The boundless gray mist hung quietly, and a faint scraping sound emerged from the bronze table. Caine adjusted his posture, growing more serious as he examined the details of the spectral incident, increasingly convinced that he and Miss Sharon had completely overlooked the possibility that Laverstoke Pound had gone awry at that moment: "Is this the extraordinary ability of the 'Red Priest' path—the 'Conspirator'? And does this more closely align with ordinary deception, with only subtle supernatural elements at play? Therefore, even if I entered this mysterious space above the gray mist, I would not be passively aware of being deceived—only by actively thinking and analyzing could I detect the issue?" "Had it not been for Mr. Azk's revelation that the 'Red Angel' Medici, long believed to have perished, might still be alive, I would never have suspected anything was amiss, nor would I have hired Miss the Magician to investigate anomalies on Williams Street..." After pausing for several minutes, Caine materialized a sheet of paper and pen, intending to use divination to confirm his hypothesis. After careful consideration, he finally wrote the phrase: "The current state of Lord Lafford Pound." Setting down his deep-red steel pen, Caine held the paper inscribed with the incantation and leaned back against the chair's backrest. First recalling the information he had gathered about Lord Lafford Pound, he then closed his eyes and silently recited the phrase, entering a state of meditation. Caine's thoughts swiftly settled into calmness and swiftly drifted into a dream. In that hazy landscape, fragmented scenes unfolded one after another, ultimately settling on the house at 29 West Villas Street. In the warm living room, Lord Laverne Ponder stood quietly by the window, holding a glass filled with a red liquid, dressed in a soft robe. He gazed across at the Bakerland Police Headquarters. The silver streaks in his hair had become more pronounced, the puffiness around his eyes now tinged with a deep blue hue, and the lines etched across his forehead, eyes, and mouth were deeper than would be expected for a man in his forties. His pupils were slightly dilated—neither severely nor normally—and his cheeks carried a gentle flush, his expression warm and smiling, a subtle yet unusual shift from the way Crane had last seen him. Indeed, something was amiss here... Crane had stepped out of his dream, now considering how to address the issue of the spirits. Undoubtedly, he had a well-established mental pattern: without contact with Miss Sharon, his first instinct would be to report it. But how exactly should he go about doing that? Caine pondered carefully, then manifested the figure of "the World" and asked him to pray: "Through reliable channels, deliver the following message to the Church of the Night Goddess and the Church of the Gods of Steam and Machinery. The message is: Senior spies from Fyres and Intis have gathered at Williams Street, with an unknown purpose. The reward: one hundred pounds." This was precisely the wording Caine had carefully refined. While it directly revealed the existence of key elements—such as the "King of Angels," the "Red Priest," the Medici family, and the Tudor dynasty—thus drawing greater attention from the churches and military, it also posed a significant risk to Miss Folshe, the magician who would be responsible for reporting the matter, as she might soon come under official scrutiny. The statement that "senior spies from Fyres and Intis have gathered at Williams Street" was not only more gentle and ordinary—something even regular extraordinary individuals might notice—but also sufficient to prompt the churches and military to take notice, dispatch their strongest agents, and respond with the most effective measures. As for what was uncovered later, that would be their contribution, unrelated to the whistleblower. Regarding the option of seeking Mr. Azkay's assistance, Kline had considered it, but ultimately decided against it, as the spirit, reportedly once an Angel King, posed a significant threat, and Mr. Azkay, still in recovery, might not be able to handle such a challenge. After a brief pause, Kline transformed the manifested scene into a stream of light and entrusted it to the deep red star symbolizing the "Magician" lady. Delivering the message to the Church of Night and the Church of Steam? Isn't that just a polite way of saying 'reporting someone'? Unfortunately, she can't just stand by and watch anymore—otherwise, she'd surely witness a splendid scene. Forth is no stranger to reporting; her roommate and close friend is a bounty hunter. She quickly decided to entrust the task to her experienced colleague, Horst. Upon stepping out of the bedroom, she saw Horst seated on the sofa, leaning forward intently as he reviewed the target documents, occasionally reaching up to tousle his messy golden hair, clearly deeply focused. Forth casually picked up a decorative item, moved close to the sofa, and offered it to him. "Here, have a piece of cake." Horst glanced at the cake topped with cream, his thoughts undisturbed, and reached out to take it. At that moment, Forth flicked her wrist and spread the cake out—now it had transformed into a golden-hued fabric. "Surprised?" she asked with a smile. Restless, she lifted her eyes upward, saying, "Stop your performance—I'd much prefer food." "Very well. I have a matter to entrust to you: seventy pounds." Fothering smiled and settled down. ………… After attending to the spirits' affairs, Caine returned to the real world and, in the process, conducted a ritual to bring the radio receiver, which had been resting atop the gray mist for several days, back to the owner's bedroom in first class. Lying on the bed, he restored his energy through meditation until the rhythmic tapping woke him. When he opened his eyes, the window was already bathed in a soft, crimson moonlight, gently veiling the dim room and the radio receiver on the desk, which was now spitting out ethereal sheets of paper on its own. This truly has the feel of a ghost story, a horror film... yet the mirror connecting us is utterly unprincipled, with no limits at all. Crawen flipped over and sat up, walking over to see that rows of Runes had already appeared on the ethereal sheet of paper: "Great Being above the Plane of Spirits, your loyal servant Arados has arrived and wishes you well. Do you have a matter to discuss with me?" Look at that! Look at that! This is truly articulate! This is truly professional! At this very moment, Crawen longs to invite the plump pharmacist Dacwell in to witness the art of conversation of the mirror. It's clearly me who has something to ask it, yet now it's as if I'm being tested—complete with an extra question thrown in. Crawen managed to keep a subtle upward curve at the corner of his mouth, responding in a low tone: "Yes." "Then, your humble, unassuming Arados is ready to listen," the mirror replied, its ethereal paper now displaying not only the Runes but also a warm, courteous smile. This is already in the embryonic stage of a emoticon... this guy has truly evolved quickly. Kline directly asked, "Where can I find a magical item that allows me to steal others' extraordinary abilities?" Suddenly, the rhythmic tapping intensified, and swift sequences of images materialized on the ethereal white sheet, vividly resembling movie stills. Among them were scenes familiar to Kline—the Charnes Gate at the base of the Saint Celine Church in Tinggen, the handsome poet Leonard Mitchell with dark hair and bright eyes, a middle-aged man seated on a sofa, smiling gently at the noblewoman across from him, and an elegant young lady wandering through the dim, shadowy underground passages. There were twelve such scenes in total, followed by a line of Runes: "These are types of abilities you can easily or conveniently acquire. There are many others, though—some are quite complex and cumbersome, or involve higher levels, which I am unable to discern clearly." "Excellent—both of you have proactively filtered the information for me... This is truly the magical, enigmatic, intelligent version of Google. Klein nodded lightly, knowing full well the answer, and said, "It's your turn to ask." "You've already answered," the magical mirror Arordes responded, its rhythmic tapping sound clearly echoing as the answer materialized on the ethereal white sheet. Klein chuckled softly and then asked, "Where has Leonard Mitchell been living recently?" The tapping grew more intense, and a series of scenes unfolded vividly before Klein's eyes: The iconic landmark of Bekland, a towering Gothic clock tower bearing the inscription "The Clock of Order"; A street sign standing at the intersection, marked "Pinstreets"; A row house bearing the number 7, where Leonard Mitchell, dressed casually in a black coat and red gloves, appeared with a distinguished air—reading through case files on the Larnus and Capin cases, as a fellow poet. He's right here in Beckett, investigating the Larnus case and the Capin case? What on earth is going on...? Kline's lips moved slightly as he carefully considered whether he had left any traces in either of these two cases. The only clue was that Sherlock Moriaty, the detective, was connected to both cases—Leonard should be able to notice that if he entered into a dream with Daisy. But at that time, I had already grown a beard and had done a solid job of disguise; relying only on somewhat blurry images from the dreams and a few portraits, he likely wouldn't recognize me. As long as he didn't recognize me, it didn't matter—what connection did Sherlock Moriaty's issues have with me, Germán Sparro? Kline settled his thoughts and noted down Leonard Mitchell's current address: 7 Prestwick Street, North Beckett. He planned to commission "The Moon," Emlyn White, to visit Leonard Mitchell the day after tomorrow, using the insignia of the Fate Seekers to purchase magical items. I hope the poetry student has some spare... if not, there will surely be a significant premium... Klein nodded once to the radio receiver and said, "It's your turn to ask." Honestly, he was quite curious about what question Arodes, the Magic Mirror, would pose this time. Ticking, ticking, the radio receiver emitted a fresh sheet of ethereal paper, inscribed in Runes with a question: "Great Lord, Leonard Mitchell hides a great secret—would you like to know it?" ...That's actually a question? Klein raised his head, amused and astonished, gazing at the crimson moon steadily illuminating the deep black sea. Soon, he responded honestly: "Yes."