As Euin got into the carriage and departed, several bounty hunters who had been hiding nearby immediately stepped out. Some were generous enough to hire a passing rental carriage outright; others noted the distinctive features of the target carriage, attempting to weave through narrow, winding side streets to catch up from the rear; still others mounted their pre-prepared bicycles, moving smoothly through the gaps between carriages and crowds, effortlessly keeping pace. Among them, only Hoo remained calm and composed, staying in place, watching Euin and his companions recede into the distance. This bicycle—far more useful than I had imagined—explains why so many bounty hunters are willing to save money just to purchase one. It cuts down on carriage fares or walking time. If such tracking assignments are frequent, the savings could easily cover the cost of a new bicycle. The only issue is that the bicycle models available today are still limited, mostly featuring high seating positions. Hoo found himself particularly taken with the sight. At that moment, a streetcar pulled up at the intersection and stopped directly in front of her. The spot where Hugh stood happened to be a station. Glancing at the double-decker carriage resting on the steel tracks, Hugh produced several halfpence coins and climbed aboard, settling into a seat by the window. With a capacity of nearly fifty passengers, the streetcar was not crowded, allowing Hugh to comfortably survey the scenery outside. Yet she wasn't enjoying the view—her mind was swiftly sketching out a clear image of her target: brown hair, bright red eyes, a well-defined facial structure, a high nose slightly deformed, holding an oil painting portfolio. Thanks to the exceptional intuition of the "Sheriff" and the close proximity between them, Hugh had a clear sense of the target's current location and intended direction. Thus, she remained calm, even removing her baseball cap and smoothing out the slightly rough, determined strands of golden hair along the windowpane. After passing an indeterminate number of stops, Xu suddenly stood up and stepped down when the public carriage halted once more. This was the Beckland Bridge district, and she sensed that her target had changed direction, heading toward the bridge. Xu immediately began walking briskly, intending to enter the street at the next corner and board a public carriage bound for the southern bank of the Tassok River. Fortunately, just as she arrived at the platform, the carriage arrived. Xu breathed a quiet sigh of relief, pulled out a few additional half-crowns she had prepared, and grew even more eager to purchase a bicycle. Though the current carriage was quite crowded, Xu managed to navigate through the crowd with ease, thanks to the dignity of the "Arbiter," and reached a spot on the second level. As the carriage moved slowly, Xu glanced out the window casually—then her gaze froze. There, she saw Sherman, someone she had been unable to locate earlier! The young man, who sees himself as a woman, is entering a narrow alley, carrying a paper bag full of several long, thin loaves of bread and a stack of newspapers. His shoulder-length brown hair has grown longer, and his gray striped pants are slightly snug. Though his figure passes swiftly and is barely visible to an ordinary observer, Officer Hugh makes a confident identification. Has Sherman moved out of his rented room in the East District and relocated here? Seeing that Sherman appears unbothered and that he himself is still tracking the target, Hugh resists the urge to alight from the carriage, catch up with him, and inquire about his recent activities. . . . Sherman carries the paper bag with multiple loaves of bread and a stack of newspapers, walks through the alley and streets, taking a long detour before entering an apartment building, ascends the narrow staircase to the third floor, retrieves his key, and opens the door to his apartment. He clearly possesses solid skills in avoiding detection. With a creak, the door swung open, and suddenly, Sherman's vision cleared. There, standing before him, was a young woman dressed in a long black gown. She had a sweet, gentle face and a graceful figure that was hard to describe. Even when standing by the window, casting a shadow and making her surroundings dim, she seemed to be gilded with golden light, growing more holy and beautiful. " How did you come here?" Sherman first stared at her in surprise, then couldn't help but gaze at her from head to toe. His slightly visible Adam's apple moved subtly as he swallowed a lump of saliva. The very next moment, he quickly turned his head to the side, as if unable to meet her gaze directly. "Miss Trist," Sherman stammered. Trist's smile bloomed slowly, brightening the otherwise dim room. Then, with a touch of amusement, she asked, "Why can't you look at me?" "I don't know... I like men—really, genuinely like men—but whenever I see you, I still have all these strange thoughts..." Sherman still looked at the ground to the side, speaking slightly stammered. Tris's expression instantly grew a bit complex, then settled into a calm, composed smile as if nothing had changed. "Women also appreciate attractive, compelling men," she said, pausing briefly before adding, "I came here today with a task for you. Your initial progress was excellent—I'm very satisfied—but lately, it seems to have stalled." Sherman's face immediately showed signs of fear, and he unconsciously stepped back a step, saying, "I—I don't think it's necessary to do that..." Seeing that Tris didn't object, Sherman's words gradually flowed more smoothly: "I simply can't bring myself to encourage others to steal, rob, or kill—those things are so terrible, so awful!" "Even the ones you originally asked me to assassinate at the very beginning—I now feel I've gone too far. Though they did indeed insult me, beat me, discriminate against me, and spread rumors about me, using every means to harm me in order to bring themselves joy, their actions haven't reached the point where they need to repay me with their lives." Tris smiled calmly and unsurprised. "You used to say that. You resented them deeply, harbored intense bitterness toward them. As soon as you gained extraordinary abilities, you were eager to exact revenge. I only mentioned it once, and you immediately orchestrated several assassination plots. I still remember the way you stood covered in blood, trembling, yet filled with passionate satisfaction." Sherman listened, gradually retreating until he pressed against the now-closed door, which had been shut at some point during the conversation, then clasped his hands over his face and whispered in a strained voice: "No!" "Now every night I'm having nightmares, dreaming that they're surrounding me, chasing me, tearing at me..." A paper bag lands with a soft thud, its long strips of bread scattering out, while a stack of newspapers falls neatly beside them. "That's quite normal," Trish calmly interrupts Sherman's words. "This is a natural psychological transformation phase for an assassin. Think about it—when those people used to bully you, didn't you often wish you could have killed them?" "...Yes," Sherman hesitates. Trish then chuckles softly. "Just consider yourself someone who resisted the bullying and thus killed them." Her words carried a quiet persuasiveness that made people want to listen and believe. Sherman calmed down quickly and nodded: "That makes a lot of sense..." Hearing this, Trish's dimples appeared, and with a touch of playful flair, added: "After all, they weren't even your rivals when they were alive—what's there to be afraid of when they're dead? Even if they became ghosts or spirits, it wouldn't matter much—just carry out the ritual carefully and take the potion once again, and you'll be able to burn them all away!" "But, but—watching people transform into grotesque, wild, and fierce beings under my influence... I simply can't bear it." Sherman remained quite reluctant. Tris gave a barely perceptible turn of her mouth, her smile remaining unchanged. "That malice was always theirs—it had nothing to do with you. Even without you, at the right moment and in the right setting, those malice would have erupted. And besides, all the tasks I've assigned you have been related to the crime syndicate—didn't you know what kind of people they are? To have them quarrel and turn on one another is, in fact, a kindness, a mercy, toward you and the innocent residents of the East District." Sherman instinctively opened his mouth, only to close it again. He fell silent at once. Tris glanced at him with a soft, steady gaze, her voice gentle. "You're just one step away from your final goal. As soon as you complete the remaining 'ritual,' you'll drink the third potion and fully transform into a woman." "At that point, you can use the name 'Sherman' you've already chosen—it's such a beautiful name. Then, leave Berkland as a woman, heading to the Midland or Dusis region, beginning a completely new life, detached from everything here. I'm sure you'll be full of charm, attracting many accomplished men, and eventually selecting the one you truly admire to marry, raising lively children, nurturing them to grow and thrive. You'll take them skiing in the Coldlands, enjoy summer holidays at the Dusis Bay, and indulge in the noble pastimes at the hunting estates... 'Didn't you say you were willing to give everything to find yourself?' Sherman's lips moved a few times, pressed tightly for a moment, then slowly opened: 'Madam Trist, I understand. I will follow your instructions and do exactly as you've asked." After speaking, he seemed to have lost all his strength, swaying slightly and nearly falling, instinctively reaching out to grasp the nearby coat rack. During this moment, his eyes naturally passed over the stack of newspapers on the ground. The stack had already spread out, revealing a report from the middle: “…Mr. Doun Tan-Tsai, a wealthy man from Dese, has expressed an intention to acquire Laryvie Steel Company, believing it to have strong profitability and promising growth potential…” ………… “Mr. Tan-Tsai, are you truly planning to acquire Laryvie Steel Company?” asked Enyuni, the personal servant at 160 Berkland Street, as he ascended the stairs. Doun Tan-Tsai shook his head and smiled. “Everything about this news is entirely fabricated. I’ve only met once with Mr. Phil Laryvie, the owner of Laryvie Steel Company—just a few conversations at a dance party last week.” "Healther, the butler, sighed slightly upon hearing this and added, 'Mr. Larriv Steel Company is indeed seeking buyers, and there are quite a few interested parties at the moment.' That is to say, Phil has himself reached out to journalists to share this news in order to secure a better selling price? Klein nodded thoughtfully, entering a semi-open room with a large balcony, preparing to later join the 'Above the Fog' gathering, where he would use the prayer lights from his 'follower' Enyuni to monitor for any anomalies among the Haihur family. This has been his consistent practice over the past few days."