Where Ins. Zangwei had vanished, the light suddenly disappeared, replaced by the deepest, most profound darkness. Within this darkness, a gentle song of poetry flowed forth, serene and soothing, lulling even the countless pale arms rising and clutching incessantly from beneath the black water—once frantic, now slowed, as though granted a spiritual salvation. From this night, a figure emerged—Ins. Zangwei himself, the one who had just been dragged into the spirit realm. Compared to before, he had lost his soft hat, his left shoulder garment torn, with a chunk of flesh ripped away, and one after another, pale yellow pus blisters gurgled to the surface. His eyes, no longer indifferent, now brimmed with pain, as though enduring a suffering unimaginable to others. "The feather pen labeled '0–08' continues to write: 'Some are regretful, others are relieved, because Saint Zanggewell possesses a 'chthonic umbilical cord'—a gift born from the infant within Meghios, from the 'True Creator.' Through the use of this cord, he has successfully broken free from the constraints of the unknown and forcibly returned to the real world. Yet, he has completely lost that magical artifact and will soon bear the resentment of the divine offspring unable to be born. His strength now resembles certain items in a department store during seasonal changes—only at 55% of their original capacity. Indeed, that figure is remarkably precise.' Back in the countryside, he had once seen wolves, but he hadn't expected to feel that familiar sense again in Beckettland. "Still too expensive and too large—only possible to buy one together with others, then cut it into portions... This will last me through my holiday break. Every meal, I can have two, three slices—no, at least five slices of ham. I can even cut off some extra pieces and simmer them with potatoes, without needing any salt at all." As he thought this, Old Koller looked down at the ham in his arms, noticing the mixture of white and red meat, and his throat subtly moved, his mouth swallowing a lump of saliva. One, two, three—Old Koller felt his face growing hot, as if his forehead were on fire. His chest tightened, his throat felt uncomfortable, and soon he experienced shortness of breath. "Am I ill? Good heavens, I'd hoped to enjoy a wonderful New Year—now I'll have to send my savings to the clinic, to the hospital... No, perhaps just a nap will do. Just a nap under my blanket!" Old Koller murmured silently, his head growing hotter and more foggy. Hh, hhh, hhh—he heard his labored breathing. His hands weakened, and the paper bag containing the ham fell heavily to the ground. Without thinking, he bent down to pick it up, but then he stumbled and fell. He pressed against the ham bag, striving to draw it closer to his chest. At that moment, he believed a thick phlegm was rising, blocking his throat, so he fought hard, making a sound like the movement of a bellows. Thump! Old Koller's blurred vision suddenly sharpened to see someone else fall a few steps away, gasping for breath, of similar age—around fifty, with white hair at the temples. In that instant, he realized he was about to die. This brought back memories of his wife and children, who too had suddenly fallen ill with the plague and passed away swiftly. It reminded him of the time he had been hospitalized, when patients in the same ward could still laugh and chat at night, only to be sent to the morgue by morning. It reminded him of his friends from his days as a wanderer—many of them vanished after one winter, found stiff and lifeless in the arches of bridges or in sheltered corners of streets, while a few had died suddenly after gaining access to food. This reminded him of when he was still a reliable worker, when neighbors in the neighborhood would suddenly die—some from headaches and seizures, others accidentally falling into freshly poured molten steel, some succumbing to painful, swollen bones, and others simply collapsing silently in the factory, one after another. It reminded him of what a drunken man had said in the bar while he was gathering information: “People like us are like the straw in the fields—when the wind blows, we fall; even without wind, we might fall on our own.” The wind came… and suddenly, Old Kole had this thought. He clutched the paper bag of ham tightly and reached into the pocket of his worn-out jacket, searching for the cigarettes he had always hesitated to draw from—already creased and wrinkled. He couldn’t understand why, despite being physically healthy, he was suddenly falling ill, especially since such dense fog wasn’t something he had never experienced. He couldn't understand why, just as his life had finally settled into a steady course, progressing toward a sufficiently beautiful future, and having secured the advance payment from the Moriarty detective for a piece of ham he had long desired to welcome the new year—now eagerly anticipating its delicious taste—he should suddenly collapse. Old Kole extracted the crumpled cigarette from his pocket, but his arm could no longer lift it, crashing heavily onto the ground. With all his remaining strength, he tried to utter the words he had been gathering in his heart, yet only saw weak, wavering syllables lingering at his lips, unable to escape. He heard his final words. He heard himself asking: "Why?" ... In an apartment on the edge of the East District. Liv hung up the last piece of clothing she had washed, waiting for it to dry. She glanced out at the sky, now shrouded in a thick fog that had settled without her noticing, making it difficult to judge the time. "Ultimately, it's still very early, and our laundry work has already been completed..." Liv's expression gradually grew serious. Doing the work too early wasn't good—it didn't mean rest; it only indicated underutilization of labor and insufficient income. Liv took a deep breath and turned to her eldest daughter, Freya, who was wiping her hands and steadily glancing toward the word books in the adjacent room. "With New Year approaching, most of our employers are leaving Beckland to spend their holidays elsewhere. We can't keep going like this—we need to find new work," she said as she walked toward the door. "During such a festive season, the wealthy host one after another of banquets, and their servants may not be enough. They might hire temporary kitchen cleaners—perhaps even temporary laundry staff. I'm going to inquire about that, Freya. You stay at home and come pick up Daisy when it's time. We need income. And those women—those spoiled, selfish ones—thieves, robbers, human traffickers—will also need income to welcome the New Year." "In the eastern district, every woman who doesn't enter the factory must either possess skill or be bold. Freya replied lightly, "Yes." Her mind had already drifted to the small table beside it and the vocabulary book. As Liv just opened the door, she suddenly stumbled and fell to the ground. Huff, huff, huff! She gasped violently, her face flushed, and every joint in her body ached painfully. Freya rushed over, knelt down: "Mother, what's wrong? Mother, what's wrong?" "No, cough, no problem at all," Liv's breathing grew increasingly labored. "No, you're ill, you're ill! I'll take you to the hospital right away!" Freya struggled to lift her mother. "Too expensive, too expensive, cough, to the charitable hospital, the charitable hospital—I can wait, not much to worry about." Liv gasped out. Freya's eyes filled with tears, and her vision blurred rapidly. At that moment, she felt her lungs burning, her body collapsing suddenly, dragging Livé down with her and sending her face-first to the ground. "Freya, what's wrong? Cough, cough—aren't you ill too?" Livé called out anxiously, "The money's still there—cough—under the cabinet, behind the wall's broken opening. You—quick, quick! Go to the hospital! Find a good doctor!" Freya wanted to speak, but could not find her voice. Her gaze drifted upward, landing on the door of the room next to hers—their bedroom. There, their twin bed stood, her favorite small table and her beloved vocabulary book. Her body suddenly convulsed. Livé's cough stopped abruptly. In the eastern outskirts of the public elementary school, the mist wasn't yet thick, but several students had already begun coughing. The on-duty teacher, trained for such situations, immediately instructed: "Quick—go to the church! To the church beside the school!" Daisy rose in alarm and hurried after the crowd, heading toward the church next to the school. Suddenly, she felt a pang in her heart, a growing panic about losing something important. …… Mom… Freya… Daisie sharply turned her head, eager to cut through the crowd and rush back home. But she was stopped—caught by the teachers and dragged forcefully toward the church. Daisie struggled fiercely, gasping and calling out: "Mom! Freya!" "Mom! Freya!" … In the eastern district, at the docks, and in the industrial areas, the elderly and those with chronic illnesses fell one after another, like trees felled in the mist. Those who came into contact with them caught the illness and died swiftly. Even healthy adults and children began to feel unwell. To them, the mingled pale yellow and iron-black mist seemed like the arrival of the "Death God." The great smog of Beckett in the Tuesday of the last week of 1349. … In a corner of the hall, Caine pressed closely against the stone wall, making sure not to be noticed by Mr. A. Soon, he heard a series of muffled groans and smelled the scent of decaying flesh. "Offer your lives for the coming of the Lord," A. Mr.'s voice suddenly resonated. Thump, thump— the heavy sounds of figures collapsing reached Klein's ears, accompanied by strong, resonant spiritual vibrations that echoed continuously. Had A. Mr. sacrificed his four attendants? Klein's thought just began to form when, at once, a layered, ethereal cry reached his ears—some calling for "Mom," others gasping violently, others moaning in agony. As a half-trained expert in mysticism, Klein seemed to see waves of reluctant resentment, transforming into translucent, ghostly forms, one after another, entering the ritual. Simultaneously, the long-suppressed emotions of the factory district, the wharf area, and the eastern zone—numbness, despair, pain, and resentment—began to surge like a tide. Had the ritual officially begun? Klein closed his eyes, pressed his back against the wall, and tightly clenched his right hand—then released it. For him, the best course of action at this moment was to slip out of the hall, escape toward the distance, while Mr. A was deeply engrossed in the ceremony. His right hand loosened and tightened, then tightened and loosened, repeatedly. Seven or eight seconds later, Crane opened his eyes, his lips curling upward in a showy smile. He reached out, grasped the revolver, and made a sudden turn, charging forward. In his black double-breasted formal suit, he raised his right hand and aimed it squarely at the altar.