chewing on garlic and scallions... Klein muttered under his breath, pointing toward the door to indicate he was ready for dinner. Emlyn White paused for a moment, then lowered his voice, carefully adding, "I've been thinking about this all night, and I realized—you haven't actually done anything. So why are you asking for payment? That old man will have me leave at any moment." "Klein huffed, "No, it's not that simple. Your parents' commission was to find you, not to rescue you. In the end, it was I who found you, and by agreement, the compensation rightfully belongs to me. Moreover, without my reminder, you might have had to stay at the Harvest Church for several weeks—or even months—before realizing you could leave freely, and would never have noticed the subtle cues they'd planted." "Are you implying my intelligence?" Emlyn's face twisted slightly. No, it was explicit—Klein smiled, said nothing, and turned to open the door, stepping into the house. His mind was already filled with vivid images: clear, fragrant broth, steaming white rice, tender yet satisfyingly chewy beef, the rich marrow locked within the bones, sweet, refreshing carrots that cut through the richness with their delicate aroma, and finely chopped Fennel Plate Highlands chilies. Scattered among the vibrant red fragments, delicate pink rose salt and fresh green Baylant cilantro leaves danced like accents. On a Thursday morning, Cline arrived at the budget coffee shop in the eastern district as agreed. Old Koller, still wearing his thick jacket from before, sat in the corner, drinking tea that tasted almost entirely of water, paired with a slice of black bread. Cline took his seat across from him and presented the items he had prepared in advance—two five-sol notes, four one-sol bills, and a specially chosen copper penny to enhance the effect. Old Koller stared at them steadily, then finally reached out with his right hand, trembling as he took them. He examined them carefully, raised his hand to wipe away a few tears, and managed a smile. "At the dock, we handle heavy cargo, wade through cold, muddy water, and perform tedious cleaning tasks—earning only about one sol a day..." Here, he had fifteen sols! Cline listened silently, then after a few seconds said, "Have you heard anything recently? Noticed anything at all?" "Old Kole set down his funds, took another sip of tea, and gently pressed his eyes. 'I've gotten to know many dockworkers, and have reconnected with friends I made during my earlier days of wandering. Some have gone into factories, others still move back and forth between the workhouses and the corners of parks—ah, just like I did back then.' 'Recently, there's been a new saying circulating—why don't we, as believers in one of the Seven, simply pray directly to the Originator, the Creator Himself? They claim He resides within each of us, permeates all things, and has never truly departed. 'Praying to Him brings salvation—not only after death, when we enter His kingdom, but also in life, where we enjoy a more blessed existence: less labor, daily cream, rich, oiled meats, and a steady supply of such comforts.' 'That... is a variant of the luminous-origin theory spreading far and wide?' After the incident involving Larn Uus, they have started to value the eastern district, the dock district, and the poorer communities there, hoping to leverage them for certain purposes. I wonder if the three major churches have noticed this phenomenon... They probably have. Kline placed a slice of butter between two slices of toast and bit into it without much interest. After a while, the old Cole said, "Mr. Detective, as you instructed, I've been paying attention to the textile workers' situation. Ultimately, with the police's involvement, their resistance failed. However, hah, the leaders among them have become plant managers, and one-third of them have lost their jobs. Some are actively seeking new employment, others have become street vendors, and some have simply disappeared—leaving the entire eastern district in disarray." "If Zingling had arrived in Beckett during the hurricane under these circumstances, he could have quietly eliminated one or two people every day in the East District—no one would have noticed, no one would have paid any attention... Klein sighed inwardly. After sharing a few more routine observations, the older Kole added: 'By the way, Liv's younger daughter has gone missing.' 'Liv?' Klein confirmed he had never heard that name before. Only then did the older Kole realize: 'That's the laundry worker you and the journalist saw last time, the one who argued with someone—she's been running a household laundry business with her two daughters. But yesterday, on the way back from delivering clothes, one of them disappeared—the younger one, truly pitiful. She's been a widow for many years, counting on her two daughters. Now... well, the police in the East District certainly won't be particularly diligent in searching for her.'" "Unfortunates often carry even greater misfortunes, for they lack the ability to resist risks or alter their circumstances... This thought suddenly flashed through Cline's mind. He remained statue-still for several seconds, then said, 'Take me to see them. I'm a detective—perhaps I can help them find people.' '...They have no money,' the older Kole reminded. Cline picked up his hat and cane. 'I occasionally volunteer as well.' ... In the house where the two women had originally rented a room in the Joewood district. Huxley resumed his life as a reward-hunting investigator, while Folshe accelerated the progress of his new book, hoping to save up the extraordinary materials needed for the 'Master of Illusions.' Yet writing a book isn't something that simply happens when one decides to write; Folshe, growing restless, ran a hand through her hair and decided to go for a walk, seeking inspiration. As she walked, she found herself, without realizing it, back at a familiar place. Her diagonally ahead lay the Joseph Clinic, a fairly large private practice where she had first begun her career. After gazing at it for a while, Folle thought of the elderly woman who had first guided her into the extraordinary world, and turned right into a narrow alley, taking a closer, more direct route to a nearby street. On both sides of this street stood maple trees whose leaves danced in the wind, making it a relatively quiet place. Folle remembered that the old woman had lived in the building at No. 39—she had occasionally visited to deliver medications or injections, or even assist with daily tasks. "It's been nearly three years now. The building should have been re-rented by now; perhaps several tenants have moved in and out since then... I still remember, when I was going through her belongings, finding numerous notebooks filled with her reflections on esoteric studies." As Folle walked beneath the maple trees now bare of leaves, slowly approaching the building at No. 39, memories of the past began to spark inspiration for writing. At that moment, she saw an elderly man dressed in a thick wool coat, wearing a half-high black hat, standing at the door of No. 39, having rang the bell three times. After a few minutes, no one answered the door. The man with blue eyes shook his head and turned, murmuring with concern, "Still no one..." Suddenly, he noticed Folth standing a little way off, looking toward him, and hurried over, smiling warmly and eagerly, "Madam, do you live in this neighborhood? Do you know Laborolo and Anelisa?" Anelisa? Wasn't that the name of the elderly lady? Didn't this house have any recent tenants? Folth replied thoughtfully, "I'm not sure if the Anelisa I know is the one you're looking for. She has lived here for a long time, but passed away three years ago." "Three years ago? What about Laborolo?" the man with a few wrinkles at the corners of his eyes asked quickly. "Her husband had passed away before her." "Volsky gave an honest answer. The elder paused, then his face softened with sadness. After a moment of silence, he said, "Thank you, kind lady. "I am the brother of my wife's brother, and I have always lived in the County of Menai. Since I hadn't received letters from them in a long time, I decided to come and see for myself. "Could you tell me about what happened to them over the years?" Perhaps the brother of my wife's husband is indeed a descendant of the family mentioned by you," thought Volsky, suddenly alert. With a smile, she replied, "I have no problem." She quickly considered what to say and what to withhold. The elder gestured toward the side back area. "There's a nice café over there." ........ In the eastern district, within an older apartment building, Caine once again entered that damp room. He saw the stout woman who had previously argued with the streetwalker, dismissing her profession, now standing among the piles of clothes, her face lined with wrinkles, losing its vitality and the vigor of her daily labor, lifeless and drained. Her eldest daughter—last seen kneeling by the basin, diligently washing garments, the young woman of about seventeen or eighteen—sat by the bed, continually weeping: “It’s me. It’s all my fault. I didn’t watch over her well. I shouldn’t have taken her down those quiet alleys. She even said she wanted to learn a few more words tonight at the free school. It’s all my fault.” P.S.: Looking for ticket recommendations on Monday~ Also, everyone have a happy Mid-Autumn Festival!