In the desolate fields outside the village, the elderly housekeeper Finkel was fleeing swiftly. He had lost his hat, his neatly combed silver hair now tousled and hanging loose, and his garments were streaked with mud. Huff, huff... he paused, catching his breath and looking back—only to find the path empty, which gave him a moment of reassurance. Yet, as he turned his head to change direction, he discovered a figure had appeared unexpectedly in front of him. The figure wore a classical long coat with a hood, its dark eyes hidden in shadow, face expressionless and motionless. Finkel's pupils dilated; he opened his mouth, intending to utter a word from ancient Hermesian, but suddenly realized his nose was vanishing, his voice fading entirely. A look of despair settled upon his face, and then, like a stain on the void, he was gently wiped clean—completely erased, leaving not a single trace. ...Tch! Tch! Cough! Cough! Faced with the imminent, decisive assault from Mr. A, Crane was ill—suffering from a severe headache and fever, unable to control his flames or make leaps. At this moment, he could not even produce a single air blast. Fear of the unknown gripped his mind; the ominous premonition from the "Clown" made him "see" himself suddenly splitting apart, dissolving into the smallest particles of light, perhaps never to be revived again. In that instant, Crane reached into his coat pocket and grasped an object—his pre-planned contingency for the most critical situation! No matter how urgent, the "Magician" remained prepared, never faltering in battle. He drew out the Azk copper whistle, and with difficulty, blew into it amid his sneezes and coughs! Without any prior preparation or movement, through his spiritual vision, he witnessed a cascade of white bones surge forth, swiftly forming a towering messenger with blazing black flames burning in its eye sockets. At that moment, the books before Mr. A ceased their turning, and the distant, resonant sound abruptly stopped. A shimmering green light surged forth, and the white skeletal messenger, towering four meters high, instantly cracked, shattering into countless pure points of light. Behind it, the force that had previously kept Klein in place—causing him to spin in place—began to falter first. The figure in the black double-breasted formal suit was then engulfed, transforming into a statue of yellow sand, gradually dispersed by the wind. Yet what dispersed were not solid forms, but delicate white specks, like the finest fragments torn from paper. Klein emerged on the other side, half-kneeling on the ground, coughing violently. Had it not been for the skeletal messenger intercepting the blow, he would have had no time to briefly suppress his illness and summon a paper-man substitute! After this series of upheavals, his condition had worsened significantly, and he was nearly powerless to resist. At this very moment, Mr. A, whose fatal strike had failed, suddenly began coughing—coughing even more violently than Klein. He crawled painfully to his knees, blood spurted from his lips. Hiccup! Hiccup! Hiccup! He coughed out a heap of shattered organs and wriggling flesh, then struggled to open his mouth, licking them back into his mouth with great effort, forcing them down. What in the world? Kline was momentarily stunned. Yet this did not prevent him from holding his breath, raising his right hand, and aiming the revolver at Mr. A's head. At that moment, a faint clarity began to emerge: Mr. A's physical wounds could be treated and maintained through flesh-and-blood magic, but the mental and spiritual shock and backlash could not be compensated for in this way. Mr. A should have switched to another extraordinary ability, gradually healing his spiritual injuries; instead, driven by hatred, he had been compelled to suppress his own abilities, pursuing relentlessly. After continuously drawing upon and exceeding his own capacity, his condition deteriorated until it finally erupted. Thud! Thud! Thud! Klein fired every bullet from his revolver, and streams of copper, pale gold, and silver-white light sped swiftly across the relatively short distance between the two. Regretfully, he could not suppress sneezes and coughs throughout the process, and not all the bullets struck their mark—only two hit Mr. A: one piercing his forehead, the other entering his torso. A hissing sound emerged, yet Mr. A's head seemed devoid of bone, merely a mass of decaying flesh, into which the pale gold bullets sank deeply, then halted, failing to inflict fatal damage, and instead glowed like sunlight. Mr. A tilted his neck slightly, and within the ruptured cavity of his head, blood and tissue surged wildly. He did not die—indeed, he had sustained no serious injury. He had once been the vigorous "Rose Bishop"! Witnessing this, Klein made an immediate decision, turned, and fled, abandoning any further attempt to attack. Mr. A, meanwhile, wheezed heavily, lowered his head again, and began to lick at the fragments of flesh and organs he had coughed up. Sneezes and coughs alternated, and Kline staggered, sometimes rolling as he ran. Finally, he reached the edge—the cliff wall stretching over fifty meters. Below, the Tassok River flowed steadily, broad yet calm. Without hesitation, Kline pushed off and leapt into the water. He plunged downward, experiencing a strong sensation of weightlessness. His body sliced through the air, striving to adjust mid-air into a diving posture. *Cough!* *Sneeze!* The illness interrupted his somersault of three and a half revolutions midway, and his body extension and hand adjustments failed to take hold. With a soft *plink*, he landed on the water's surface, flattening into a thin sheet of white paper. The paper figure quickly absorbed the water, half-submerged and half-floating. Near the riverbed, Kline's outline remained faintly visible, trembling slightly. His clothes were soaked, and the paper inside his garments and the cash in his wallet were likewise damp. After distancing himself from Mr. A, the illness eased... Klein thought with lingering apprehension. If not for the final moments when his coughing and sneezing subsided somewhat, he would have been too weak to even employ the paper-man substitution technique, and would have fallen, suffering internal bleeding and likely died outright. Of course, if he had died that way, he believed he could have been revived. As he kicked his legs through the water, Klein created an invisible, hollow tube in his mouth, extending it above the surface to draw in fresh air. This was the "magician's underwater breathing" act! He inhaled through his mouth and exhaled through his nose, preventing the murky water from contaminating the tube and allowing it to remain clean as it entered the water. At the same time, he quietly swam toward the shore, hoping to evade Mr. A's subsequent pursuit. Unfortunately, this wasn't a city setting—Mr. A's abilities couldn't be fully utilized here. Once he broke away, Mr. A would surely never be able to locate him again. As he swam, the thought instinctively surfaced in Klein's mind. With this thought, a question arose: had Mr. A previously used an extraordinary ability to control the wind? Generally, this belonged to the path of the "Lord of the Storm"—a path characterized not only by wind but also by water, especially excelling in underwater activities. Underwater activities... "The Shepherd" was too comprehensive, too terrifying! As the thought flashed through his mind, Clain's heart nearly stopped beating. He surged upward, no longer concealing himself! As soon as he broke the surface and approached the shore, he saw Mr. A's strikingly beautiful, almost otherworldly face, covered with fish-scale plates and featuring gill openings. Mr. A, clad in a crimson robe floating gently on the water, smiled with a firm curve at his lips, his eyes filled with a tangible, tangible hatred. He had to fight—only fight! He had to hold on until the church's reinforcements arrived or until Mr. Azk was freed. Clain, whose illness had improved, raised his right hand without hesitation, ready to snap his fingers. At that very moment, both of them turned toward the half-sky, almost instinctively. There, a figure with a graceful feminine presence quickly emerged. The figure wore a hood and a dark robe, gazing blankly at Mr. A. Then, Caine saw Mr. A seemingly transform into a pencil sketch, swiftly erased by a rubber, with no resistance—only a look of bewildered yet reluctant determination, and a gaze full of desperate fervor, etched deeply into the mind of the sole witness. What kind of presence! What kind of power! As Caine's thoughts formed, he noticed the figure tilting her head and looking directly at him. Her face was beautiful, yet expressionless. Her dark eyes were deep and profound, yet lacked any spark of life. As Caine's heart raced, fearing he too would vanish silently, unsure whether he would ever be revived, the woman's lips slowly curled, forming a smile. A smile? Klein was stunned, doubting he was dreaming. Before he could recover, the figure had instantly faded and vanished, leaving only the quiet echo of the flowing water. He swam uncertainly to the shore, climbed up, and surveyed the surroundings. Here, the place was surprisingly remote—no roads, no living people, only the river, slightly turbid, flowing ceaselessly. Was that it? Had Mr. A simply died like that? Who was that woman who had been so powerful that even a cry from Mr. A had been impossible? She had smiled at him… smiled… Perhaps it was She? Yet, aside from the Pope, did any angels walk among the people of the Three Churches? And clearly, no one of the Pope’s rank would be found in Bekkanland. Klein couldn’t believe he had escaped danger so easily. Calming himself, he finally regained a sense of reality: "It must have been one of the Church’s stronger representatives. She arrived in time and successfully saved me." "If I hadn't notified 'Justice' lady in advance, they might not have had time to act—by now, I'd probably be dead in Mr. A's hands, and I'm not even sure if I'd ever come back to life... Well, there's also the factor of my persistent efforts to delay the battle until now. Still, that's not bad." Klein exhaled, cleared his throat, and began searching for a way out. His figure wavered slightly, his feet clad in pants torn nearly to shreds in the battle. ........ In the Red Rose Manor, Prince Edsack sat by the floor-to-ceiling window, his gaze unusually hollow. "Princess, please act swiftly," a voice spoke beside him. Edsack's eyes came back to life. He took a breath, picked up the revolver on the table, and pressed the barrel against his temple—where a bullet capable of extinguishing a spirit rested. He turned his head, gazing with longing at the golf course outside and the horses strolling there. *Click!* He pulled the trigger.