Turning aside to avoid a drunken man charging straight at him, Emlin frowned, brushed off his clothing, and continued making his way toward the bar. Though it appeared as though he had done nothing at all, he consistently managed to avoid collision with the patrons around him—his speed, agility, balance, and coordination were remarkably impressive. Finally, Emlin reached the bar and tapped the wooden surface with his fingertips. "Where is Ian?" The bartender glanced at him but said nothing, continuing to wipe the glasses. "..." Emlin stood still, feeling as though he must have made some mistake that had prevented him from receiving the answer he expected. This made him increasingly frustrated, and he wanted to reach forward, grab the bartender, and pull him out. Yet he deemed this ungentlemanly, so he restrained himself, glanced around, and noticed that everyone else was already drinking. Then, hesitating, Emlin ventured, "A glass of Ormille red wine." The bartender paused in his wiping motion, lifted his head, and stared at the handsome man before him—dark hair, bright eyes—with a strange expression. "No." This was the world's finest red wine, priced remarkably high! Emlyn wasn't foolish; he had sensed from the man's gaze that he had ordered something he shouldn't have. After a moment of reflection, he said, "A South Wylde beer." "Five pence," the bartender finally set down the cup and the cloth. Emlyn produced a one-sol note directly. "No change needed." "Thank you," the bartender indicated toward the left. "Ian is in Room One, the card room." Emlyn immediately smiled, proud and relieved to have resolved a tangible issue. He didn't reach for the South Wylde beer, but turned and walked straight toward Room One. Knock, knock, knock! He knocked politely on the door. "Please come in," a slightly hesitant voice responded. Emlyn smoothed his collar and stepped inside, only to find the scene rather different from what he had expected. He had assumed that, as it was a card room, there would be a crowd gathered around a long table playing Texas Hold'em and similar games. Instead, there were only about seven people present, none of whom were engaged in poker. Each participant had a blank sheet of paper before them, scribbled with various notes, while the only items on the table were pens and multi-sided dice. Emlyn instinctively turned his gaze toward the youngest of the group—a neat, well-groomed boy with bright red eyes, appearing only about sixteen or seventeen. "Ian?" Emlyn asked, confirming. Ian nodded and smiled. "Yes, sir. Is there something you'd like to discuss? Or would you like to join us in this game?" "Game?" Emlyn instinctively replied. Ian chuckled warmly, "Yes, games—though I don't particularly enjoy card games or table tennis. Still, every day spent here, I need to find something to do. I drew inspiration from the biography of Emperor Roscel, where he organized people to gather together and embark on paper-based adventures. 'In this game,' he said, 'as long as you follow the rules, you can become anyone—perhaps a doctor, an adventurous eater of vegetables, a private detective who always carries a wrench and a pipe, or an archaeologist who thrives on sudden inspirations. Then, you journey to an ancient castle, uncovering stories hidden within history, and battle various creatures.' "That sounds quite interesting," Emlyn thought, feeling a natural fit for such a game. "Haha, would you like to join us? This time, we're caught in a conspiracy involving a powerful ancient vampire. He appears strikingly handsome, yet beneath his skin, his flesh is riddled with pustules formed by the burning of blood." Ian warmly invited him. The Bloods, thank you! Emlin's face subtly twitched, then said directly, "I have something I'd like to entrust to you." "Very well... let's go to the room next door." Ian stood up, holding his round hat and his worn satchel. The adjacent room was the table tennis room, empty of anyone. The tall, composed young man closed the door with practiced ease, then surveyed the room before turning to Emlin. "Mr. — I don't know you. Who introduced you?" Emlin slightly raised his chin, smiling. "Sherlock Moriarty." As soon as he finished speaking, he glanced briefly to either side, then gently pinched his nose. "Ah, so it's Moriarty, the great detective." Ian breathed a relieved sigh without hesitation. "Then I'm reassured. By the way, didn't he go on vacation to Dizzy Bay? When did he return?" Emlin lowered his right hand, maintaining his composed expression. "He hasn't returned. I went to his rented apartment to see him." "To be frank, a normal vacation should have ended by mid-January, and now it's already April." "Has something happened to him?" Ian asked, showing some concern. After thinking about Sherlock Moriaty's abilities and his enigmatic nature, Emlin shook his head. "Perhaps he's simply become entangled in a complex case." Ian didn't press further, but instead asked, "How should I address you? What's your commission?" "Just call me Mr. White," Emlin said, producing a document resembling a warrant. "I need you to find these five people." Ian took it and carefully examined it. "Twenty pounds for a solid lead, one hundred and fifty for a confirmed location—acceptable?" "Perfect," Emlin thought the price surprisingly modest. Compared to what he had charged at the Tarot gathering, it seemed quite reasonable. Ian folded the papers and finally asked, "Mr. White, if there are any clues, where should one find you?" "South District of the Bridge, at Harvest Church." Emlyn had already thought of the answer. Ian looked at him in surprise. "Are you a devotee of the 'Great Earth Mother'? That's rather uncommon in Beckland." "No!" Emlyn shook his head firmly. "I simply volunteer there." Before Ian could speak, he asked, "Whose red eyes did you inherit?" He had intended to ask this question when he first saw Ian, as red eyes had long been a hallmark of the bloodline. However, during the Fourth Age, humans and bloodline members lived side by side for an extended period, both being part of the imperial population, resulting in widespread intermarriage and numerous offspring. Over generations, the descendants with vivid red eyes became increasingly common, eventually becoming one of the less frequent eye colors among humans. In short, every human with red eyes has a vampire ancestor. Ian replied, slightly stunned: "My father... beyond that, I don't know, because I've always been a wanderer." It seemed like someone who didn't belong to the group still connected to the vampires... Emlin, slightly disappointed, paid twenty pounds in advance and turned to leave the table tennis room. When he was gone, Ian didn't immediately head back to the card room. Instead, he closed the door behind him and spoke into the air: "The Moriarty detective hasn't returned to Beckett yet. I'm a bit concerned about him." Suddenly, a figure materialized in the empty space of the table tennis room—pale-faced, elegant, wearing a small black soft hat and a matching Gothic-style court gown. It was Sharon, the "Specter." "He's doing well," Sharon replied, her tone steady, and then gradually faded, vanishing. "Always saying this—does it mean you've been corresponding with Detective Moriaty all along?" Ian murmured softly, picking up the newspaper resting in a corner of the billiards room at random. The topmost issue was the *Tasok Chronicle*, beneath it lay a copy of the *Marine News*. Originally focused on updates from various colonies of the Roon Kingdom and maritime events, the *Marine News* had grown increasingly outdated due to technological limitations, rendering its content less useful to readers in Beckland. As a result, its circulation had declined steadily, and the publication had been steadily deteriorating. Under the new editor-in-chief's proposal, however, the paper had adopted a more narrative tone, incorporating more maritime rumors and odd tales about pirates and adventurers, transforming it from a news outlet into a collection of stories. To everyone's surprise, this style proved surprisingly popular, especially stories involving ghosts, spirits, sea monsters, and treasure, which became the go-to topic for the few literate patrons to impress the majority of the illiterate guests. Though it might seem somewhat fabricated, it was certainly engaging. Ian casually flipped through several newspapers, finding nothing particularly noteworthy, except for a report in *The Maritime News*: "It is said that on the evening of March 25, the fleet of 'King Immortal' attacked a ship returning from East Baylang to Fosac, seizing all its cargo and funds, while 'The Slayer' Gilsheas, as his name suggests, carried out a bloody 'funeral'..." The pirates were truly showing their flair. Ian shook his head, set down the newspaper, and returned to the card room to continue his game. Outside the bar, Emlin boarded a carriage and leaned against the side wall, watching the streetlamps recede slowly. He pinched his nose, murmuring silently, "A 'grudge spirit'? Ian, the weapons merchant, truly has excellent connections. Quite impressive!" Emlyn then closed his eyes, growing more enthusiastic about his commission. He was holding a copy of *The Book of the Three Worlds*, a volume originally donated by a member of the School of Life, later acquired by the "Iceberg Admiral." While it primarily narrates the material world, the spiritual world, and the world of absolute rationality, it also includes supplementary sections on sigil studies—some of which are deeply profound. Today, Klein's focus lies precisely on these sections, aiming to discover more effective ways to harness the "Sea God's Staff" and the "Chrono-Beetle."