The visitor was a man dressed in a deep green postal uniform, who smiled warmly at Crane. "Is this Mr. Sherlock Moriarty?" "Yes." Crane had a vague sense of the visitor's purpose. The man immediately raised his right hand and presented a palm-sized object wrapped in layers of black gauze. "Please sign for your parcel." Crane deliberately expressed his bewilderment. "Typically, shouldn't I receive a receipt and then go to the corresponding post office myself to collect it?" The postal system of Luon Kingdom perfectly mirrored that of Intis, including its shortcomings—any mail too bulky to fit directly into the mailbox, regardless of type, was always issued only as a 'pickup slip,' requiring the recipient to make the effort to collect it personally. "Ah, yes," the postal clerk said, slightly taken aback, "since it's rather valuable, we have to personally deliver it to you." It seems you're not quite professional, not a real mail carrier... Klein didn't press further. He took the parcel, the pen, and the form, and swiftly signed them all. He closed the door, returned to the living room, and didn't rush to open the parcel at first. Instead, he pulled out a gold coin and tossed it into the air with a playful flourish. *Plink!* Klein caught the coin, glanced at it—face up or face down. Face up meant negative, no hidden danger. He nodded slightly, tucked the coin away, ran his fingers over the paper figures in his coat pocket, and carefully began to unpack the parcel. Layer after layer of black linen cloth was peeled back, revealing clearly within: a delicate gold-toned watch with elegant engraving, a handkerchief stained with dark blood, seven or eight short brown hair strands tied together, and a stack of notepads. Talim's personal belongings, his hair, his flesh and blood, his daily records—all were complete... Edzask Prince is remarkably efficient; it's not even evening yet. Klein looked at the spread-out items on the tea table and suddenly felt as though numerous sets of eyes were watching him. An ancient angelic family, with a lineage stretching over two millennia—its depth is truly beyond imagination. Being drawn into the royal power struggles could happen at any moment, and he might be ground to powder at any time. Perhaps I am already under surveillance. I must appear ordinary, unremarkable, even useless, to ensure my own safety. Klein had already thought through exactly how to proceed, and now he calmly checked his watch, handkerchief, and hair. Throughout this process, his spiritual intuition offered no warnings, no interruptions to his divination. With a sense of confidence now established, Klein took out a sheet of paper and picked up a pen in the living room, writing down the incantation: "The true cause of Talim Dumont's death." He appeared composed and open-minded, as if unconcerned about being observed. Taking the wavy hair and handkerchief, Klein murmured incantations while pressing himself back against the sofa cushion, his eyes deepening as he entered meditation. After seven repetitions, he arrived in the dream world, where he saw the familiar hall of the Crags Club. Then, he witnessed Talim Dumont clutching his chest, his expression contorted as he collapsed. "This revelation indicates that Talim indeed died from a sudden cardiac condition," Klein whispered softly to himself. He furrowed his brow, expressing curiosity, confusion, and contemplation. He repeated the incantations with different phrases several times, each time receiving the same result. He then rose and walked back and forth several times. He clenched his fists and struck his head, clearly frustrated by his own inability to deliver sufficient insight to help his friend uncover the true culprit. In the end, he sank wearily into a chair, remaining motionless for a long time, as if a silhouette of stone in the dimly lit room. It was almost enough—no need to push too hard… If no one were watching, I’d have been wrestling with the air just now. Self-mocking, Kline shook his head and rose to head toward the kitchen. After dinner, he seemed to regain his spirits, carefully reviewing the notes detailing Talim’s activities—the events of the day of his death and the days leading up to it, as well as the people he had encountered. At home, at the Red Rose manor, at the Crags Club, at the Viscount Conner’s estate—there were no anomalies. Kline picked up his sharpened pencil, drew several circles, and marked the places he intended to visit and the individuals he would seek out over the coming days. After completing all this, he sighed deeply, gathered his things with little confidence, and went about washing up before settling down to sleep. Midnight, when the red moon was veiled by clouds, Kline suddenly opened his eyes and awoke. He rolled out of bed, opened the door slowly, and entered the adjacent bathroom, using a paper man as a stand-in to conceal his true form. Taking four steps backward, he reached the gray mist and sat at the position designated for "The Fool." His eyes had now grown clear, no longer clouded by weariness, despair, or pessimism. Immediately afterward, Caine extracted the projected stained handkerchief from the hidden pocket of his newly made nightgown—having previously drawn upon the extraordinary abilities of "The Magician" to discreetly remove and carry it with him. Inhaling deeply, he materialized a quill and parchment, writing the same divinatory phrase as at the beginning: "The true cause of Talim Dumont's death." After silently reciting it seven times with a calm and serene demeanor, he placed the paper and handkerchief on the chair, leaned back against the seat, and fell asleep deeply within the quiet, vast ancient palace. In the hazy, fragmented, and ethereal world, Caine saw scenes entirely different from those he had previously witnessed. Before him lay a wooden figure, no larger than a palm, casually carved, with eyes, nose, and mouth all in place. A few drops of deep red blood stained its body, lending it a touch of unearthly grace. A hand extended, smooth and delicate, with pale, even skin and slender, well-proportioned fingers. Most striking was the ring set with a blue sapphire adorning the little finger of that hand. Clack! The index finger of the hand spiraled a phantom black flame, which touched the wooden figure's heart. Silently, the scene shattered, and Caine awoke from his dream. His initial judgment had been correct—Talim had indeed died of a curse! Yet the question remained: why, having captured the moment the curse took hold, was the full scene not shown? The mysterious space above the gray mist should have been immune to such disturbances... Caine found himself momentarily puzzled. Typically, the insights received are too abstract and easily misinterpreted, reflecting either his own limited proficiency in divination or the inherently high difficulty of the matters he seeks to predict—both of which are understandable and unrelated to the gray mist. Yet, just now, despite the clear and vivid presentation of the scenes before and after the curse, the insights remained confined to a narrow scope, offering relatively less effective guidance, which is quite puzzling. Previously…had there been similar instances? Klein dug into his own experience to seek the reasons. Suddenly, he sat up straight, recalling a comparable situation. In Tinggen, when he attempted to uncover the true causes behind several coincidences, he had encountered exactly this phenomenon! He had clearly seen the houses with red chimneys, yet could not reach out to touch Ings. Zangguel or the sealing object "0–08" within them! This—was it the power of an entity or object at the "0" level of sealing actively countering the gray mist? Klein narrowed his eyes in sudden realization. Not necessarily—there were still several other possibilities that needed further confirmation. He worked to calm his emotions. As for how to verify it, experience had made it second nature to him—the method was simple: perform the same divination once again. If the vision remained unchanged, it would indicate that the situation wasn't as dire as feared; if the divination failed, it would suggest that either the target or something nearby possessed the ability to resist the gray mist, much like "0–08." Taking a deep breath, Caine composed himself and repeated the previous divination. "the true cause of Talim Dumont's death." ... Leaning against the back of his chair, he whispered the words softly, his eyes gradually darkening. In his dream, he saw only a hazy, fragmented gray mist—no puppets or fingers remained. Crack! Caine straightened his posture, his expression now serious. What exactly had Talim become involved in? He murmured to himself, frowning. What to do next, he had no further questions—only passive resistance, mere compliance. He would first impress Prince Edsack with a show of diligence, then reveal to him that the truth remained utterly elusive. Ah, how terrifying this world is—how easily one comes into contact with something profoundly dreadful… Klein sighed quietly, unable to linger any longer, and swiftly returned to the real-world restroom. … Tuesday morning, 9 a.m., Crown Cemetery. Klein wore a black shirt, black vest, and black wool coat, holding the fresh flowers purchased for twelve sou, standing at the periphery of the crowd, his expression solemn as the coffin of Talim Dumont was carried in for burial, slowly being lowered into the earth. Talim’s mother, her eyes swollen with tears, several times attempted to speak but could only weep without uttering a word. His father, his hair white, his demeanor worn and weary, stood there with a trembling presence, barely steady. As the scene unfolded, Klein slightly tilted his head, closed his eyes. Only after the attendees began to file out did he make his way over, bent down, and placed the fresh white bloom in the hand of the one beside it. Sorry... he silently murmured to himself. Standing straight again, he stepped back to prepare to leave, when he noticed reporters Mike and surgeon Alan approaching closely. "It's truly a pity," Mike said, his voice heavy, unable to finish. "I never thought Talim would—would—oh, well..." Usually reserved and composed, Alan removed his glasses, wiped a tear from his eye, and softly sighed, "He was a warm, enthusiastic man. Such a fate for him is unexpected." "Indeed," said Cline, adding, "he had hoped to escape the bad reputation left behind by his grandfather." At that moment, he saw a woman in a thick black dress, wearing a veil covering her face, walking toward the front of Talim's grave, holding a bouquet of white flowers as well. Cline glanced away without much attention, only keeping a peripheral eye on her. The woman bent down and placed her hand, revealing her left palm wearing a black silk glove. At the position of her little finger, a blue gemstone appeared faintly. Klein's scalp instantly grew numb. He felt numb all over.