Bekland, a subterranean chamber resembling a temple. Mr. A wore a long black robe with a hood and sat quietly, kneeled before the giant deity statue suspended upside down, motionless for a long time. Suddenly, he tilted his ear, as if listening to something. After a brief pause, Mr. A abruptly raised both hands, snapping his right index finger with a crisp sound from his left palm. He inserted the blood-soaked fingertip into his mouth and chewed it with the quiet crunch of a snack. Gulp! Mr. A moved his throat, swallowing the crushed finger whole. His body then trembled violently, as though being shaken by an unseen presence. In this state, he extended his right hand, using the blood flowing from the wound to write words on the ground. These words were neither the giant tongues—those capable of moving natural forces—nor the ceremonial Hermes language used in rituals, but simply the ordinary, everyday runic script. The vibrant hue swiftly coalesced, and one by one, the words formed several sentences: "Found: 'A fool out of this age;' 'The enigmatic sovereign above the gray mist;' 'The King of yellow and black, who wields fortune.' 'His followers and believers in Beckland.' As the divine revelation concluded, Mr. A ceased his trembling, and a fresh finger began to grow from the wound at his wrist. He bowed his head, carefully studying the words he had just written, a gentle curve forming at the corner of his mouth. "Only by obeying your oracle!" Mr. A humbly prostrated himself, as though he had rediscovered his purpose. ……… In the city of silver, at the upper portion of the circular tower. Loviya walked to the window and gazed down upon the scattered candlelights in the darkness, her expression gradually softening. After an indeterminate length of time, she heard the steady tapping of footsteps at the door. "Mr. Chief?" Loviya lightly turned, smiling as she asked. The door opened of its own accord, swaying gently without a breeze. Standing there was Colin Iliath, the Hunter of Monsters, dressed in a brown coat with a leather belt adorned with dark patterns. "Loviya, the anomalies of the exploration team have been confirmed," Colin stated plainly. "As队长, regardless of any concerns you may have, you must remain in the dungeon for seven days, undergoing the rite of the 'Honorable Crown.' You're well aware of this tradition." Colin nodded, his voice low and resonant. "Yes, this is our fate—we cannot escape it..." At that moment, in the mid-level hall of the circular tower, the exploration team members, along with several additional residents of Silver City who had been contaminated, were pressed immobile, as though bearing an immense mountain, by a tangible, radiant light. A couple in their forties, with darker skin, each holding a straight sword etched with intricate patterns, approached a young man in his twenties. The young man's body had collapsed into a pulp, yet his head remained intact, now adorned with fine crimson whiskers. As the couple approached, he cried out in fear: "Father, Mother, what are you doing? Didn't you say we would have dinner together tonight, eating roasted iron scorpions?" "Dad, Mom, I've gathered so many iron scorpions for you..." The couple turned their heads gently aside, yet their hands raised their straight swords high. After two soft puffs, the young man stopped crying, first convulsing, then completely losing consciousness. On the other side, a girl of about twelve lifted her straight sword, etched with intricate patterns, and, tears streaming down her face, plunged it into her sister's chest. The woman lying on the ground suddenly smiled, speaking softly, "From now on, you'll have to live on your own—stop being so naive... The girl immediately wept, her vision blurred, her sword suspended in midair. Yet a strong, firm hand pressed gently against the back of her hand and pushed forward with force. Puff! The girl stood motionless, as if hearing nothing and seeing nothing at all. This is the ancient curse that envelops every inhabitant of the Silver City: one must personally kill a blood relative to prevent the person from transforming into a terrifying and eerie malevolent spirit after death. Therefore, even though Dac had fully transformed into a monster and was contaminated by an unknown entity, losing his value as a witness, the "Shadow" overseers dared not kill him on the spot. Instead, they carefully restrained him, brought him back to the Round Tower, and awaited his parents—otherwise, the situation would have become far more complicated. The exploration team members who have also been contaminated are currently undergoing the same treatment that has remained unchanged for over two thousand years. Although no one knows whether these individuals will still transform after death under such conditions, no one dares to take a risk. Fortunately, the population of the Silver City is not large and remains confined to a single location. Through generations of careful planning by the upper echelons, many of them share blood ties. Even if restricted to three generations, there are enough relatives to be found. Precisely for this reason, when arranging patrol squads, the extraordinary individuals in charge must first consider blood relations to prevent unforeseen circumstances. For exploration squads, the requirement is less strict, since their missions often extend deep into darkness, far from the Silver City—thus, even if members die or undergo transformation, their safety remains largely unaffected. Once a resident no longer has blood relatives within three generations, he will be subject to strict monitoring, and will be immediately sent into the depths of darkness, away from the Silver City, should he develop serious illness or show clear signs of aging. Previously, when Ulder underwent transformation, there were actually three elders within the Round Tower, yet only "Chief" Colin Iliat was able to act decisively; otherwise, efforts would have been limited to attempts at containment. After all, Ulder was his own brother. "The Shepherd" Loviea and "The Hunter" Colin entered the deepest levels of the Round Tower in silence, accompanied by several Dawn Knights, and reached the heart of the dungeon. Soon, the two stopped outside a cell, while the Dawn Knights spread out in the distance. Loviara showed no signs of distress, moving steadily into the room that contained only a bed, a table, and a single candle. As the metal door closed, she turned to face the "Hunter," Colin, and spoke calmly with her pale gray eyes: "Sir, you once told me that when residents of Silver City perish in the darkness, they do not immediately transform into evil spirits—they wait several days. Thus, the rest of the exploration team has ample time to draw away." Colin nodded, confirming this. Loviara closed her eyes and smiled, a touch of sadness in her expression: "During one of our expeditions two months ago, a team member died right before my eyes. I pretended to lose contact with the others and waited there for five days, yet he never transformed into an evil spirit." "Colin, the Hunter of Monsters, watched her silently, saying nothing, until the metal doors slammed shut with a sound, sealing the spell into place. ........ In the ancient palace atop the gray mist, Ken waited a while. Seeing no change in the deep red star that symbolized the small "sun," he finally exhaled in relief. It must have worked... He rubbed his temple, wrapped his spirit around himself, and settled back into the real world. As soon as he became aware of his physical presence, he felt the chill. He sneezed, quickly dismantled the spirit wall, and dove back into bed. Unfortunately, his bed had grown cold. Fortunately, his body had received some protection since entering the gray mist; otherwise, he might have come down with a cold tomorrow. Ken tucked himself in, murmuring a quiet sigh. Now, in this state, he recalled a witty phrase he'd heard in a previous life: Heating up basically relies on shivering... Until his bed warmed up, he could only drift aimlessly, pondering all sorts of issues. Hmm, lately I haven't really had any pressing matters. The "Magician's Rule" has been summarized; even if I no longer attempt the impossible and simply carry out ordinary "performances," I can steadily manage my potions around New Year. My main focus now is gathering exceptional materials for the "Faceless Man's" potions and accumulating the necessary funds—but this urgency just won't come. The tension in Klein's mind gradually softened, and suddenly, the idea of taking a rest for two or three days emerged. As his bed warmed, he drifted off without realizing it. When he awoke, he just happened to hear the church bell strike eight times. Klein reached out his arms, feeling the cold outside, then quietly pulled them back. It seems the temperature has dropped again today... There's nothing urgent to attend to, so perhaps he can just sleep in a bit... He relaxed and closed his eyes once more. But only after lingering on the bed for a while, he heard the gentle gurgle of his stomach and felt a distension in his lower abdomen. Life truly presents difficult choices at every turn... Klein murmured this to himself. After ten or so minutes of struggling to reconcile the two sensations, he finally gave in, threw back the blanket, jumped out of bed, and rushed to the bathroom across the hall. Dressed and freshened up, he descended to the first floor, pulled out the ingredients, and prepared to make a Fennel-Porter pasta. This time, he decided not to use the purchased meat sauce. Instead, he wanted to try the meat sauce he had prepared just two days ago—carefully crafted from ingredients he remembered tasting, cooked and seasoned to match his recollections. Although certain ingredients from the two worlds still differed slightly, making the flavor slightly elusive, Klein found it quite satisfactory upon tasting. Not long after, he enjoyed a fine morning eating fenepot with a sauce and minced meat, feeling truly content. Following the traditions of this world, he began flipping through the newspaper, first checking that the esteemed "Eye of Wisdom" gentleman hadn't yet placed an advertisement. Inspired by his thoughts from last night, Caine decided to treat himself today and began considering whether to attend a concert, an opera, or a play. Tickets for concert halls in the West End, Hirston, and Joewood ranged from at least six shillings, and could even reach the pound when featuring renowned musicians; for more accessible venues catering to the general public, prices were between six and nine pence; and for those open to the more modest residents of the East End, tickets cost just one penny. Caine browsed through the relevant information, selecting his entertainment for the day. At that very moment, he heard the sound of the doorbell. Tinkling, rhythmic.