In the Woodford district, inside a house. As soon as Hugh stepped inside, he was greeted by the aroma of fried food, and couldn't help but sniff the air, turning toward the kitchen and saying, "Forsythe?" "Is there anyone else?" Forsythe peered out from the kitchen, smiling and asking in return. Hugh set down the newspaper he was holding, responding with a mix of surprise and mild irritation, "Do you remember how long it's been since you last entered the kitchen? Well, I suppose the morning toast doesn't count." Forsythe returned to the kitchen, only his voice remaining. "I've always preferred outside food because it's better—now, however, there's no good fried chicken within a few streets. "I've suddenly developed a strong craving for this—this food from Indest! It's my favorite!" Hugh walked over to the kitchen, leaning against the doorframe, watching Forsythe prepare dinner, then said thoughtfully, "I've taken on a commission—100 pounds per day, for three to five days—but I'll need to find another assistant." "You weren't short of money before, were you? Should we go together?" My financial situation has actually improved... But a daily task of fifty pounds is quite good—more the better, since there are still many places where I can save money. While staring at the iron pot filled with oil, Fores asked, "What kind of commission?" She had already mentally calculated her expected payment. After smoothing out her slightly tousled golden hair, she said, "To provide discreet protection to a wealthy man named Dautre Tas." "What has happened to him? Is it serious?" Fores asked cautiously. "It's a business dispute," recalled Thorne. "His competitors have threatened him." "Not particularly dangerous, as you know, in Beckland—its accomplished individuals aren't usually inclined to take such risks, since it's easy for them to be exposed and noticed by the 'Night Watchers' and 'Enforcers.'" "Perhaps someone there is quite mad—can't rule that out." "While refuting, Firth naturally thought of 'the World'—Germán Sparrow, the very man who's been making big moves in Beckettland! She paused, picking up a plate of fried chicken and said, 'Since you've accepted the assignment and I don't have much else going on, let's go together.' 'Thank goodness this is a quiet arrangement—otherwise, no one would notice that I'm working as a bodyguard, and I'd never be able to attend the upper-society literary salons. Honestly, I could tell them I'm living the experience, gathering material—my next novel will be about a female bodyguard and her male employer!' Hugh had long since grown accustomed to Firth's tendency to wander off into expansive thoughts. He simply sniffed again and said, 'After dinner, let's go.' ... At 160 Berkland Street, Kline set up the ritual in the master bathroom and stepped into the gray mist." He intended to attend to a few matters before the bodyguards hired by the butler Walter arrived, to avoid any inconvenience in the coming days. Among these matters, the most crucial was confirming the status of "The Crawling Hunger." Once seated in the position belonging to "The Fool," Caine had the human leather glove fly across the cluttered pile of items. After a series of divinatory inspections, he found that "The Crawling Hunger" was notably tenacious, with no changes to its negative effects. "Has it been infected by Mr. A, refusing to relinquish its praise of 'The True Maker'? "Caine chuckled slightly, seriously pondering how to resolve this issue. Could he find another way to intimidate it? No—how could that be called intimidation? It should rather be described as a friendly, proactive dialogue. Caine lightly tapped the edge of the weathered long table, murmuring to himself, "After all, he'll need to write a letter to Mr. Azk later. He could mention the failure of the 'Crawling Hunger' seal in passing." "Perhaps bring along some mushrooms—no, that won't work. While this might cause the 'craving hunger' to cease praising the 'True Maker,' it would also render it unusable. Hmm... fetch a few more original variant mushrooms from Frank and see if a different effect emerges..." With his plan settled, Caine tossed the Azk copper whistle and the adventurer's harmonica into the "Gate of Sacrifice and Bestowal," then returned to the real world, retrieved his belongings, and smoothed out the traces. After leaving the bathroom, Caine went to his desk, took out a sheet of paper and a pen, and carefully wrote: "...I might be heading to the Southern Continent soon. If I happen to gather any new information about the Death God, I'll be sure to write you promptly..." Setting down his pen and reading the letter twice over, Caine folded the paper neatly, picked up the bronze whistle, and brought it to his lips, blowing softly. In silence, white bones rose from the floor, surging upward like a fountain, forming a towering skeleton nearly four meters high. The skeleton bowed its head, gazing steadily at Daven Tanquetes for a moment, then inclined its spine, lowered its right arm, and gently spread its palms. The messenger is becoming increasingly courteous... Caine nodded with satisfaction, handing over the freshly written letter. The bone messenger did not linger, instantly dissolving into a waterfall of fragments that settled gently on the ground and vanished without a trace. Caine breathed a quiet sigh, shifted his gaze, and continued writing to Frank: "...The dried mushrooms you sent last time were excellent—do you have any more? And, regarding the ideas I mentioned earlier—do you think they're feasible?" "If you encounter any difficulties during your research, please feel free to write me a letter..." Folding the letter, Kline picked up the adventurer's panpipe and blew gently on it. Immediately, the messenger girl, Renette Tynicol, appeared beside him, still without a head, dressed in a rich, somber gown, carrying four golden-haired, bright-eyed, strikingly beautiful heads. "Can you locate Frank Lee?" Kline asked with considerable confidence, since the messenger girl was a semi-divine spirit-being of the spiritual realm—unlike ordinary messengers, who could only locate contract holders or those who had performed summoning rituals, the latter with distance limitations; once too far from the ritual site, the messenger would lose track. The four heads in Renette Tynicol's hands turned simultaneously, gazing at Kline: "Yes..." "That..." "What..." "All..." "Want..." "Planted..." "In..." "The..." "Ground..." "Person?" "...What exactly had Frank done to leave such a deep impression on the messenger? When I last wrote back, she still hoped he hadn't died. Kline nodded seriously: 'Yes.' Then the four heads of Rynette Tynicol spoke in turn: 'We can do that...' 'We'll locate him...' 'I have it...' 'We'll mark him...' Ah? Kline's mouth hung open, nearly forgetting his own purpose. How could the once-ordinary Frank—no, the powerful Frank—have been specially marked by the messenger? May the goddess protect him! Kline exhaled slowly, then handed the letter to Rynette Tynicol: 'Please deliver this to Frank. He will pay you in gold.' One of Rynette Tynicol's heads opened its mouth and bit into the letter, then immediately entered the spiritual realm, no longer visible. After attending to the other matters, Kline kept the bronze whistle and the flute with him, and descended to the second floor to enjoy his dinner. Halfway through the meal, the butler Walter entered from outside and whispered to Dautremer Thénardier, "The bodyguards have arrived—they are the same lady we met earlier, along with her friend. I'll arrange for them to provide discreet protection." The lady and her friend? Could it be the "Magician" herself? For a moment, Cline found himself at a loss for words, and could only give a gentle nod to indicate he had heard. His sensitivity hadn't detected any intrusion into the house, which was entirely normal—after all, not everyone was yet asleep at this hour. During such a time, even the slightest disturbance would be noticeable, unless Cline had specifically placed subtle markers of awareness at key locations with his sensitivity, or unless the person entering the house harbored a strong ill will toward him. Otherwise, such an intrusion would likely go unnoticed. "This is exactly the place I dreamed of. When I have enough money, I'll buy a house like this in a scenic location—no, I still prefer Bekland. There's more delicious food and greater convenience here." Vorth said sincerely. After speaking, she quietly sighed to herself: "Unfortunately, I have the full moon curse; I can only keep improving. Otherwise, I would have left behind a house instead of cash..." Xue followed his friend's gaze, looking out into the distance, and softly remarked, "I used to live in a place like this when I was a child." Vorth glanced at Xue, unsure of how to express herself, and changed the subject: "How shall we provide protection?" "Rest, I've observed that when Mr. Dautin Thénardier is at home with no visitors, he stays in his room, keeping a sharp watch around him, on the lookout for anyone who might be sneaking in..." "When guests arrive, we move into the adjacent room, staying alert to any movements, and are ready to 'open the door' at a moment's notice to assist..." "If Mr. Dautin Thénardier goes out, the butler will inform us in advance. I'll take shelter beneath the carriage to protect him, while you'll arrange another vehicle to follow." …In the second-floor living room, Crane met four officers. "Mr. Dauvonne Thon, do you know Mr. Caron?" Caron? Crane recalled briefly and remembered this was the man who had sold him shares in Coym Company. "I know him. What about him?" Crane asked calmly. The leading officer responded politely: "He committed suicide." "Moreover, he left a will in which he accuses you of pressuring him to sell his shares, using various unsavory methods that severely distressed him, ultimately leading to profound mental depression. "And his family has provided corroboration for the contents of that will."