In the upstairs room belonging to the owner of Sweet Lemon Bar, Bill特. Whitehead held a cigar, standing by the window, his gaze unfocused on the outside, his face dark with foreboding. At that moment, a bodyguard entered, slightly bowing, speaking with care: "Sir, Sotós has returned from the east." "Have him come in," Bill特 managed to compose himself. Sotós. Yang was his deputy and a key member of the loose organization, the Association of Adventurers. Within less than a minute, Sotós entered—dressed in a linen shirt, a brown jacket, and a dark red headscarf. He appeared in his early thirties, with a bronze complexion, deep-set eyes, and a thick beard and mustache of deep brown, clearly someone accustomed to life at sea. Sotós bowed casually, glanced at Bill特. Whitehead: "Boss, something's gone wrong?" "Yes," Bill特 said, "there's been an unexpected turn of events—things look like they're going to fail." "Bill特 didn't hide his concern; he sighed and said, 'I have no idea how to explain this to that important figure.' Before Soratos could respond, he turned and asked, 'Any developments on the eastern front?' 'Still the same—pirates are chasing every ship they can lay hands on, even targeting each other. The navy can only hold the colonial outposts, maintaining basic sea routes by protecting the more vital vessels. Naval battles are frequent, with alternating victories.' Soratos shrugged. 'The eastern seas, indeed, remain the pirates' chaotic haven...' Bill特 nodded in agreement. After a moment's thought, Soratos added, 'There have been some recent reports from the eastern islands—rumors that first emerged on the Black Death.' 'The "Disease Admiral"? What news is this?' Bill特 perked up and asked. Sotus said with a serious yet excited tone, "The 'Disease-Stricken Admiral' was indeed attacked and seriously wounded, and the one who carried out the assault is the adventurer Germain Sparo!" "Germain Sparo?" Bilt exclaimed. "Yes, it's him! He truly is a warrior of the rank of Pirate Admiral. Even in a surprise attack, he managed to severely injure the 'Disease-Stricken Admiral' and escape successfully—while the Black Death was his flagship, surrounded by numerous renowned pirates. He then went on to defeat the 'Orator' Misoel." Sotus offered a heartfelt affirmation. Bilt took a few steps and sighed, "This is truly a major news item. Among adventurers of the rank of Pirate Admiral, such individuals are already rare. Few have managed to seriously wound a Pirate Admiral on their flagship during a surprise attack. Such an action requires not only absolute confidence in one's own strength, but also an extraordinary level of daring—only a madman would dare to directly enter the Pirate Admiral's flagship to launch an assault, rather than choosing a different location!" "With that, his face grew serious and he said: 'Last night, I met an adventurer who claimed to be Germain Spalro.' 'Is that true, or just a fabrication?' Soratos narrowed his eyes, asking in a low, steady tone. 'Uncertain. I have never actually seen the real Germain Spalro, nor have I seen any photographs or portraits of him.' Bilt shook his head. Soratos paused and said: 'We can check the newspapers from the Rosted Islands to verify this. Over these many days, passengers should have brought copies of the 'News Gazette' and the 'Sunia Morning Herald' with them. After all, government offices, the police, the church, and charitable organizations all subscribe to the key publications from the Rosted Islands.'" "The Rosted Isles are the most significant and influential colony of the Kingdom of Run in the Central Sunita Sea, extending their reach throughout the surrounding region. Orlavi Island, located just three days' voyage away, is undoubtedly within this sphere of influence—official institutions and religious organizations subscribe to its newspapers and magazines, and non-essential news reaches them within three to four days." "Ah," Bill nodded, pressing further, "do you have any specific details about General Germán Sparo's assassination of the 'Disease Admiral'?" Sotos recalled: "It's said that Germán Sparo could transform himself into anyone—just as the previous 'Hurricane Admiral,' Zinglungs, could. It was precisely through this ability that he successfully infiltrated the Black Death and carried out the assassination." "Could transform himself into anyone..." Bill's eyes suddenly brightened. No, that was too extraordinary—such a daring individual who had the courage to infiltrate the Black Death and assassinate the 'Disease Admiral,' someone so formidable that one instinctively felt afraid and wished only to stay away. Bill's gaze then dimmed. And he wasn't even sure if it was real—subconsciously, he shook his head. ...He didn't know when the Night Watchers or the Mechanical Heart would take action to address the anomalies on Williams Street, hoping they would act soon. As his thoughts turned, Caine stepped out of the gray mist and returned to the real world. After a brief pause, he pulled out a sheet of paper and laid it out on the brownish desk. The dark red absorbent pen moved smoothly across the page, first noting Mr. Azk's recent condition, then mentioning that while searching for a magical object capable of stealing others' extraordinary abilities, he had discovered instances where foreign beings were寄生 within their hosts. Then, seemingly casually, he inquired whether there was a way to bypass the alerts issued by these parasitic foreign beings. Seizing on this pretext, he spoke again of having learned from others about the "Chrono-Beetle" associated with the higher levels of the "Theft Path," and how this entity could serve as an important offering in rituals or as a material for advanced talismans—yet he remained unclear about the precise procedures to follow. Hmph. Caine set down his steel pen, folded the letter, and produced a bronze whistle, bringing it to his lips and blowing hard. A cascade of white bones surged forth, forming the great messenger—but this time, the messenger did not emerge from the lower level as before, but instead, as so many times before, traversed the ceiling and looked down upon the summoner from above. Caine knew this was not due to the messenger becoming less courteous, but because he now resided on the first floor of the inn. With a sudden tremor in his wrist, he hurled the letter like a flying dart, and it landed precisely into the vast white bone palm. The flames within the messenger’s eye sockets flickered twice, as though gazing at Caine, yet nothing further transpired. Its body dissolved into a waterfall of white bones, each bone piercing the ground. Having completed this, Caine did not unfold the thousand paper cranes. He wiped away the previous writing and asked the "Mercury Serpent," Will Aongsting, the same question once again. This was because he had discovered an unfavorable truth: the paper cranes were no magical artifact or extraordinary weapon—they were simply ordinary sheets of paper folded into cranes, now showing signs of fragility after repeated rubbing with an eraser, and perhaps broken outright with a few more uses. "Still, we should only rely on them when there's something truly significant to communicate—such as when Mr. Azk doesn't know how to navigate the old man's reminder to Leonard..." Caine shook his head silently, quickly gathering up the items on his desk. Moreover, recently he hadn't been very confident using the radio telegraph to communicate with Arordes, since the powerful being dispatched by the "True Maker" was likely still lingering nearby, tracking the aura of the "Eye of Pure Black," and the "flavor" of the gray mist might have likewise drawn the attention of the "True Maker," informing the faithful. "Keep traveling today, relax—tomorrow, begin seeking genuine moments to shine!" Claine calmed his thoughts, donned his coat, removed his hat, and stepped out of the hotel room. He was heading to the mountain outside the port of Orlavi to witness the sunset! This idea came from a best-selling novel by Liang Mastan, born in Orlavi and only settling in Becland after turning twenty. In the book, the author warmly describes the sunset on the mountain of Saint Drakko at the port, calling it the most beautiful scenery he has ever seen. Klein rode out of the city in a carriage and walked up to the base of Saint Druco Mountain, reaching the modest peak in just one hour. Time passed steadily, the sun gradually sinking, painting the blue ocean to the left of the mountain like a blazing fire and gilding the green forests and vast fields on the right. All colors reached their final brilliance at that moment, then gradually faded until the landscape grew dim. Ships docked, carriages entered the city, and people bustling along the roads between fields and orchards began returning home. As darkness settled over the land, lights of homes flickered on—both within and beyond the city—like brilliant jewels scattered across a dark velvet cloth. Truly beautiful... Klein admired the scene, until one by one, the lights representing individual families came into view. He remained silent, turned around, and walked up the mountain path, returning to the base amid clusters of trees streaked black, then continued on foot until he hired a carriage at the edge of the port city. The carriage moved smoothly, and the elegant iron-black lampposts, illuminated by a soft golden glow, receded quietly and steadily into the distance. It was unclear how long it had been before Caine returned to the inn, pulled out his key, and opened the door. Inside the room, the bed, desk, and chairs lay quietly in deep darkness, softly reflecting faint streaks of crimson moonlight. Caine gently closed the door, walked to the window, and stood in the shadow cast by the curtain, motionless for a long time. The lights outside were bright and clear. ……… The next morning, early in the day. Caine turned on the tap, splashing the cool running water over his face, and instantly felt fully awake. He had already decided where to begin his search for genuine opportunities to embody the real: Still, the hospital—always potentially harboring the departed! — Previously, Klein had merely strolled around those places, passing through briefly, and it was indeed hard to find suitable candidates. This time, however, he decided to commit himself as a volunteer, staying at the hospital for an extended period, offering care to the terminally ill who were temporarily without family support—only then could he hope to encounter his intended target. After breakfast, Klein arrived at 10 Blackwood Street and entered the "Olarvi Medical Aid Foundation." A charitable organization rooted in the Church of the Night Goddess, one of its key responsibilities was providing trained volunteers to various hospitals. At the registration desk, Klein observed a female staff member flipping through a newspaper, and then gently tapped the desk surface. "Is there anything I can assist you with?" the woman asked, setting down the newspaper. "I would like to become a volunteer," Klein said simply. "May I have your name?" the woman looked up at him. Suddenly, her gaze froze and her right hand trembled; the pen she had just picked up slipped from her fingers and landed with a soft click on the ground. On the newspaper before her, there was exactly a portrait that looked almost lifelike. The subject of that portrait was the mad, daring adventurer, Germán Sparlo!