Saint Hilal Square, northwest corner, third floor of the restaurant. When the spectral wolf carrying the rose appeared before Ones Bojal, Mistress Trall's pale silver hair and crimson eyes instantly shifted their focus from Emlyn White. Darkness spread behind her, countless tiny bats swirling within it. Bribery—this noble count had just silently murmured the word—then suddenly "saw" the overturned carriage, "heard" the horses' cries, and "smelled" a variety of scents, yet could not pinpoint the origin of the accident or the chaos. At that moment, his "vision" dimmed, his "eyes" lost their ability to perceive light, and the "sounds" around him ceased abruptly. Count Trall exhaled softly, preparing to merge with the countless bats behind her and reappear beside Ones Bojal. Suddenly, a single point of light flickered to life within the deepening darkness. This glow rapidly expanded, growing brighter and brighter, and from it stepped a golden figure with twelve pairs of dark wings sprouting from its back! One pair of wings after another unfolded, covering Mistrall's "vision," where light and shadow interwove to form intricate, mysterious symbols. These wings merged seamlessly with the golden figure—both sacred and fallen, both luminous and dark. Angel! Mistrall's pupils slightly widened, and she involuntarily stepped back, interrupting her previous thoughts. ……… Oneas Bojal awoke swiftly yet somewhat confused, seeing a pair of eyes as clear and brilliant as gemstones, like still lake water, and feeling a newspaper being passed to him, placed gently into his hands. Ripples began to form within those emerald eyes, spiraling in concentric waves deep within, as though drawing the observer's soul into their midst. Oneas Bojal was instantly immersed, unable to look away. Then, a soft, elusive female voice echoed in his ears: “Hold the newspaper and follow Emlyn White… ‘Hold the newspaper and follow Emlyn White…’” The voice layered and resonated in Ones Bojal’s ears, seeped into his mind, and penetrated deep into his soul. Ones Bojal nodded blankly,茫然, feeling as though there were more words following, yet he could not make them out clearly. The newspaper boy, slanting his back against the backpack, swiftly turned around, moving nimbly through several bicycles and blending into the crowd. He had a refined face, his hair slightly disheveled, falling over his eyebrows; as he walked, he removed the black sheer gloves he had worn on his left hand since sometime earlier, folding them and placing them inside the backpack containing the newspapers. The wind rustled, drawing his garments slightly tighter, revealing a subtle bulge at his arms. A few seconds later, Ones Bojal suddenly leapt backward, as if avoiding something. No! I'm being affected by a nightmare-type ability! As soon as he had steadied himself, his pupils dilated, and he scanned the surroundings with alertness, on the lookout for an imminent attack. Although Oneas Bojal was puzzled by how easily he had been drawn into the dream, he knew this wasn't the time to dwell on details—what mattered now was what came next, and he absolutely could not be distracted. Beep! Several bicycles drew closer, their bell sounds alerting the gentleman standing in the middle of the road to step aside. Oneas Bojal narrowed his eyes, his muscles beneath his clothes tensed and ready. The bicycles passed around him, pedestrians either hurrying on or slowing down, murmuring and pointing. Ding! Ding! Ding! A succession of twelve clock chimes rang out, and white steam burst from the chimneys at the peak of Saint Hilaran Church. The hymns of praise resonated throughout the church, echoing both inside and outside, as the great gears and levers turned. On the square, everyone paused. At this sacred moment, some closed their eyes in prayer, others remained silent, listening intently—whether or not they were believers in the gods of steam and machinery, only the white pigeons, fed and nourished, took to the air simultaneously, rising together toward the heavens. Then—clang! clang! clang! The bell rang, yet no one moved. Even Count Mistral, standing motionless in the dining room's private box, appeared deeply composed. His vision had returned, but he saw only the workers in gray-blue and light-blue garments and the identical bicycles. Nothing else stood out, and Count Onnes Bojal sustained no injury. Of course, he had deduced from the newspaper in the hands of the noble count that the newsboy had been unusual, but he did not attempt to pursue him. It was obvious that the ability demonstrated just now by drawing upon the angelic persona belonged to neither mid-tier nor lower-tier members. That meant there was at least one half-divine being concealed in the vicinity behind Emlyn White's power. Mistral believed that should he act, he would inevitably face obstruction—possibly even direct attack. When he was positioned where he was easily detectable, while the opponent remained hidden somewhere unknown, Mistral, as a Count of the Bloodline, considered this unfavorable; pressing forward forcefully would only lead to complications. For the Bloodline, this was merely a test. Should the power behind Emlyn dispatch a half-divine, it would leverage Ones. Bojal's self-protection to hold that stronger force in place, allowing Mistral to identify the assailant through the "Vow of the Rose"—they had no intention of escalating into a major confrontation. Their plan called for at most Mistral to intervene and halt the opponent's advance, ensuring that Ones. Bojal remained unharmed. Now the initiative lies not with them. If they press on, they will likely end up in a half-divine battle—something akin to suicide in Beckettland, especially around the Church of Saint Hylan. Moreover, for Mistral, since none of the opposing half-divines have personally stepped in, merely offering support, it would be most unbecoming for him to engage directly or pursue them, thus dishonoring the reputation of the House of the Blood Count. Hmph! I shall see what unfolds next! Mistral's facial muscles twitched slightly, and he turned the blue sapphire ring on his left hand once more. ... Twelve great bells having rung, Emlin took another step, passed the fountain, and made his way to the entrance at the far end of the Saint Hylan Square, amid the falling white doves. There, he saw Lord Onnes Bojal slightly hunched, motionless, unable to move. He saw the overturned carriage, the horses idly tossing their heads, and the driver, clearly in pain. Emlin walked over, produced a wallet from his coat, and withdrew a hundred pounds in cash, handing it to the coachman: "This is your compensation." "Ah?" the coachman looked both bewildered and delighted. The hired carriage was not his own; he was merely an ordinary employee. When the horses started spooking and damaged the车厢, he had first felt a moment of concern, then been overwhelmed by panic and despair. According to the supposed contract and the similar cases he had witnessed over the years, this was his responsibility—he was expected to make compensation. And given his income and family circumstances, that meant bankruptcy. In that brief moment, a variety of thoughts surged through the coachman’s mind, primarily falling into three categories: first, to exploit the gentleman who had been startled into paralysis, demanding compensation to prevent the collapse of his family—so that his child would not have to enter the black factory at such a young age; second, to immediately take the horse to the mob members, sell it, return home, and leave Beckland with his wife and children; third, to arrange for his family to move out of their current rental, then go personally to the owner of the carriage to plead for a payment plan, and if refused, willingly accept imprisonment rather than pay a single penny. Now, the sudden arrival of 100 pounds—like a heavy blow—had left the coachman dazed, unsure of what to say. One hundred pounds was enough to buy a brand-new hired carriage, and there would still be a surplus! Emlyn didn’t look at the coachman; instead, she turned to Owens and said, “It’s all settled.” You’re the real problem, aren’t you? You’ve come all this way—how can it be considered settled? O'Neale murmured his doubts while twisting the sapphire ring on his left hand. For some reason, he felt he should trust Emlyn White—and even approach him. Emlyn glanced at him, then suddenly turned and hurried into a narrow alley. O'Neale instinctively stepped forward, following close behind, still holding the newspaper. The two vampires ran swiftly, one fleeing, one pursuing, yet neither revealed any extraordinary speed. Only after Emlyn and O'Neale had moved far enough that their spiritual connection had slipped out of Count Mistrall's range did the count, using the "Vow of Roses" between their rings, calmly fall into step behind them. Emlyn would weave in circles, cut diagonally, or backtrack along a different route, making it impossible to predict where he was heading, while O'Neale, like a bull drawn by a red banner, refused to yield, steadily staying right behind him. Unaware of it, the two vampires had arrived at the Rosé Street in the southern district of the Great Bridge. At that moment, Emlin suddenly quickened his pace, leaving behind a trail of fading shadows, and rushed into the Harvest Church as if he didn't care about being noticed. Ounes did the same. Unfortunate! Just as Count Mistral was about to descend and intercept them, Ounes had already vanished at the entrance of the Harvest Church. Crack! The stone tiles beneath Count Mistral's feet shattered instantly. Upon entering the church, Ounes suddenly realized something, and then saw a figure in a brown priest's robe rise up from the front row of seats—so tall and imposing, it seemed like a mountain peak. At the same time, the entire church became remarkably solid and heavy, as if fused with the earth itself. Ounes' mind buzzed with a sudden surge of clarity, and another voice echoed in his thoughts: "Upon awakening from the first level of hypnosis, strike Emlin White with the items on your person." Swiftly. Swiftly. Swiftly. O'Neale unfastened his belt, tossed out the lapel pin, and hurled one after another of the items toward Emlyn White, including the silver watch and the money folder filled with cash. *Crash!* The newspaper he held fell to the ground, sending a card embedded within it fluttering to the floor. The card depicted a just goddess seated on a stone bench, holding a sword and a scale. A Tarot card—the "Justice" card.