In the bathroom, the dry and wet areas were clearly separated, and a pervasive mist of steam enveloped the entire bathtub. Crane, except for his head, was fully submerged in the warm water, lying comfortably there, unwilling even to move his toes. What a beautiful night it was... if only Cynthia weren't there outside, waiting for him later... Crane sighed, considering how he might find excuses to avoid closer interactions. Drawing upon the characteristics of Admiral Emilius Levet, he decided to begin with work, then list the following reasons: recent physical discomfort, injuries that had temporarily lost his capacity in that area, medication that required time for digestion, and a sudden, genuine awakening of his true sexual orientation—so refined that even the most casual observer, like a tufted baboon, would find him strikingly handsome. As for whether this might damage the Admiral's image, Crane felt absolutely no pressure. As long as Cynthia didn't suspect him to be a fake Emilius Levet, he had fulfilled his mission perfectly. What it takes to explain those excuses afterward, how to find reasons to restore normalcy—those are all Emilius's concerns. What does it have to do with me, General Geremar Sparo? And how is my image, Sherlock Moriaty, any worse off? Stay calm, stay calm. You are Emilius Levet... Compared to the "Lady of Illness," this lady clearly lacks in charm. Wait—why am I thinking of witches? Who knows, perhaps they used to be men or women? Cline maintained his gaze, even deliberately scanning up and down, then back again. Cynthia lowered her eyes, her initially forced courage gradually fading under Emirius's steady gaze, her cheeks flushing with a mix of astonishment and growing pride. Then, she heard the general speak calmly: "Prepare coffee and bring it to my study. I have a lot to attend to tonight—you needn't wait for me." "...” Cynthia looked up in confusion, her blush still evident. She found herself momentarily unable to grasp the general's words. Klein took a quiet breath, stepped forward, and embraced her, gently kissing her forehead: "I'll spend some time with you soon." This response was drawn from the records, with only slight adjustments to the wording. To be honest, if he hadn't had prior knowledge, Caine would have certainly assumed that Emirius the Senior Lieutenant maintained his stern expression both in daily interactions and during physical activities, always serious in what he said and did. Yet this half-god also possessed a gentle, warm, and affectionate side—though he simply wasn't particularly skilled at expressing romantic sentiments. This further clarified something for him: many people, merely judging by appearances, simply couldn't imagine his private demeanor. The "Man Without a Face" had to rely on thorough investigation and deep understanding to maintain a genuine disguise—much like a magician who wouldn't perform without preparation. Cynthia clearly expressed her disappointment, but quickly suppressed those emotions and smiled warmly. "Very well, General. Your dressing gown is in the room; the bathrobe isn't suitable for handling business matters." This point matched the records—thoughtful, attentive to others' needs... Cynthia politely opened the study door, briefly tidied up the slightly cluttered desk, and then waited for the maid to serve the coffee, taking it herself and bringing it in. While doing so, Caine glanced through the documents and materials, projecting a highly professional demeanor—though in reality, he knew little about the data and design concepts related to ironclads, sail-powered battleships, and other vessels, barely distinguishing himself from a near-illiterate. His only familiarity in this domain was with concepts such as aircraft carriers, air supremacy, the "big ship, big gun" doctrine, and multi-turret armament. Noticing Cynthia silently leaving and closing the door behind her without a word, Caine finally exhaled in relief, knowing that tonight he had managed to make it through. In the master bedroom, Cynthia bit her lip and withdrew the necklace from beneath the pillow, holding tightly in her palm the small black rhinoceros horn-shaped object, no larger than her knuckles. She stood there, praying softly: "Great Mother Tree of Desire, give me a child..." Next, Kline separated two slits at the location where his eyes had once been, using flesh and blood to create a pair of false eyes. Now that I've become a "Faceless One," I'm truly starting to resemble a monster... If only I had this miraculous ability when I was in school. He sighed silently, half-bending his body, his true eyes closed while his false eyes remained open, gazing at the documents as he drifted off to sleep. The "Clown's" unique nature enabled him to maintain a natural balance, remaining perfectly still, as if carved from marble. This is different from a normal dream. I'm clearly regaining my senses and able to free myself, to wake up—yet I can't seem to leave the dream at all. Klein soon discovered more oddities through his efforts. He was fully aware he was asleep and could sense and manipulate his body outside the dream, yet no matter what, he couldn't wake up! Then, a hazy white mist filled his vision, coalescing into a form that remained indistinct. Klein narrowed his eyes, focused his spirit through the dream, and silently moved his physical body in the waking world, then placed his hand into his coat pocket, touching the "Ninth Law" talisman. At that moment, the form spoke calmly: "Do not become involved in what's happening with Oston and his group. This is a warning." ...That's impressive—warning a half-god! What exactly do Oston and his group intend to do? Klein thought for a moment, gently spreading his spiritual presence so that the "Ninth Law" sigil radiated a deep and solemn dignity, then imitated it, embodying that sense within his dream, before speaking in a steady voice: "Who are you?" "Who do you represent?" The indistinct figure paused, then sighed and smiled. "Indeed, no wonder you're still clear-minded, 'Weaver' Emery—such composure under these circumstances." No, no, no. Though Emery is known as the 'Weaver,' he's actually not particularly skilled at such feats. You should say, no wonder it's the 'Fool' himself who's holding up so well. Klein muttered under his breath, then said seriously: "Answer my questions." The indistinct figure chuckled lightly. "You need not know who I am. As a half-god, you should well understand that every thing has its destiny, and every age likewise. Do not resist the destiny of an age—the current flow of times. To do so will only make you a sacrifice to history. The fate of the age, the tide of the times, the sacrifices of history... Hearing this, Kline suddenly recalled a term: "The Twilight Hermit Society!" Yet Kline did not speak, did not utter those words, for the past several days, the General Emile had been himself. The faint figure, seeing Emile the Weaver grow silent, said nothing further and once again dissolved into a drifting mist, vanishing from this dream.