Black "spirit threads" originating from different lives appeared before Klein's eyes, yet he did not immediately extend his own spirituality to attempt to manipulate them. After identifying and confirming which "spirit threads" belonged to Mosonar, he hummed softly, took a sip of barley beer, and focused intently on the boxing match unfolding on the arena floor—like a true spectator. The two boxers were bare-chested, wearing no protective gear, and fought with great determination, constantly colliding with powerful, well-landed blows, quickly turning the match into a fierce contest. Many of the wine-drinking gamblers in the stands saw their adrenaline surge, passionately shouting their favorite boxer's name and exclaiming: "Knock him out!" "Kill this woman!" On the second floor, Mosonar too had forgotten his cigar, fixated on the action below, one hand now tightly clenched into a fist. The people around him, except for the bodyguards who were on duty guarding the suspicious individuals and key areas such as the roof and ground floors—forced to face away from him—had their attention inevitably drawn to the electrifying boxing match. Klein raised his hand again, took a long gulp of beer, as if the tense atmosphere were making it hard for him to breathe. At that moment, his spiritual presence quietly extended outward, grasping the ethereal black thread corresponding to Mosonara. One second, two seconds, three seconds… Just as Mosonara, with his beer-stained nose, attempted a slight movement of his fists, as though preparing for a match, his head suddenly went numb. He felt the surrounding scene suddenly become strange, as if several thick layers of glass had been added. Mosonara then realized his thoughts were noticeably sluggish, as though every part of his mind had suddenly rusted. Since his target was merely an ordinary person, with spiritual strength far below that of extraordinary beings, Klein had already achieved initial control over Mosonara within just twenty seconds. 7 seconds! Just 7 seconds! Oh no... something's gone wrong... It should have been... something special... extraordinary ability... Mossona, who frequently interacts with pirates, is well acquainted with the mysterious world, which is why he has paid a premium to hire extraordinary protectors. If not for being weakened early by wine and women, and if not for his generally frail condition and poor state of health, he would have likely lost control upon taking the magical potion—he would have wanted to directly absorb that supernatural power himself. At this very moment, however, due to sluggish thoughts and lack of experience, Mossona took over a dozen seconds to realize he had been attacked. He immediately extended his arm and opened his mouth, attempting to call for help. Yet his movements were so slow, and his voice so faint, while the guards nearby were fully focused on the tense, intense boxing match, with the audience's cheers rising one wave after another. Meanwhile, the outer guards were concentrating on potential threats, and thus the clear anomaly of the employer himself went unnoticed. When the intensity of the match finally subsided and several bodyguards and associates turned to look at their boss, they found Monsora's gaze somewhat dazed, his hands positioned oddly—as if still immersed in the boxing match, anxiously awaiting the final outcome. Tears welled up at the corners of his eyes as he struggled to loosen his fingers, hoping to let the cigar fall to the floor and draw attention. Yet, in despair, he realized his thoughts were growing increasingly sluggish and rigid; even a simple action seemed to take over a minute, while his fingers continued to resist his intentions! *Plink!* The burning cigar finally dropped to the floor, and Monsora's tears streamed down his face, tracing paths to his neck. Several bodyguards noticed this and were about to ask if their boss had become overly excited by the game when Monsora suddenly bent down, wiping his face while picking up the fallen cigar. "Great match!" he said. "Add money to the winner's prize!" Mossona puffed on his cigar, smoothed his collar, and smiled warmly. He didn't specify the exact amount because Caine had no idea about the current market rates—so he could only give a general account. Yes, Mossona of the "New Ruen Party" had now become his puppet! As a mere ordinary man, this crime boss even lacked the spiritual strength of a healthy, average human—he had only lasted two minutes and fifteen seconds. If the duration had been any longer, he would have had to use illusions to create distractions, keeping his bodyguards so focused on protecting Mossona that they wouldn't have noticed his subtle anomalies. "Kill him!" "Kill him!" ... The audience's cheers suddenly became unified, and the match reached its final stretch. Mossona signaled to his bodyguards to keep watching the contest. When one fighter collapsed unconscious, Mossona took a long draw from his cigar and said, "Go to the room. I need to rest." "Yes, sir." His bodyguards and staff immediately gathered around him, guiding him into the corridor on the second floor and helping him open the door to the lounge. After instructing the guards to secure key positions and not to interrupt him, Monsora paced back and forth, opened the safe, retrieved several documents relating to the new drugs, and carefully selected the most important ones. Then he placed these documents, along with the address labels clipped from the newspaper, and the full amount of 758 pounds in cash, into a file folder. With a creak of the door, he opened it and called for one of his assistants: "Set this folder down under the third streetlight at the corner." "Yes, sir." The assistant didn't ask why. That was the rule! After closing the door again, Monsora retrieved three candles and several spiritually significant items, and with a white sheet of paper and a steel pen, carefully sketched the emblem corresponding to "The Fool"—a unique symbol composed of a half "Eye of the Without-Seeing" representing secrecy, and a half "Twisted Line" symbolizing transformation. Then, this once-dominant mafia magnate, now reduced to a puppet, lit the candle, using perfume instead of essential oils and hydrosols, and solemnly performed the ritual of supplication. He softly recited the sacred name of "The Fool," uttering the corresponding incantation in ancient Hermes—language he had never before mastered—then picked up a spirit object, allowing it to drift into the wind, joining the shifting candlelight to form a shimmering, ethereal portal. Should he fail to find a sufficiently spirit-infused object, his plan was to use Mosenara’s blood—human blood itself being a living, spiritual essence! In the first-floor bathroom, Klein seized the opportunity, stepped backward four paces, and reached the gray mist. He did not draw upon the "Black Emperor" card, but instead directly tapped into a subtle force of this mysterious space, linking it to the paper figure, and then shook it through into the portal of sacrifice and bestowal. Instantly, the paper figure transformed into an angel with twelve pairs of wings, soaring through the ethereal portal, across the dark, profound void, and arriving at Mosenara’s side. This is disrupting the investigation into any subsequent divination, prophecy, or other extraordinary abilities! Immediately afterward, Caine picked up "The Thirsty Hunger" and tossed it into the ritual gateway as well! "The Thirsty Hunger," brought into the real world through the ritual and now before Monsora, suddenly became agitated after so long without feeding! At that moment, Caine returned to the restroom, once again manipulating the previously stiffened Monsora to close her mouth from a distance of several dozen meters, and then reached for the gloves on the altar. Instantly, a crack appeared in the center of the gloves, revealing two rows of ethereal, gleaming white teeth! Caine's sensory connection to the puppet quickly weakened, so he promptly severed his control. A mild backlash caused a slight dizziness, but he recovered quickly. Then, as if nothing had happened, he stepped out of the restroom and returned to the bar, continuing to sip the barley beer he had previously begun to drink. At the same time, he used the "line of the spirit" to locate a mouse on the second floor, transforming it into his puppet within less than two minutes. The mouse moved awkwardly and unskilfully, searching for its burrow and path, and it took some time to navigate through the bookshelves and enter Monsona's sitting room. At that moment, a thin, human-skin-like glove lay quietly on the floor, and Monsona had not even a single fragment of clothing left. The mouse climbed onto the table, picked up a sheet bearing the symbol corresponding to "The Fool," and brought it close to the burning candle. The paper ignited swiftly and turned to ash. After extinguishing the three candles and returning them to their original positions, the mouse approached "The Hunger That Moves," picked up the glove, and then retraced its path, leaving Monsona's sitting room. It silently crept along the corridor to the balcony facing the second floor and descended without a sound. Down to the first floor, to the bar area. Klein finished off his last sip of beer, set the glass down, and rose slowly. He adjusted the tall silk hat, inserted both hands into the double-breasted black suit coat pockets, and moved deliberately past the rowdy gamblers, stepping onto the street. Under the glow of the gas lanterns, he walked at a steady pace to the corner alley, drawing out the paper figures, shaking them to ignite, and at the same time picking up the third file folder resting beneath a gas lantern post. At that moment, a gray mouse, carrying a thin human glove, darted out from the shadows. Klein remained expressionless, bent down again, and picked up "The Hunger That Crawls." Then, the gray mouse moved on of its own accord, climbing into a trash bin and lying there, completely still. Under the night sky, illuminated by the gas lanterns, Klein stood there calmly, unfolded his fingers, and gently placed "The Hunger That Crawls" on his left hand. He moved his fingers and joints, adjusting to the gloves, then tucked his briefcase securely and passed through the bustling, vibrant "Oak Bar," vanishing at the intersection of the streets. ........ He affixed the address label and stamp taken from inside the briefcase to the outside, dropped it into the mailbox at the street corner, and resumed his appearance as Germain Spalro. He then took a hired carriage to the other bar located by the port—Anderson's favorite for hosting more pirates! Upon entering the bar, he took a quick glance, absorbing the overall atmosphere. Suddenly, he spotted a familiar figure. Medium-built, with purple lips and brown eyes filled with a palpable sense of menace, this was precisely Gilshias, the second-in-command of the "Immortal King" Agarithus, a sought-after pirate with a reward of 9,500 pounds! Clearly, after escaping the perilous exit zone, the "Deadly" had also arrived in the vicinity of the nearby Toscana Island, seeking supplies. You're here too, huh... Klein smiled slightly, realizing that nothing could be more fitting than a chance encounter for hunting a "demon." As soon as the seed of his malice took root, Gilshias had already noticed, turning his head toward the bar entrance. Without hesitation, Klein snatched a beer from the table beside him and flung it across. Immediately, he drew his revolver and coldly aimed it at the other side. Thud! P.S. Monday: Request a ticket or monthly pass! We're less than 5,000 votes away from the next update!