"How is it? Did you catch it?" As Fotheringham had just stepped off the street where the Viscount of Stafford's manor stood, he saw Hugh coming back, his expression solemn and slightly bewildered. Hugh hesitated and nodded: "I saw it... I saw it." Then, as though finally coming to herself, she exclaimed in astonishment: "I know her—I mean, him!" "Him?" Fotheringham was momentarily puzzled. Hugh, having glanced around, replied: "He's Sherman! The Sherman I told you about!" "He—he's become a woman!" Fotheringham was taken aback and instinctively asked, "Could you have mistaken him? Is it perhaps Sherman's sister?" Hugh shook her head firmly: "No. She herself confirmed it, and asked me not to disturb her—she wanted to completely leave behind her past!" "But... how could he have become a woman?" Folsie's eyes flickered, and suddenly remembering something, she pondered, "It's not impossible at all. There's a remarkable pathway that can transform a man into a woman at a certain stage." She recalled that Miss Justice had mentioned something similar during one of their free exchanges. "Ah? Really?" Hugh's eyes widened in disbelief. "Absolutely!" Folsie now remembered the specifics and spoke with confidence. "That...," Hugh found it hard to accept, yet couldn't find any words to refute it, so he asked, "What pathway is that?" Folsie replied, "The Witch!" "Ah, the 'Assassin' pathway." "The Witch... Sherman has actually become a Witch?" Hugh repeated to himself. Suddenly, her voice grew a bit louder, "Could she have been exploited? "No. I must remind her!" As soon as she finished speaking, Hoo turned and began to rush forward, trying to catch up with the rental carriage. But she couldn't find the target even after chasing down several streets—Sherman and the carriage seemed to have vanished into thin air. Hoo gradually slowed down, eventually coming to a stop, her expression complex as she stared at the empty streets ahead. Behind her, Folsie kept passing through several walls, finally catching up. "They're gone," Hoo murmured. Folsie likewise turned her gaze toward the front, thoughtfully responding, "They've been spotted." Without waiting for Hoo to speak, she turned and sighed, "Let's go back and try again later." Hoo didn't move; she remained standing there. After a few seconds, she spoke, meeting Folsie's puzzled gaze, "If they've already been discovered, might they have taken preemptive action?" "That's possible." "If they don't want their plans to collapse right now, they'll likely make one final push tonight—before we're ready!" Fores immediately agreed with Hugh's assessment. "We'll head back to the Viscount of Stafford, find a more concealed position, and continue our surveillance!" Hugh nodded promptly, without hesitation. "Good." ........... In a warehouse in the dock area, filled with various cargo. Sherman sat on a dirty wooden crate, her hands folded behind her back, her body wrapped in a dense network of fine, strong spider silk. She appeared as though encased in a transparent cocoon, unable to make a sound. "This isn't all bad for you," Tris stood before her, holding a dark, ink-black flame in her hands. "At least it will prove whether he truly loves you—or is merely deceiving you." Sherman was furious and afraid, struggling desperately to convey his plea through a series of wheezing sounds, yet Tris showed no sign of moved. She simply turned her palm, which held the black flame, and pressed it firmly against Sherman's abdomen. The flame, as if alive, first spread out like a flowing stream, then seemed to dissolve into formless essence, penetrating through skin and flesh, attempting to seep inward. Tris's smooth, jet-black hair defied natural laws, drifting upward as though pulled by invisible hands, extending outward in all directions until the very air around them took on an unfamiliar scent. The strands subtly thickened, spreading apart with distinct clarity. At their base, deep beams of light surged forth, bearing incantations and spells, rushing forward swiftly and merging into the black flame, entering Sherman's abdomen before vanishing without a trace. Sherman's face involuntarily twitched, yet he felt no pain—only a pure, instinctive neural response. She soon calmed down, watching Tristress's figure in the dark, long gown gradually fade, becoming more and more translucent until she vanished entirely. Sherman's pupils dilated, and she struggled again, yet could not free herself from the bonds. She would tire again and again, only to begin anew, as if a flood were rising steadily, one centimeter at a time, within the silent warehouse. It was不知 how long before the warehouse door slammed open with a loud creak, striking against the walls on either side. A figure stepped in, slightly unsteady—none other than the Viscount Stafford, now well into middle age. Unlike usual, when he went out, he did not wear his white false hairband; instead, his higher hairline and rather messy black hair were visible. The black hair clung in clumps, as if soaked in rain and then partially dried, though several hours earlier, the sky had been clear and the red moon hung high—no rain had fallen at all. Drops of sweat slid down the rigid lines of Viscount Stafford's face, flowing toward his neck, as if countless fine black threads were pulsing beneath his skin. His body was slightly hunched, his facial muscles strained, and his eyes filled with pain and concern. Surveying the room and spotting Sherman, he first felt a surge of relief, then grew anxious, stumbling forward with some difficulty to reach her. Upon seeing Stafford enter the warehouse, Sherman's face instantly brightened, as though illuminated by a sudden glow. Her expression then shifted to a mixture of worry and fear, and she frantically shook her head—yet her neck was firmly held in place by the webbing, making any movement impossible. Her anxiety intensified until tears began to well up, one after another, clear and delicate. As Stafford approached her, a sudden, resonant crash echoed between them—seeming to emanate from an invisible wall that now separated the two, impassable. "If you wish to lift the curse and take her with you, then answer my questions without reservation." At that moment, a figure swiftly materialized in the corner of the warehouse. Her features each possessed their own charm, and together they formed an exceptionally sweet harmony—exactly the kind of beloved lover every young man had imagined in his youth, none other than the fairy-maiden Trist. Without waiting for the Viscount of Stafford to respond, she raised her right hand, and a dark flame burst forth. Instantly, every exposed patch of skin on the Viscount’s face, hands, and neck became transparent, revealing one after another the veins beneath. Within each vein, the dark flame burned quietly, flowing silently. The Viscount’s agony reached its peak at that moment, only to vanish instantly. His expression grew remarkably stern, and a touch of amusement sparkled in his gaze—as if the curse were not befalling him, but rather, the distant Trist. A sudden surge of black flame erupted around Trish in the corner of the warehouse, illuminating a dense network of invisible silk threads that remained unlit. In an instant, Trish found herself, just like Sherman, sealed within a transparent "cocoon," immobile and unable to escape. At the high ventilation opening of the warehouse, another figure came into view—a lady of indeterminate age, dressed in a simple, pure white robe, with black hair and blue eyes, graceful and serene, exuding a charm that was difficult to describe. "Katrina. Pelle..." Trish finally managed to whisper the name, drawing on every ounce of strength. At that moment, Viscount Stafford reached toward himself and pulled out a translucent doll, wrapped tightly in dense threads of black flame. He glanced at Sherman beside him, then smiled warmly at Trish. "Whenever something vital to life is at stake, I never take chances. Since the death of Seax, I've known this day would come." "Hah, you're hunting me—well, of course, others have also been eyeing you. We've been patient, not wanting to startle you. We've done nothing at all, simply waiting until today." Upon hearing the Viscount Stafford's words, Sherman, who had been habitually struggling, instantly ceased all movement, her expression utterly still and stunned—unprecedented in its stillness. Her eyes were wide open, yet unfocused, as though sinking slowly beneath the surface of water. "Love..." Trish suddenly laughed, a sound half-sarcastic, half-self-deprecating. She remained completely at ease, utterly composed. ... Moiré Manor, deep into the night. Klein, who had just settled down after arranging accommodations for twenty guests and preparing for the next day's hunting excursion, had only been asleep for a short while when he suddenly woke up. His intuition stirred, and within his mind, a vivid image unfolded: Major Chonas Colg, dressed in a shirt and trousers, silently emerged from the window of his guest room, floating outward—defying the very laws of nature. This... I haven't even begun yet... He came here for his own reasons as well. A thought flashed through Caine's mind, and he instantly controlled an outside cockroach, transforming it into a secret companion, using its eyes to observe the surroundings. Almost simultaneously, Quonás Colg appeared. After leaving the Móga manor, the half-god had immediately experienced a disruption in his sense of distance, swiftly arriving at the banks of the Tásoch River, preparing to cross over. The cockroach remained still, showing no reaction. He was heading toward the southern bank of the Tásoch River—what did he intend to do? Did he enjoy hunting in the countryside merely to conceal such movements? Was that also the reason he introduced me to the Móga manor? Lying in bed, Caine carefully analyzed Quonás's actions. When the semi-deity from MI9 finally stepped onto the southern bank of the Tassok River, Caine suddenly remembered something: after escaping the underground ruins where Ins. Zangwei and others had been, he had first appeared in the northwest direction of Beckland—on the southern bank of the Tassok River—only a short distance from the region where the Morga manor stood.