160 Berkland Street, the manor of Dain Thaddeus. Klein stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, watching the steady rain fall in gentle sheets, brushing against the ground, then gathering on the glass, weaving into a network. Since autumn had arrived, Berkland had grown steadily wetter, bringing with it an unrelenting chill and dampness. Klein remained still for a long while, silently gazing into the hazy rain scene, his eyes unfocused. Only when inspiration struck did he still his scattered thoughts—like a fine drizzle—turning his head toward the side. Renette Tynecor, holding a letter tightly in her teeth, stepped out of the air, her four golden-haired, bright-eyed companions hovering beside her. "Whose letter is this this time?" Klein asked the messenger girl habitually. The previous letter had come from Sharon, who informed him that she had successfully completed the rite and had been promoted to Sequence 4 of the "Prisoner" path—"The Puppet." Klein first sincerely congratulated the other, then apologized, explaining that he had already secured what he sought and would therefore not be able to visit the city of Caldrun in the spiritual realm for the near term. Of course, he also mentioned that Caldrun held significant secrets—some possibly tied to himself—and that he likely would return at a later date. Should Miss Sharlen be available and willing, he would greatly appreciate her assistance at that time. To Klein, on one hand, the materials needed for his own advancement might still need to be gathered there; on the other, he believed that the magical city was deeply connected to the ancient death god and the immortal bird progenitor, Greagal. It might even hold the means to treat Mr. Azk’s condition of "spiritual deficiency." Even if it could not restore his position or career prospects as the "High Officer of Death," he hoped it would at least alleviate the recurring episodes of memory loss that currently plagued him. Of course, Klein had a contingency plan in mind as well—he would wait until he reached Sequence 3 status as an Ancient Scholar, then prepare more "Resurrected Yesterday" sigils for Mr. Azk, or directly apply the corresponding extraordinary abilities to help him recover swiftly each time he suffered amnesia. Now that he had received the letter, the four heads of Renette Tinticor responded in turn: "Um..." "Immortal..." "the..." "idiot..." ...Patrick Bryan, the artificial Death God from the Luminous Order, ah—Klein immediately understood who the messenger was referring to, as Patrick had been the one writing to him most frequently over the past two months, typically reporting on and seeking guidance whenever anything of significance arose. After these several exchanges, Renette Tinticor had begun to bestow upon him a nickname. The messenger had never shown any particular interest in this before—nor did he know when it had started… Most of the letters she regularly wrote to me carried nicknames, except for Miss Sharon. While quietly muttering to himself, Caine unfolded the letter and quickly scanned it. In his letter, Patrick Bryan stated that his current assignment on the southern continent no longer involves the various attempts to awaken the Death God, but rather requires him to prepare a special ritual to further restore Hethel, the leader of the人造 Death God faction, currently residing within the tomb, enabling Him to temporarily leave his self-imposed sealed realm. On the surface, this assignment seemed straightforward, only slightly abrupt. Yet Caine sensed something was off. The Ling Sect's artificial Death God faction had previously asked Patrick to continue performing strange and dangerous rituals in an attempt to awaken the "Death God," each time convincing him with excuses such as insufficient materials and eventual experimental failure. Now, they finally suspect something is wrong with Patrick? Kline nodded thoughtfully. He suspected this was a probing test—specifically, a test of Patrick's response to rituals dedicated to the Angels!—since the Angels' responsiveness to such rituals spans the entire world. As long as the artificial Death God faction hasn't themselves begun to falter, that would be sufficient. After all, they inherited a substantial legacy from the ancient Baoran Empire. Who knows—perhaps there was a way to influence the Goddess's ongoing assertion of the "uniqueness" of the Death God path, thereby leaving both parties without benefit? Kline pondered this over, then exhaled slightly, easing his concerns. As for the inquiry from the angel of the domain of death, he didn't see it as particularly problematic, since the "Fool" could likewise summon forces approaching that level, disrupting them in the form of "angelic presence." As long as the chief priest named Hettel didn't descend personally but instead exerted influence from a distance, he could skillfully mislead him. With this realization, Caine snapped his wrist once, sending the letter from Patrick Bryan into a vibrant red flame, then returned to his desk, pulled out paper and pen, and wrote swiftly: "…You may carry out your teacher's instructions, but before the ritual is formally conducted, you must report to me and secure my approval." Given the brief interval between the letters, Patrick Bryan likely hadn't yet left his original location. Therefore, Caine did not summon his messenger, but instead blew a tune on his adventurer's flute and handed the folded letter directly to Renette Tynicol. Amid the sparse drizzle, Thew stood in a simple raincoat made of tree sap, hidden in a shadowed corner, gazing intently at the side door of the Viscount of Stafford's house. It was not yet evening, yet the gas streetlamps had begun to glow, casting soft, hazy circles of light into the rain. A few moments later, a hired carriage drew up at the side door, which was situated in a more secluded part of the estate. The house's male servant, sheltered beneath a cover, sprang to the surface and unfolded his umbrella. He escorted the woman stepping down from the carriage, who was wrapped in a cloak, through the side door, while the carriage remained in place, as if it had already received sufficient payment. Thew still could not make out the woman's features, yet she showed no sign of discouragement. Patiently, she waited in the cold rain, motionless, as if transformed into a statue. She intended to remain there until the woman emerged, to follow her, and verify her identity. This was not only her opportunity to obtain the "Judge's" potion recipe, but also directly tied to her purpose for coming to Beaconland—investigating the truth behind her father's death! Precisely because of this motivation, Thorne had persisted with monitoring the Viscount of Stafford all the way up to today. At the Ministry of Intelligence, other intelligence officers had already concluded their assignments months ago, with no significant developments, and even the original commissioner, the Man with the Golden Mask, had not inquired about the matter for several weeks—clearly no longer prioritizing it. The girl named Sherman smiled and raised her hand, gently grasping the count's palm that was resting on her shoulder in reverse. Viscount Stafford smiled warmly, "While you're handling them, there's a sense of innocence and freshness that truly touches me—haha, you've brought back my youth, as if I've returned to my early twenties." Without waiting for Sherman to respond, he continued, "My wife passed away several years ago. I thought I would live out my days until called by the Lord. But meeting you has changed everything. Once the accumulated pressures in Beckett land begin to ease, I'll find the right moment to walk into the sacred hall of marriage with you." "Marriage? You're saying you'd marry me?" Sherman paused, her voice filled with disbelief. Viscount Stafford chuckled, "Meeting you is a divine gift. Though your family background isn't quite as noble as I'd hoped, I've already been married once—so I don't see the need to place too much emphasis on that." Of course, I'll also do what I can to elevate your status—well, first find a merchant and have him adopt you as his daughter... "He went on, speaking of his plans, his eyes gradually clouding with mist as he looked into the mirror. "What I find most precious about you is that whenever I treat you well, you repay me several or even ten times over—never hiding your gratitude." Viscount Stafford smiled, lowered his head, and kissed the top of Sherman's head. Sherman opened her mouth, as if weeping, as if smiling. Finally, when the light rain ceased and night fell, Huxley finally saw the woman in the dark red cloak emerge and get into the carriage. Once he had memorized the carriage's distinctive features, he kept a distance, relying on the exceptional capabilities of his position as the Sheriff and the condition of the wet, quiet streets at night, to track the target by walking and running. As he journeyed from Queens to the Beckland Bridge district, his strength began to wane, and finally, the carriage came to a stop. Revived her spirit, she shifted her focus from the carriage to the woman in the deep red cloak and continued following. During this process, she was slightly astonished to find that the woman possessed a strong ability to evade tracking—occasionally weaving in circles or pausing briefly at obstacles. Yet this did not daunt her; as an experienced "Constable," she patiently stayed at a distance, never approaching closely. Just as she intuitively sensed that the woman was not far from her final destination and prepared to close the gap, she suddenly caught a fresh, clear, and ethereal fragrance. This scent momentarily confused her, then completely dissolved, as if it had never existed at all. "..." Her pupils slightly dilated, and she hesitated, not daring to search the surroundings for any traces. Inside a rented apartment, Thelis, warm and sweetly charming, watched Sherman mirror herself. "You seem in a particularly good mood." "How about this final task? Isn't it a bit more manageable now?" "Once you've completed it, you can leave Berkland and live the life you truly desire." Shyman paused, her expression growing complex—almost wistful, as if she had suddenly woken from a dream. She didn't turn around, and only after a moment of silent thought did she speak: "He said he wanted to marry me..." Tris raised an eyebrow immediately. "Men rarely trust you when things are at their most serious—this, you and I both know. If he truly wanted to marry you, he wouldn't keep you at arm's length, wouldn't hesitate to have a child with you, would he? Has he done either of those things?" As she asked, Shyman's expression grew gradually more subdued. Tris stood up and smiled gently. "I won't stand in your way of pursuing your own love. If you'd like to make this task a lifelong commitment, then you'll need to think carefully about how you'll go about it." She softly said those words and walked to the door, leaving the rented apartment. As she descended the stairs, Trish suddenly glanced down at her shoes, chuckled lightly—half scornful, half self-deprecating—saying, "Love..." PS: Thank you, CZLB, for your silver alliance support!