The doll, lacking any spark, its eyes completely lifeless and unable to move as the body straightened, now gazed toward the area untouched by the crimson moonlight. A man with swollen patches on his face, along with other members of the cult, who had been quietly standing there, now lowered their heads and raised their hands, as if preparing to offer a prayer, listening intently to the "divine revelation." Just a few seconds later, the doll finally stood upright. As it reached to open its mouth—despite having no tongue—the sound emitted was distinctly not that of the body itself, and all its movements suddenly became stiff, as though a heavily rusted machine. —Klein, who had noticed the doll unexpectedly extending "spiritual threads" among the cult members, immediately began to manipulate it without hesitation! In the brightly lit room, the light dimmed abruptly. The doll, with its curved eyes and mouth, was instantly stripped of its bone-like support and collapsed heavily onto the table, motionless. As the streetlights thousands of meters away flickered, Crane lost control of the "spirit thread," leaping outside his range of influence in just a few seconds thanks to the power of the doll's arrival! Woosh! A cold, piercing wind swept through the room, causing the carpet where tables and chairs were placed to ripple and surge, flipping over the man with red swellings on his face and most of the cultists. Only Crane, who had anticipated the sudden movement, had time to leap early and avoided the mishap. Of course, the winner, Enzo, was precisely at the edge of the carpet and remained unharmed. Woosh! Within the cold wind, the carpet rose and tightly encased several cultists, sealing their mouths and noses and constricting their throats. Meanwhile, the steel pens on the desk—each with a rounded body—automatically withdrew their caps and launched themselves, piercing the man with red swellings on his face at the neck, densely and without gaps. The wooden back chair burst with a loud crash, sending sharp spikes cascading out, striking and engulfing all the other cultists. At the wall, the pipe housing the wall lamp spontaneously cracked, releasing a hissing stream of gas. The curtain laid across the sofa rose upright, coiling into ropes that tightened around the train conductor's throat; several floor panels snapped upward, piercing several cultists' bodies from below. Instantly, every object in the room became an active attacker, striving to smother every single life within. Crane tried to evade, but his shirt, trousers, belt, coat, and hat all came alive, pressing firmly against him and sealing him in place. He opened his mouth suddenly, emitting a sound: "Pop!" He mimicked the sound of snapping fingers. Crimson flames surged from within his coat pocket, instantly enveloping his body and freeing him from the seal. At that very moment, the curtain on the adjacent sofa rose as if draped over him by an unseen presence. Immediately, strange images shimmered within Caine's eyes, causing his body to tremble and stiffen—his very being seized by an "unfortunate spirit"! The flames that had surged up earlier still burned fiercely, poised to consume his clothes and flesh, yet instead of engulfing him completely, they reduced him to a dark, parchment-like figure. Feathers-like patterns spread across the back of this figure, giving it a sense of unreality, as though half-phantom. This was a "mutated parchment figure" tainted by the divine essence of a corrupted death god! ——Caine had already understood from the start that he could only await the transformation of the dolls under two specific circumstances: either the divine being who had assumed the guise of a god was nearby, sensing the deaths of the faithful, and thus deliberately descending to set traps and create obstacles for those who sought to disrupt the order; or the actual agent utilizing the dolls was a hidden presence, unaware that the sacrifices had already been undone, and therefore still arriving as expected, delivering further divine revelations. In either case, the situation had become considerably more dangerous—so how could Cline have performed without any preparation? Based on the ability of the opponent to manifest or inhabit the dolls, he had previously placed the paper figures, which had mutated due to pollution from the artificial death god's essence, inside iron cigarette boxes. He maintained the dolls' performance level at that of an ordinary person, luring the target to directly inhabit them. At this moment, the "god" that the cultists revered had shifted from inhabiting Cline to inhabiting the "death god paper figures." Within the crimson flames, the dark paper figures ignited, their pale tones suddenly expanding, tinged with a faint green. A low, slightly painful hum resonated, and a translucent shadow flickered briefly on the window, illuminated by the rose-gold moonlight. Almost simultaneously, the objects within the room that had come to life began to fall, returning to stillness, while Enzo, the winner, was enveloped by a surge of flames rising upward. At this very moment, within the homes of the port city at the northern end of the Southern Continent, residents are savoring the calm of the evening and the warmth of family life, completely unaware that their glass windows and wall lamps occasionally dim and then swiftly restore themselves to normal. Alongside these brief dimmings, the flames in their hearths grow brighter and then fade, while kitchen remnants ignite and then extinguish. In one particular house, the glass surface dims most frequently, as does the variation in hearth flame, while several residents, engaged in prayer to the "Primordial Moon," remain entirely oblivious. After an indeterminate length of time, the crimson moonlight brightens slightly, and the entire city seems draped in a soft, delicate veil. This gentle luminosity soon returns to normal, and a stream of bright red flame rises from the wick of a silver candle on a certain dining table. From among the gathered, Enzo, the "winner," steps forward, his body and face rapidly transforming into that of Germain Spalro. At the very moment the Red Moon brightened, he lost his target. "Not only does the entity possess extraordinary abilities through the 'Spirit of Resentment' pathway at a high sequence, but it can also draw upon the power of the Red Moon—either one of these two aspects must be enabled by a seal or a magical artifact..." Klein murmured to himself, forming an initial judgment. After the semi-deity embodied in the puppet had been contaminated by the 'Death Person' figure, he had believed he had a solid chance of securing victory. Yet, he found that his opponent's strength and tactics surpassed his expectations in both depth and breadth. The only thing he could now confirm with certainty was that the being was not an angel—the difference in power and level was substantial. As thoughts raced through his mind, Klein left the dining room and entered the living room, where several devotees were praying to the 'Primordial Moon.' Unlike the sect members on the steam train, these individuals clearly understood who they were worshipping, and appeared to belong to a more formal and structured group. One step, two steps, three steps—Caine walked steadily into the room. The believers noticed and turned around. Under the powerful illusion of the Strangely-Skilled Mage, they regarded Germain Spalro as the divine messenger descending from heaven, seeing a quiet red moon hovering above his head. Or perhaps his very sequence is what makes him a longevity breed? Klein's mind flashed, and he recalled the origin of the name Karalam. ………… In a cabin on a sailboat moored at the port dock, under the soft glow of a pale moonlight. A figure with voluminous, silver-streaked black hair stepped out of the mirror. He wore a black robe adorned with crimson patterns, with moderate wrinkles on his forehead, eyes, cheeks, and around his mouth, and his eyes were filled with a deep crimson hue. At this moment, the pores on his forearms and other exposed skin had fully opened, sprouting fine white, slightly yellowish-hued hairs. The elder's expression was slightly distorted, as though he were enduring a certain kind of pain. He quickly sat by the bedside, lowered his head, clasped his hands together, and began to softly recite something. As he spoke, the language was difficult and stilted, and slowly, cracks formed on his forehead, as if a full red moon were embedded within it. The moonlight diffused, enveloping the elder. Gradually, the white downy fur on his body retracted and vanished. At the same time, his abdomen swelled slightly, as though filled with liquid. Eventually, his clothing and skin tore completely away, and a mass of blood and flesh, covered in white feathers, shot out and landed on the deck, writhing and struggling before finally decaying. Huff... The elder lifted his head, exhaled slowly, and his blood-red eyes were filled with bewilderment. He murmured softly: "Bearer of the Death God? Yet there is no Death God here..." ... In the early morning, the "Punishers," a storm-church team now investigating the mysterious deaths of the steam train staff, received fresh intelligence: The missing train conductor and driver, along with several other suspected passengers, had been found! Not long after, several members of the "Punishers" team followed the trail to a location within the city and located their targets. They hung quietly outside a house, forming a line. "This is a challenge!" the captain of the "Substitutes" growled, teeth clenched. But when they lowered the bodies and entered the house to begin their investigation, they found individuals in the living area praying devoutly to the "Primordial Moon," performing a rather sinister ritual. "All of them—seize them!" the captain commanded, after a moment of stunned realization. The faithful of the "Primordial Moon" only regained their composure at that moment, rising in resistance one by one, only to be swiftly suppressed, some dying, others wounded. The captain surveyed the scene, baffled, and said to his companions: "We've hung a full line of corpses at the entrance—yet not a single one of them noticed?" A member of the "Readers" passing by thought for a moment and remarked: "The corpses may very well have been guiding us here." "The captain of the 'substitute penalty' team calmed his impatience, nodded thoughtfully: 'Which half-god from which church passed by?'"