In the morning of December 31st, in the southern section of the bridge, at the Harvest Church, Emlin White wore a priest's robe and stood in the kitchen, occasionally dropping various herbs into a large iron pot while stirring them with care. Once all the pre-prepared ingredients had been added, he patiently waited an additional ten minutes before using a large spoon to draw the deep black liquid and transferring it into glass bottles and glasses placed nearby. 48, 49, 50—Emlin glanced at the now-empty iron pot and counted the prepared potions. After confirming the number, he carried the large tray and delivered the bottles of dark green liquid to the hall. In the hall, most of the pews had been removed, and the floor was covered with scattered, worn-out quilts, inside which lay either unconscious patients or those suffering in painful groans. Emlin and Father Utravsky worked together, each carrying a portion of the medicine, beginning to distribute it from opposite ends. The first patient was a middle-aged man with a pale, wan complexion. He hurried to prop himself up, took the medicine, and gulped it down. After returning the bottle, he gratefully said to Emlyn, "Father White, thank you so much! I feel so much better—I've got a bit of strength again!" Emlyn raised his chin, disdainfully replied, "This is nothing at all—far from worthy of your gratitude. You simply lack appreciation." With that, he sped up the distribution of the medicine. After a few minutes, he returned to the altar of the Earth Mother and complained to Father Utravski, "You should have found two more volunteers!" Father Utravski remained silent, gazing at the patients with a gentle smile, and said, "In just a few more days, they should all recover." "How do you know that?" Emlyn asked, turning to him in surprise. Father Utravski bowed gently, his face kind and attentive. "Herbs are indeed one of the domains of the Mother Goddess. As her followers, though not part of the 'Earth' path, we must still possess basic knowledge." Emlyn sighed. "I have little interest in religion, and know very little about it." Though I've been copying the Mother Goddess's sacred texts regularly over the past few months... he thought to himself, with a slight resentment, and added casually, "Father, I didn't expect you to accept such heterodox followers—only two or three of them are truly devoted to the Mother Goddess." Father Utravski smiled calmly. "They are, after all, life itself—innocent life." Emlyn paused for a few seconds, exhaled, and then said, "Father, I've already found a way to overcome the psychological suggestion. Perhaps I'll be leaving soon." Wait—why did I bring this up? I was actually touched by him. What if he locked me down in the basement again? Emlyn suddenly felt tense. Father Utravsky's expression remained unchanged. He looked down at Emlyn and said, "Actually, you don't need to find any solutions. In a little while, psychological suggestion will naturally dissolve, and you'll be free to choose whether or not to come to church." "Just wait a while, and I'll become a devoted follower of the Mother Goddess, no, the Earth Mother Goddess!" Emlyn exclaimed. Father Utravsky raised his eyebrows slightly, speaking with mild surprise, "I haven't forced you to change your faith." "The psychological suggestion I've left is simply to have you return to church every day, so that you may fully experience the preciousness of life and the joy of harvest." "Then the only purpose of the psychological suggestion is to make me return to church?" Emlyn's expression grew suddenly blank. Father Utravsky nodded calmly, "Yes." “….” Emlin's mouth hung slightly open, his movements slow and mechanical as he turned back toward the altar, toward the life sigil of the Earth Mother, as though he had suddenly become a puppet. ………… It was the evening of December 31st, in Tinggen, at 2 Xian Street. As Bassen entered the house, removing his hat and unbuttoning his coat, he chuckled warmly: "I've already booked a second-class steam train ticket to Beckland for January 3rd." Sitting in the dining room, with several newspapers spread before her, Melissa spoke with a slightly concerned tone: "Bassen, the air in Beckland is terribly poor. Just a few days ago, due to the severe smog, thousands of people suffered from poisoning and illness—many have already passed away." "It truly is a source of both regret and sorrow. "Banser walked toward the dining room, sighed, and said, 'But both the Upper and Lower Houses have already approved the report from the Air Pollution Investigation Committee, and legislation is imminent to regulate emissions of smoke and wastewater. We're heading into a new Beckland—there's no need to worry much about that.' With that, he gave a mocking smile: 'Just now, when I returned from the Iron Cross Street, I noticed several factory owners and their employees there recruiting staff, citing staffing shortages due to smog and epidemics. They're willing to offer work hours and minimum wages that are significantly better than the current standards—quite a promise, I must say, heh.' 'Do you think it's impossible to achieve?' Melissa asked sharply. 'As more and more people move to Beckland, it's inevitable that it will become impossible—unless both Houses pass specific legislation to establish clear regulations.' Banser spread his hands, pointing to the table. 'Well, then, it's time we welcomed the new year.'" There were three sets of cutlery, three empty porcelain plates, and three cups on the table. Among the cups, one held beer and two held ginger beer. …………It was evening on December 31st. Audrey, dressed in her finest, stood in the lounge, waiting for the New Year's gala to begin, yet her expression betrayed no signs of excitement, anticipation, or joy at the approaching coming-of-age ceremony. Before her lay a newspaper, which read: “…According to preliminary statistics, more than 21,000 people died directly from the great smog, and the subsequent epidemic claimed an additional nearly 40,000 lives, including many young children and healthy young adults…” Audrey sighed and closed her eyes. At that moment, her father, Lord Horbury, and her mother, Lady Katharine, entered, both praising her in unison: “You are more beautiful than anyone here tonight, my dear. It’s time for you to go. The Queen is waiting for you.” Audrey exhaled gently, radiating an elegant and bright smile, and, accompanied by her parents, stepped out of the lounge and into the ballroom. As she walked toward the front platform, she extended her hands, wearing long white gloves that reached her elbows, to the Queen, who was gazing at her in awe. The Queen took her hand and led her to the edge of the platform, where she faced all the guests. After a brief pause, the Queen smiled and said: "Though this is a period of darkness in the history of Beckland, we still possess a gem capable of illuminating the entire city—her wisdom, her beauty, her character, and her grace are beyond compare. Today, I formally introduce her to you. 'Miss Audrey Hall.' " Thump! Thump! Thump! Outside, smoke rose and burst into a cascade of dreamlike light. On the evening of the last day of 1349, Audrey officially came of age in social terms. ... Afternoon of January 3, 1350. Outside the eastern district, in a newly established cemetery. Using divination, Crane located the graves of the older Kole and his daughter, Liv. These were not true graves in the traditional sense, but rather cabinets housing ashes, one after another, row upon row, stacked upon one another. Standing there, Crane observed that not only were there no photographs or inscriptions on the cabinet bearing the name of the elder Kole, but the name itself was missing. Such cases were not uncommon—there were countless unclaimed ashes, with no relatives or friends to know their names, their appearances, or their life stories. Only the cabinet numbers distinguished them. Closing his eyes, Crane pulled out a notepad, crumpled it into a thin sheet, and inscribed the word on the cabinet door: "Kole." Then he added a line of epitaph: "He was a solid worker. He once had a wife and two children. He lived with purpose." Reeled back his wrist, giving it a sharp flick. The slender figure of Caine—dark hair, brown eyes, gaunt-faced—caused the paper in his hands to ignite, as if offering a solemn tribute to the spirits of all who had perished here. For Daisy, who had lost both her mother and sister, Caine did not step forward directly to offer aid, but instead wrote an anonymous letter to journalist Mike Joseph, detailing the young woman’s struggles so as not to draw attention to his own circumstances. Having met Daisy and learned of her plight, Mike had taken up the cause with enthusiasm and actively championed the establishment of a relevant charitable fund. Thus, Caine believed Mike would secure for Daisy greater support, enabling her to complete her education and secure a stable livelihood. Stepping back two paces, Caine surveyed the scene—the victims now known only by name and photograph, or even by name at all. He lifted his head, exhaled a slow stream of white vapor, turned, and walked away from the cemetery. On the steam train bound for Beckettland, Melissa was intently reading from her textbook, while Bensun quickly began chatting with the passengers around him. "It's too expensive! Too expensive! A full shilling and ten pence!" a middle-aged man in his thirties sighed sincerely. "If it weren't for the fact that we can't find third-class seats or boat tickets these days, I simply wouldn't have paid this much—it's nearly half my weekly salary!" "Indeed, there's a surge of people heading to Beckettland after the New Year," Bensun agreed. The man then brightened, full of hope. "They promised us twenty-one pence a week, and that we'd work no more than twelve hours a day—our contracts are signed and sealed!" "Once I secure a rental home and receive my first paycheck, I'm going to have my wife join me in Beckettland. She should be able to find a good job there, earning twelve or thirteen pence a week—Beckettland is said to be very short on workers!" By then, ah, with our combined weekly pay exceeding one and a half pounds, we'll be able to eat meat regularly!" "Your wish will surely come true—the king has signed the decree allowing the bill setting minimum wages and working hours to take effect." Bensin sincerely wished, then smiled. "It's truly the 'Land of Hope.'" Whee! The steam train carried countless hopeful people to Beckland, and though the morning light was still bright, the morning mist had thinned. The gas lamps on the platform no longer needed to light up early. Bensin, experienced in such matters, protected his sister and their portfolio, carrying his suitcase and moving through the crowd, stepping out of the station. Suddenly, both of them felt a gaze sweeping over them. Following the gaze, Bensin and Melissa spotted a young gentleman with neat black hair and deep brown eyes. The gentleman with gold-rimmed glasses adjusted his hat and looked past them, toward the horizon. Benson and Melissa turned their gaze toward the column spouting smoke in the central garden, eager to witness Bakerland's underground transit system. Kaine carried his suitcase, posture straight and expression neutral, passed by them, moving through the large crowd flowing into "The Place of Hope," and into the departure station with a steady resolve. It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. (End of Part Two) (End of Chapter) 485. Summary and Leave Request (Requesting Monthly Pass) Summary and Leave Request (Requesting Monthly Pass) Part Two comprises approximately 850,000 words—longer than any other work in the overall structure, to my memory, except for the third and fourth volumes of the first life. Each day, I think deeply and write diligently, which is both fulfilling and exhausting. Especially this month, with the added commitment to fitness, I've nearly lost the time to read novels. The title is "The Faceless," with three intended layers of meaning—please pay close attention, as follows, representing the official interpretation. First, it refers to the achievement of becoming "Faceless," which is the most straightforward and immediately apparent. Second, it symbolizes Xiao Ke's state of existence in Bekkanland—using false names, false identities, and false appearances to connect with others, to manage affairs, and to become entangled in various events, yet upon returning home, he remains lonely and isolated. Third, it represents those individuals in the broader historical currents—some crushed into dust, others rushing in hurriedly—who leave no names, no images, no pasts, no personal lives, only appearing in simple statistics or descriptions. In this sense, aren't they precisely the "Faceless"? The most ordinary supporting characters, the least noticeable expendable ones—how many people truly care about their faces? Just like the phrase "in years of great famine, people ate one another"—how much sorrow, pain, cruelty, bloodshed, and despair does this simple six-character sentence contain? How many faceless, nameless, living human beings does it compress into its quiet strength? Countless, tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands, even millions! Therefore, I have tried to describe the older colleagues—Kole, Lifu, Freya—caught in the tide of time, to reconstruct their hopes, struggles, and tragedies, so that they appear not merely as statistics but as real people. Though this second volume is fragmented in structure, this effort forms an underlying thread. As they pass away, more like them continue to emerge. The faceless ones remain ever-present: they are the foundation upon which the age is built, the pioneers who shape it, and indispensable characters that give depth and authenticity to the entire story. Given this, I've chosen to forgo a more sorrowful and profoundly moving conclusion. After all, this film, titled "The Faceless," already powerfully captures the essence I wish to convey—the poignant reversal of the best and worst times, the best era now becoming the worst, and vice versa. As time progresses, it moves with relentless, unyielding inevitability, yet beneath our feet lie countless faceless figures. The symbolic depth of the third installment's title will be less pronounced, since its narrative arc is clear and direct. Indeed, the third film's title is simply "The Traveler." Taking a literal interpretation, one might imagine several things, yet we will still focus on the second part. Be City still has many threads yet to be woven together—such as the Mercury Serpent, the underground spirits, the royal family's true intentions, the numbers from 0 to 17, the vampire-related elements, and the psychological Alchemy Circle. This is both because we wish to give opportunities for Odile, Folsom, Hugh, and Emlyn to showcase their own roles, and because Be City serves as the most crucial setting throughout the entire novel. Small K will definitely return and will stay for a long time. The second part may seem scattered, but in fact, once many elements are woven together, things work out quite well. For me, being scattered yet engaging enough to read is already satisfactory. The real issue, however, lies elsewhere: the narrative pace has remained consistently tight and hasn't loosened up. In other words, there's a constant stream of events and problems to solve, with insufficient longer, more relaxed transitions in between—leading to some fatigue and restlessness. While this tightness contributes to the emergence of a powerful cumulative effect, it does reflect a structural issue from the outset. The problem stems from the Tarot gatherings occurring weekly, which slice the timeline into weekly segments, easily creating a sense of repetition and rigidity. Additionally, there must always be something happening each week, which naturally tightens the rhythm of extraordinary events. My current solution is to simply skip some less significant Tarot meetings, thereby gaining greater flexibility in pacing and timing. Of course, the Tarot itself is also a protagonist and certainly won't be left out. I never forgot Emlyn's first addition, nor all the various details my friends mentioned—such as the Church's response, or that other bronze whistle—though I deliberately held back on writing them, planning to save them for the beginning of the third volume. This was intentional: I didn't want the accumulating details to blur or disrupt the overall atmosphere and emotional arc of the final two chapters. Thus, certain technical adjustments had to be made. After completing the second volume, I was delighted to have established a series of well-defined characters that the readers came to like. Ending with a sharp, dramatic shift from 0 to 17 wasn't impossible—on one hand, it highlights the Church's enduring strength and resilience, which has allowed it to remain a ruling force for so long, not without reason; on the other hand, this isn't a true conclusion, but rather a continuation, a transitional phase pointing toward future developments, the specifics of which I've chosen not to reveal, to avoid spoiling the narrative. Lastly, let me touch on my writing style. As I've written more and more novels, I've increasingly pursued simplicity and clarity—specifically, the ability to convey things with the most plain, straightforward language, avoiding elaborate descriptions or ornate flourishes that merely fill space. Instead, I rely on calm, objective, unadorned descriptions that gradually build emotional depth, and at the most appropriate moment, I use precise, concise language to pierce through the barriers and reach the most tender parts of the reader's heart. To be honest, although there are still many issues, I'd say I've finally begun to make progress. Of course, given the inherent characteristics of online fiction writing, I can only apply this approach in the most crucial and essential sections—not in every chapter. Many aspects will have to be refined later, when I'm older and have more free time. In my current state, I have a solid vocabulary, though much of it remains unfamiliar, as it's been accumulated step by step and used infrequently. As a result, during writing, I naturally tend to draw from the list of words that are most commonly used in my daily thinking, which often leads to repetition in my word choices. Moreover, there's still room for refinement in the misuse of certain adjectives—where I aim to vividly and intuitively convey the clearest mental images, emphasizing key points through creative textual expression, though this aspect is still under exploration and development. This concludes the technical summary of the second volume. Writing is a demanding and often taxing endeavor, yet once it's completed and received praise and admiration, it brings an extraordinary sense of joy and fulfillment. Recently, the compliments have been so abundant that I feel my heart truly blossoming. Lovers of storytelling, I am! I love writing novels! I love telling you stories! I love crafting rich, well-developed characters! I love presenting you with an engaging and fresh world! Writing novels is truly a joyful pursuit! Well, how mysterious it has been—today, the pure starting platform's high subscription is only 53,000, yet the average subscription has surpassed 41,000. The 24-hour follow-up subscription was originally expected to be around 27,000 or 28,000, but the final seven or eight chapters have now officially broken 31,000. This shows strong retention—this means most of those who read the story are actively following it—this proves your overwhelming love and support! Furthermore, the recommendation votes have consistently ranked in the top 15, and the monthly subscription votes have stayed in the top 5. I'm quite lazy—so lazy that I don't even feel motivated to check the data regularly. Therefore, every single recommendation vote, every single gift, and every subscription is a testament to your deep, heartfelt love! Gentlemen and ladies, after the completion of Part Two, I would like to kindly ask for your praise and a monthly subscription! A monthly subscription! A monthly subscription! A monthly subscription! (A sound like a groundhog's call!) Finally, as per tradition, I'll take two days off—Monday and Tuesday—and resume updates I didn't hear it, I didn't hear it... Well, kidding—such a long run, let's take a half-day rest. Part three, "The Traveler," will be coming soon.