At No. 160 Berkland Street, a well-lit study filled with bookshelves stretching in rows, appearing as though one had stepped into a private library. Cain sat in a high-backed armchair, reading today's newspaper, and noticed that both the *Tassok Chronicle* and the *Bekland Daily* featured a prominent advertisement—offering a 10% share in the Bekland Bicycle Company. Stanton had certainly been efficient—just a few days and he'd completed the financial investigation and valuation... Cain had just silently admired this, when inspiration struck. He swiftly activated his spiritual vision and saw the messenger girl, Renette Tynikor, stepping out from within the void, still holding the four golden-haired, blue-eyed heads, one of which was nibbling on a letter. It must be Miss Sharon's reply... Cain thought as he reached out, took the letter, and nodded gently. "Thank you." As he spoke, he unconsciously glanced toward the door of the study, as Richard, his personal servant, was on duty outside. He removed the envelope, spread out the paper, and quickly scanned the letter, confirming that the sender was Miss Sharon, who indicated at present she had no intention of purchasing the "biological toxin bottles," but might consider doing so at a later date if the item remained magical. Was this a sign of financial constraints, or were they saving for something more significant? Klein thought briefly, instinctively leaning toward the latter possibility. After all, the half-god named Zatwen could not remain in Beckland indefinitely. Sharon and Marijch had already initially escaped the pursuit of the Rose School; with their exceptional abilities and unique sequence traits, they were well-positioned to secure funds under favorable circumstances. Moreover, they appeared to be controlling the black-market arms trade at the "Courageous Tavern," acting as key supporters behind Ian's back—this single line of business alone could generate substantial income. Thinking and thinking, Caine lifted his head to see the messenger girl's eight red eyes fixed upon him without blinking. Startled, he thought she might be urging him to pay his debt and cleared his throat, saying, "No reply is needed. The first installment will be paid within this week." One by one, the four heads of Rynette Tynicor spoke: "Not necessary..." "No urgency..." "No interest..." The messenger girl was quite good indeed. As Caine admired this, the figure of Rynette Tynicor vanished, returning to the depths of the spirit realm. He burned the letter, rested for two hours, then walked to the door and instructed Richardson to prepare the carriage. He intended to visit the church before his afternoon philosophy class. The journey went smoothly; having drunk only a few sips of tea, Caine soon arrived at the square outside the Saint Samuel Church. After appreciating the serenity brought by the white doves, he stepped over the church doors into the prayer hall, took a seat at random, while Richardson, as before, carried the employer’s hat and cane and sat in the斜 rear. In the meditative stillness of prayer, Klein’s inspiration stirred once more, and instinctively opened his eyes toward the left. There, he spotted Leonard Mitchell, the "night watcher." He was not wearing a coat—just a white shirt unbuttoned at the waist, straight trousers, and a black jacket, his style relaxed and casual. When the middle-aged gentleman with silvering hair looked his way, he smiled, nodded briefly, turned his gaze back, closed his eyes, and pretended to pray. He need not worry that the man would notice him observing—he had only glanced, with no further movement; many of the worshippers had done the same just moments before. A well-dressed, refined gentleman entering here inevitably draws some attention, and Leonard Mitchell himself often finds himself the subject of such glances, having experienced it firsthand. At this moment, a slightly weathered voice within his mind speaks up: "It's him." Hm, no disappointment at all—having made the daily rounds to the church yesterday and today—Leonard thought to himself with a quiet sense of satisfaction, though he kept his demeanor composed. Crane, too, was feigning prayer, pondering the questions that arose in his mind: "When did Leonard become so devout? "Certainly more devout than I am, yet not someone who goes to church every day—only once every week, or even every two weeks. "Is there a purpose behind his visits?" He seemed to be observing me just now... As this thought struck him, Caine suddenly had a revelation: "The elder within him is an angel from the House of Zoroastre—the angel of the 'Theft' path. 'The渎神者' Amun is the king of this path, and He can detect the gray mist, even attempting to invade it. Therefore, it is highly likely that the elder within Leonard has already sensed the presence of my gray mist power or trace!" With this realization, Caine's heart immediately tightened, as if danger had already spread throughout the surrounding space. He maintained his prayer posture without changing, his gaze beneath his eyelids remaining still, his demeanor calm and composed—fully in harmony with the atmosphere of the church. After an indeterminate length of time, he slowly rose, walked toward the altar, and approached the offering box, where he deposited the total of fifty pounds in cash. Then, as before, he smiled warmly at the bishop and priest in charge today, receiving a most friendly response. As he walked out of St. Samuel's Church, he took his hat from Richardson and spent ten or so minutes feeding the white doves at the square. Behind him, one after another, worshippers emerged from the church, including Leonard Mitchell. Without looking at the main entrance,克莱恩 casually waved his hand, took up his gilded staff, and walked toward the four-wheeled sedan chair parked nearby. Leonard also fed the doves at the square, watched as his target boarded the carriage and departed, and yet had no intention of following. Since the man carried an ancient aura and was regarded with special attention by the resident within him, he naturally could not afford to overlook him or take direct action—such a move would be dangerously risky. He would first investigate the outer perimeter and gather the necessary information. Then he’d see what the old man had to say… And right now, there were certainly directions for investigation. The high-end carriage was quite rare throughout Beckland—whether from his own household or rented—so it would be easy to trace its origin, and thus identify the gentleman’s identity and background. Leonard gazed thoughtfully at the white pigeon. He was a seasoned night watcher, indeed an elite among them—the renowned "Red Glove!" At that moment, a white pigeon fluttered down, seemingly carrying a folded note in its beak. Leonard furrowed his brow, extended his left hand, watched the bird descend, drop the note, then take off again. He grasped the note in his hand, holding it with both caution and curiosity, and unfolded it. On it, only two words appeared: "Zoroastrian; Parasite." "This... Leonard's pupils suddenly contracted, and he felt every hair on his body standing upright, his emotions surging toward an explosive intensity. Had that gentleman uncovered my secret? Indeed, he was a man of timeless grace! Perhaps he was one of the immortal beings that had survived from the Fourth Period! Was he warning me—not to get involved in his affairs, not even to approach him? At this very moment, recalling the middle-aged gentleman with silvering temples and deep blue eyes, Leonard Mitchell found himself struck by an overwhelming sense of authority in every gesture and movement—so compelling that one could hardly meet his gaze or draw near. He instantly abandoned his intention to investigate him, watching the white pigeons settle down, and lowered his voice: 'Old man, that one might very well be an old friend of yours. 'If you'd like to investigate anything, wait until your strength has recovered sufficiently.' 'Old friend...' the slightly weathered voice repeated these words, with a certain hesitation, yet uncertain of what exactly." Leonard quickly composed himself, offering a light laugh. "So you're from the Zoroastrian family, then..." At the same time, just under a hundred meters away, at the intersection of Pesfeir Street and other streets, Daven Tancred, whose black hair mingled with streaks of silver, leaned back against the carriage wall, slowly closing his eyes to let the sharp contours of his features fade into the shadow of the vehicle. At his side, his personal servant Richard appeared as a middle-aged man in a dark red coat, wearing an old triangular hat, bowing briefly to his master before vanishing without disturbing anyone. The carriage turned slowly, and at the square, a flock of white doves took flight with a soft rustle. In other words, if anything else happens to disrupt my affairs, I'll tell the "disbeliever" Amun that here is an angel from the Zoroastrian family. This won't make the elder feel that Doen Thonard is weak, dependent on others to counter him—rather, it will be a respectful, courteous warning, not exceeding three times, befitting the dignity of an angel. Should the situation fail to improve after two such warnings, then the matter will go beyond merely informing Amun. Indeed, it's very likely that such a course of action will deter them. The elder's choice to adopt a superficial form of parasitism surely has its own reasons or difficulties; he probably doesn't want me to upend his game. Ah, this all thanks to "the Magic Mirror" Arodes. Had I not known beforehand that there was an angel of the "Theif" kind residing within Leonard, I would never have realized I was being watched, let alone have known how to express my concerns and take appropriate action. Thus, Caine thought calmly, no longer feeling the earlier tension or panic. As he relaxed, the door of the room rang with a steady tap. Richard, his personal servant, said, "Mr. Kline, the butler is looking for you." "Have him come in," said Kline, turning from the large balcony and stepping back into the semi-open room. Walter, wearing white gloves, entered and said, "Mr. Kline, Professor Hamid has arrived." Philosophy class... Kline rubbed his temple, feeling a headache. He had heard from Walter before that Professor Hamid was a devoted follower of the Storm Sovereign, and so was the renowned scholar Lurmi, as well as a significant portion of philosophers in the kingdom of Roon. This came as a surprise to him, since in his mind, Storm followers were always seen as impatient, gruff old men. It seemed he would have to revise his impression of them as rigid and unobjective... Ah, was it true that one had to be unmarried or have an unsatisfactory family life to become a philosopher? While making these comments, Kline straightened his clothes and walked toward the door, addressing the butler, Walter, as he went, "Very well, I'll go now." PS: I'll take a half-day leave tomorrow, specifically for the section in the afternoon, since I'm having some trouble structuring the next part and need to work through it carefully.