Thump! The bartender hit the floor, writhing and curling into a tight ball in pain. "White Shark" Hamilton let out a deep, resonant sigh, said nothing, and turned toward the second floor, his footsteps making the wooden stairs creak. As the crowd dispersed after the lively scene, the drunken guests began to leave, while Captain Elran and the others remained undisturbed, continuing their game of cards upstairs. Kaine seized the opportunity and followed suit, stepping up the stairs. He returned to "The Flying Fish and Wine" not because of any actual threat posed by "White Shark" Hamilton, but simply to gather more intelligence from the bar owner, who had connections with several pirate factions. After all, he had chosen the name Germann for himself—not merely as a name, but as a deliberate signal: to hunt down the pirates, whose lives, bodies, and unique qualities he would replace the yet-to-be-released beings within the "Crawling Hunger." Damaris Port had no gas supply, so the corridor on the second floor was dimly lit, with the brass candleholders along the walls casting flickering, dim glows, like scattered beans. Klein observed his surroundings, then gently brushed his face, silently transforming into one of the guards on the first floor. The differences in attire and adornment were seamlessly compensated for by his ability to create illusions. Prepared, he made his way toward the room associated with his spiritual intuition—the "White Shark," Hamilton. He first passed by the card-playing area, going unnoticed. Approaching the guards stationed at the entrance to the corridor, he paused deliberately, lowering his voice. "There's something happening downstairs again," he said. "The storm above, what's going on tonight?" one of the guards remarked with a sigh. "I hope those lovely women aren't hurt," added another, expressing a touch of concern—referring to the prostitutes attached to the bar. "They're fine," Klein said, stepping past the guards and knocking gently on the door of the "White Shark." "Who is it?" Hamilton asked, alert. "Boss, it's me. There's another issue downstairs." "Klein recalled the titles he had just heard from the onlookers, deliberately speaking with a rough, husky voice. "For heaven's sake!" Hamilton roared, "Come in and explain what's going on!" Klein turned the handle and stepped inside. As he closed the door, he dissolved the spell, his facial muscles rapidly contracting, returning to his previous identity—the ordinary newcomer with golden hair and blue eyes. "You..." Hamilton was first stunned, then opened his mouth wide, trying to shout. At the same time, shimmering scales began to appear on the back of his hand, and his already tall and robust frame swelled further. Suddenly, his heartbeat quickened, and a deep, instinctive fear choked off his voice. In that moment, he felt the stranger standing by the door was a hungry demon, having starved for days, gazing steadily at his flesh and soul with a cold, insatiable hunger. In an instant, "White Shark" Hamilton plunged into profound panic, unable to mount an effective response. Klein moved slowly to the sofa, sat down, and smiled politely. "Now, can we have a calm conversation?" The feeling of being stared down by a terrifying monster vanished instantly, and Hamilton suddenly felt at ease. Yet his body seemed deflated, as though a balloon had been punctured. No longer rushing to call for help, he wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead and asked, "Who are you? What do you want?" "A hunter," Klein replied casually. "I've heard you have connections with several pirate factions. I'd like to know more about that." "No, I don't..." Hamilton objected instinctively. But he immediately felt that intense, almost frenzied hunger again, as though the man across from him had taken on a deep, almost crimson hue. In his mind, Klein refined his persona, and with a composed smile said, "You have two choices. Either answer honestly, or I'll kill you—and then you'll answer honestly." A hunter who kills to reveal the truth? "The white shark," Hamilton had heard similar tales before, and with some difficulty swallowed a lump of saliva. "Why do you want to know all this?" Klein smiled. "I'm a hunter. I'm after a bounty." Hamilton suddenly felt a wild, unaccountable madness in the other man's polished smile, and couldn't help but exclaim, "You—you're mad!" I've met many adventurers like you, but all of them have perished at sea. Hunting a single pirate isn't difficult, but can you guard against their retaliation? The bar's prostitutes, the seemingly ordinary patrons—could they not be spies? Your friendly colleagues could be bought at any moment, shot from behind! Pirates gather intelligence in advance, block your ship's route, and can you protect all your passengers? Can you survive on a sea where you're trapped, under relentless cannon fire, with no chance to escape? "Having vented all his inner fears, he saw the man across from him—whom he had identified as a hunter—once again radiate a refined, gentle smile: 'Once they're all eliminated, these problems will vanish.'... A true madman," Hamilton, the "Great Shark," took a deep breath and said. "I have connections with many pirates, though these are largely passive. They need to sell the cash, jewels, and cargo they've seized—convert them into wine, food, fresh water, weapons, and the comfort of women's companionship—and all of this must pass through me. Yet I can only wait here, uncertain of their exact whereabouts, of their current course, or their immediate objectives." "And beyond that?" asked Kline calmly. His earlier response had been primarily intended to unsettle the "Great Shark." As for the pirates' retaliation, he was entirely unconcerned. As the "Faceless One," if he were so easily discovered, then perhaps he might as well have simply sunk to the ocean floor. There’s… Hamilton’s white shark, his throat moving slightly, hesitating before offering either a positive or negative response. He kept his mouth tightly closed, gazing steadily at the gentleman who wore a half-high silk hat, meeting his quiet, composed eyes—eyes that seemed poised to erupt into frenzy. The unsettling silence felt like the sea just before a storm: gently rippling, colliding, fermenting. Finally, Hamilton shifted his gaze, restlessly placing his hands on the table before him and saying, “Yes, I’m still gathering information on their behalf. If there’s urgent intelligence, I’ll use their radio station to alert them.” Hamilton turned and walked over to the gray-white safe, crouching down. Radio transmission? How technologically advanced could pirates be? Klein had a vague sense of what the other meant by "radio." He had once considered inventing something similar, but upon checking relevant magazines, he learned that radio transmission had already existed—though it had yet to find a solid commercial niche. The turbulent seas separating the northern and southern continents were frequently lit by lightning, with erratic magnetic fields and relentless storms, leaving only a few navigable routes. Even with radio transmission equipment, its effectiveness was minimal. Similarly, the foggy seas and the Sunya Sea experienced severe weather fluctuations, with numerous factors disrupting electromagnetic transmission, severely limiting the practical use of radio. Could there be an improved version that addressed some of these issues? Klein watched the "White Shark" pry open the floor in front of the safe and, by turning a series of mechanisms, reveal a hidden door on the wall. Behind the secret cabinet, divided into three sections, the top shelf held documents and papers, the middle section contained revolvers, as well as newer half-armored rifles, and the lower section was packed with intricate black machinery. Klein merely glanced at it, then, drawing on his memories from previous lives and the materials he had gathered, quickly identified the machinery as a wireless radio station. "Exactly this. They call it a radio station. Messages sent through it can be received as far as the Rosses' Islands—beyond that, reception depends on weather conditions and luck, and even then, it's often complicated and subject to numerous constraints," Hamilton explained, not fully grasping the details, only describing them vaguely based on his training and experience. More advanced than the currently commercially available models of wireless radio... he wasn't sure who had invented it. Klein listened quietly and then directly asked, "Who are they?" He made himself appear as a tech-averse bounty hunter. Hamilton, the White Shark, wiped a bead of cold sweat from his forehead: "Odler, the Silver Coin Viper who claims to serve as the steward of the Dawnship, and the old Quarion, the intelligence officer of the Blood Commander—both appeared together. I can't determine whether they're working in coordination; after all, Odler has always only claimed such a role." The steward of the Dawnship—the enigmatic Queen? Klein withdrew his gaze, and by now, a coin had appeared in his hand. The coin rolled continuously between his fingers, then leapt into the air and settled gently to the ground—something that left Hamilton bewildered and trembling. He glanced down, then slowly rose to his feet. At that moment, Klein suddenly asked, "Who gave you the potion?" "Old... old Quarion..." Hamilton hesitated, then decided to speak openly. Klein nodded gently, paused no further, and turned toward the door. Clang! The wooden door swung open and closed, and the figure in the black wool coat vanished into the interior of the White Shark's room. Hamilton held his breath for several seconds, then finally exhaled deeply. He quickly wiped the sweat from his face, moved the radio to the table, pulled out a cipher book, and began sending a telegram to the distant station: "I've been spotted! A stranger!" Beside Hamilton, who was fully absorbed in his work, Caine stood with his hands in his pockets, quietly observing, absorbing every detail of the frequency spectrum and the contents of the cipher book. Caine's departure had been nothing more than a well-executed illusion—more than sufficient to deceive the "sailor" type, a low-tier observer like White Shark. As for whether he would remember the specific details later, the "seer" need not worry; a single dream-reading would suffice to recall everything. "The General of the Blood" and his men are passionate about killing, revel in blood, and frequently subject women to violence. Every time they raid a merchant vessel, they invariably cause a tragedy—this is well-established, and they take great pride in it, often boasting about it. Their targets and adventures are always chosen with these very individuals in mind. After a brief thought, Caine, taking advantage of Hamilton's moment to attend to the radio, prepared to truly leave the room. For now, he intended to avoid confronting the "White Shark," fearing that doing so might disturb the real prey. After all, such a foe—grounded on land, with a fixed base and a vulnerability firmly in Caine's grasp—could be easily resolved with a simple letter of complaint. Caine's quiet footsteps caused the door to gently creak open and then close, bringing with it a subtle breeze.