The tall man facing off wore a navy-specific blue-and-white striped shirt, yet in the near-zero-cold weather, he had his arms bare. Holding a dagger pressed against his opponent's throat, he himself was squarely aimed at the brow by an old, museum-worthy hand cannon. The cannon's owner was another solid-built man, over one meter eighty, with broad shoulders and a well-groomed, oily complexion. He had shaved his head and bore a sea eagle tattoo, muttering angrily, "Stinking navy! 'In Damir Port, no one's dared to accuse me of being a pirate's informant!" The navy man matched his fire, and the two exchanged a full display of rich, maritime curses. Kline observed for a few seconds, then moved along the edge, approaching Captain Elran—carrying a straight sword at his waist and concealing the hand cannon—calmly and casually asking, "What's going on?" "It's just a squabble between two drunk sailors. There's been this rumor around Damir Port and the surrounding waters for some time now: Logan the 'Sea Eagle' serves as the informant for the owner of the 'Black Tulip.'” The naval officer mentioned this just now, only to be intercepted by the 'Sea Eagle'. Wasn't the owner of the 'Black Tulip' none other than Lord Ludewald, the 'Duke of Hell'? Klein turned and sat down at the high stool by the bar, lightly tapping the wooden surface. "A glass of Southwold beer, please." "Six pence." The bartender, with copper-toned skin and white teeth, wiped the rim of his glass with a calm, unenthusiastic demeanor. Prices for land-based goods here are notably higher than in Beckland or Tinggen... Klein produced a handful of copper coins and counted out six pence. At that moment, the conflict between Logan and the naval officer was halted by the bar's guards, both of them exchanging sharp words and retreating to opposite corners. Perhaps feeling the need to preserve face, the naval officer departed hurriedly after just a few seconds, and the atmosphere within the tavern once again warmed up. "Would you like to play cards?" Captain Elran indicated the staircase leading to the side of the tavern. "No," Klein's primary objective was to gather intelligence. Ailin reached out instinctively to pat his shoulder, but was stopped by his stern, sharp demeanor and instead settled to straightening the dark red coat, adding, "Don't look for women here." Klein nodded, picked up the cup of South Wylde beer, and took a slow, steady sip. "Also, don't trust anyone here—only a small fraction of what they say is true." Ailin carried his own glass of Lirangzi and ascended the stairs toward the second floor. Klein glanced at him, his expression unchanged, and asked, "Including you?" "...Perhaps." Ailin was momentarily taken aback, then burst into laughter. "At least my advice is true—yes, I am a man, and that's true!" Not necessarily... there's a kind of potion in this world called 'Witch'... Klein returned his gaze, sipping his drink slowly while listening to the patrons around him boast. After a couple of minutes, a short, slender man carried his own wine and sat down beside Caine. "Partner, you seem like an adventurer," he said, slightly tilting his head with a smile. The man greeting Caine had dark hair and blue eyes, with a somewhat weathered face and an unrefined air. "That's fair," Caine replied coldly. "It's clear you're a hunter—pursuing rewards and wealth." The short man glanced around, then lowered his head, speaking softly. "Have you heard of the 'Spirit Empire'?" I've heard of Aline, and of the Heavenly Father and the Savior sealed beneath the sea... Caine used the ability of the Faceless One to project a signal: "I know—of a massive, ancient ghost ship laden with treasure." "We have the lead!" The short man spoke with lively enthusiasm. "We've uncovered some documents that reveal where it will next appear!" We don't want to undersell the pirates or the navy—we don't want our wealth taken away by others. Therefore, we've decided to rent armed merchant vessels and wait in that region ourselves. This will likely cost us about 1,000 pounds. I've already found 15 companions and raised 720 pounds. Would you like to join us?" Before Caine could speak, he reached into his coat and produced a stack of yellow-brown letters: "I know you won't believe me easily—indeed, no one will. But after reviewing these documents, all fifteen of my friends have decided to join our venture." ... Am I easily deceived? Or is it simply that anyone from outside the region inevitably falls prey to this? While Caine was considering whether to authenticate the letters, his peripheral vision caught the figure of Logan, the 'Sea Eagle,' who had just been arguing with someone, approaching. "Wood, you're deceiving me again! You're the mouse who should have died in the sewage!" Logan lifted the short man and threw him onto the empty space in the middle of the tavern, sending him sprawling on his back. The burly man with a green tattoo settled into the spot Woody had just occupied, grinned warmly, and said: "Sorry about that—this is our old mouse from Damir Port, always causing some disruption to our reputation. "In fact, we're all quite friendly. If you have any questions, feel free to ask me. "Heh, don't believe those fellows' accusations—I'm a man of integrity, and I've got absolutely nothing to do with 'General of Hell'!" The more you emphasize it, the more it raises suspicion... After a brief thought, Kline maintained his composed expression and spoke calmly: "I'd like to know about the recent rumors." "No problem," said "Eagle" Logan, tapping the bar surface to the bartender. "Serve up a specially prepared cured meat—I'll have this fellow taste our most celebrated dish from Damir." The bartender still kept his reserved demeanor, pushed the door open to the kitchen, and soon returned with a plate of finely sliced cured meat, the red and white sections clearly distinct and the texture smooth. "Five pounds." "He didn't look at 'The Harpy' Logan. He simply turned his gaze to Caine." "Five pounds," said 'The Harpy' Logan, tilting his head with a warm smile and raising his arm to display his muscles. "Everyone heard it just now—you offered to treat me to their special cured meat as a thank-you." Caine momentarily failed to grasp what had happened. It wasn't until the bartender urged him a second time that he realized he had been defrauded, and that Logan's tactics were quite sophisticated. First, he had set up a straightforward ruse to bring 'The Harpy' Logan into the scene and secure Caine's goodwill. Then, under the guise of a guest invitation, he ordered the specially priced cured meat—now, he turned around and insisted on paying, reversing the situation and making it seem as though Caine had been the one who had overcharged. It was no wonder that when 'The Mouse' Wood was thrown out, the drunken crowd didn't even stir—they all feared the man said to serve 'The General of Hell.' What could Caine do now? My current persona is Germán Sparrow, a slightly mad adventurer and bounty hunter... Kline lifted his cup, sipped the richly malty beer, and asked calmly, "Why not just take it outright?" "Why not just take it outright?" Logan was momentarily taken aback. Then, he watched as his fist grew larger and larger. Thwack! Kline swung his left arm, punching hard into Logan's jaw, sending him sprawling toward the bar. With a right hand brace, Kline nimbly stepped off his chair and moved close to Logan's body as it began to fall. He tightened his thigh muscles, then sharply lifted his knee, driving it straight into Logan's lower abdomen. Pffft! Logan recoiled, his eyes bulging, his mouth half-open. Kline then drew his pistol, slid the revolver into Logan's mouth, and pulled back on the trigger. "I... I am..." Logan stammered. Klein stared into Logan's eyes, then suddenly drew his revolver and swung it with force, hitting Logan's side of the face with both the stock and his fist. Logan's teeth immediately fell out, spilling blood across his mouth. Under the force of the blow and the pain exceeding his limits, he blinked and collapsed, unconscious. Klein supported his body and reached into his coat pocket, pulling out a few scattered bills and coins. Judging them to be no more than five pounds, he simply tossed them onto the bar and calmly said, "No change needed." The bartender, with his copper-toned face now pale, hurried to call out, "My boss is 'The White Shark'!" Klein didn't even glance at him, released his hold, and let 'The Sea Eagle' Logan fall to the floor. Then he sat back down, picked up a piece of cured meat, and bit into it. The flavor was quite distinctive, with the spices gradually spreading out, gently brushing against his stomach and throat. After eating two more slices, he finally lifted his head and asked, "Does your boss know you've been working with 'The Sea Eagle'?" "No, he—he, well..." the bartender stammered. Seeing that Caine had no further intentions of pressing him and having paid promptly, the several guards who had drawn closer now quietly stepped back. Caine took a sip of wine, glanced at 'The Sea Eagle' Logan on the floor, and calmly asked the bartender, "He's a source for Ludewil, isn't he? How much reward can he claim?" "No, he isn't," the bartender shook his head. "All of this information has been spread by him himself. That naval officer just now was hired by him personally! Only that way can he make the people here fear him..." Hearing this, the patrons at the bar all dropped their glasses in surprise, some even staggering over to Logan and spitting into his face. "Hmph! Hmph! Hmph!" Several other guests followed suit. Caine then lowered his head again, continuing to eat the specially prepared cured meat, and said, "Now, tell me about the latest rumors." The bartender exhaled in relief, wiping cups as he intermittently recounted the latest rumors over the past two months—some he had heard before, others just learned moments ago. The Royal Navy's ironclad *Plymouth* had recently destroyed a passing pirate fleet during routine training. Growing panic over the giant ships' guns was now spreading among several smaller pirate groups. Some were eager to strike hard now, before the ironclad fleets fully matured, aiming to secure substantial gains and retire from piracy altogether. The seas would remain turbulent for the next six months to a year. "The Admiral of Blood," Senyoral, and "Admiral of Dusk," Bratov Ivan, had clashed fiercely off the southern coast of Sunia Island, resulting in each losing two ships. Klein listened without interruption, gradually filling his belly. When he noticed the platter holding the specially preserved meats had been cleared, he finished off the remaining beer and rose slowly. "Remember today's lesson," he said, handing the plate to the bartender. The bartender was just about to reach out when suddenly his head was caught by the barman's palm, gripping the hair at the back of his head. Thwack! Klein pressed down hard, driving the bartender's head into the bar top with such force that wood chips flew everywhere and blood spilled out, sending guests scrambling and prompting the guards to rush in. After all this, Klein waved his hand and picked up his own glass, attempting to pour the remaining wine into the bartender's head. One drop, two drops, three drops... Klein silently gave up, turned, bent down, and grabbed "Eagle" Logan, tossing him toward the arriving guards. Seizing the moment when the guards were distracted and the bar was in chaos, Klein swiftly ran, skillfully weaving through the crowd, and easily made his escape from "Flyfish and Wine." He tapped his hat and hurried forward, turning into the adjacent street. After several directional changes, he suddenly slowed down, now holding a coin in his hand. The coin danced between his fingers, as if scouting for something.