On hearing Firth's question, Hugh hesitated and said, "We've been discovered." This phrase had been used earlier, but now, when repeated, conveyed a different meaning. Previously, it meant that the fact of Sherman's identification had been detected by the unseen protectors or monitors on the other side. Now, the emphasis was on the fact that both their choices and actions were fully anticipated or orchestrated by the one behind the scenes—there was no secret left. This suggested that Hugh's long-cherished opportunity might indeed be materializing, though the deeper implications hidden beneath it remained entirely uncertain. "If we follow the intent expressed in the message, the final outcome will entirely depend on whether she intends us well—and that, we cannot control," Hugh added, from a rational standpoint. He used "she" to refer to the person behind the scenes, recalling the delicate, sweet fragrance he had first noticed when he had lost Sherman the previous time. Volsky listened quietly and nodded in agreement: "Yes, we've been too passive throughout—the best course of action is to leave here..." As she spoke, she glanced at the warehouse, opened her mouth, then hesitated, saying nothing further. She had thought of Sherman's current situation, suspecting he might be deeply in danger, yet deliberately chose not to mention it. To her, Sherman was merely a character described by Hux, much like a figure in a novel. If the opportunity arose, she would gladly lend a hand, but to bear the risk of making her friend bold and potentially life-threatening—something she would not consider. Hux nodded in reply: "Agreed—let's leave now. However, the one who left the message will certainly not be pleased to see us go; she'll surely put up resistance. Hmm. Then, let's escape from different directions so that she can only choose one." Whoever succeeds in escaping this area must immediately create a disturbance to draw the official adepts here. "Why not create the disturbance right here?" Folshe instinctively asked. "This will certainly be blocked or disrupted!" Hoo offered his reasoning. Folshe nodded thoughtfully: "That makes sense." "Then, let's not delay any further—begin the action." Hoo said no more, clutched tightly a three-edged spike that was transparent almost to the point of invisibility, crouched low, and darted out of hiding, moving swiftly along the shaded area toward the dock. The three-edged spike was a magical artifact crafted by the artisan using the dust of ancient spirits and their residual essence, commissioned through the Tarot Circle's "Hermit" lady for a cash payment of five hundred pounds, known as the "Cold Blade." Anyone struck by this weapon—whether merely touched—will become rigid as if frozen, their thoughts no longer under their own control, as though possessed by vengeful spirits. Moreover, as the battle continues, even enemies of the "Cold Blade" who have not made direct contact with the three-pronged spear will gradually experience slowed thought processes and stiff, labored movements. The negative effects of the "Cold Blade" are not particularly severe, and in fact, they are limited to a single condition: the bearer's body slowly loses heat, gradually shifting toward the realm of the dead spirits. Once this process exceeds a certain inevitable timeframe, it becomes irreversible. Thus, Hsiao has recently grown more enthusiastic about running or cycling swiftly, generating her own body heat to counteract the heat loss. Nevertheless, even with these efforts, she can only extend the intervals during which the "Cold Blade" remains detached from her body—from three to four hours. After running a distance, Thorne turned to look back and discovered that Folshe had passed through the wall, vanishing into the spot where she had previously hidden. Gazing for two seconds, Thorne gently bit her lower lip and swiftly pivoted, changing direction. She had headed straight for the warehouse! Soon arriving at the side of the building, she didn't immediately head toward the entrance but instead looked upward, as if searching for another route—more concealed, less likely to be noticed by those inside. At that moment, her keen awareness prompted her to tilt her head, and she spotted a figure flickering at the corner of the wall. The figure wore a black dress and had wavy brown hair and light blue eyes—Folshe Wal. "Didn't you just leave?" Thorne asked, surprised but mindful to keep her voice low. Folshe gave a slight shrug. "Aren't you also fleeing this place?" Thorne found herself momentarily at a loss for words, pausing several seconds before asking, "How did you know?" "You didn't even mention Sherman at all—this is completely unlike you! I've already prepared all the arguments to convince you!" Fores responded quickly. "...” Hue paused, his expression complex. "You didn't need to come back at all." Fores ignored his words and pressed her palm against the side wall of the warehouse. "If we keep talking, perhaps we'll no longer have to struggle with this matter, for it has already come to an end." "Oh! I didn't think of that solution just now. I should have simply opened my mouth and insisted on going with you to rescue the others. You would have surely objected, unwilling to compromise and wanting to act on your own. With just a few such exchanges, the matter would have settled itself." Hue looked deeply at her friend, then, without hesitation, took up the "Cold Blade" and stood beside her. Vorath immediately flipped through "Lymanno's Travel Notes," bestowing several extraordinary effects upon himself and his friend. Then, closing the magic book, he grasped Hold's arm with one hand and pressed again firmly against the wall with the other. Hold had been waiting for the "door" to open, only to find that Vorath hadn't activated his abilities right away. The bestselling novelist took a sharp breath and spoke quickly: "Once inside, we'll first hide and observe, assessing whether we truly have a chance to act. If we don't get the opportunity—or if we miss it—we'll make a swift retreat. At least then, we'll have avenged Sherman, rather than become mere sacrifices! 'Living means having all the possibilities...' " Hold nodded immediately, responding seriously: "Agreed." Vorath still wanted to add a few more words, but considering how long they'd already been delayed, he decided it was no longer worth postponing. So he opened the portal of illusion, guiding Hold through the wall and into the space behind a row of wooden crates. For someone who had long since grown accustomed to such movements, she instinctively knelt down and, in doing so, drew forth "Leymann's Travel Notes," flipping it to a particular page. Hestill didn't rush headlong into the depths, but instead bent slightly, positioning her eyes at the crevice between the wooden crates to observe the empty space: Sherman, in the form of a woman, sat calmly on one of the crates, her brown hair gently swaying as if stirred by the breeze. Before her stood the Viscount of Stafford, the court's chief guard, who tightened his collar and circled the area, as though searching for something: "Unfortunately, you are merely a witch." "Rest assured," he said, "I will ensure your death is painless, and that you receive complete purification." As he spoke, he withdrew an object from the inner pocket of his clothing. With the enhanced vision granted by the "Interrogator's" potion, he clearly saw the object's form: a cross ornament stained with verdigris, featuring several sharp spines projecting from it, as though it had once pierced through someone. Its style and characteristics were entirely unfamiliar to the nations of the Fifth Age on the northern continent, exuding an ancient charm. "Good," said Viscount Stedford, as he pressed one of the fingers gripping the verdigris cross against one of the spines. "You know, resistance is futile." Instantly, his fresh red blood flowed out and was absorbed by the spine, seeping into the object. The patchy verdigris on the cross began to dissolve and rapidly peeled away, revealing a solid form radiating light beneath. Within just a few seconds, the object in Viscount Stedford's hand transformed into a radiant cross. It emitted a pure, flawless light, illuminating the surrounding area with exceptional brightness. The shadow of the wooden crate here was retreating swiftly, the dark stains cast by the walls evaporating like water. Around Sherman, countless strands that had once belonged to Tris rose one after another, writhing as though struggling in fire, and dissolving completely within moments. The light grew brighter and brighter, yet it did not sting the eyes—black flames surged within Sherman’s body, and translucent ice crystals bloomed and faded, growing paler and more transparent until they vanished entirely. Within the radius of the "Radiant Cross," there was not a single trace of the strange or a hint of darkness remaining! As Sherman’s expression began to twist, Hurst turned to glance at Folsom. She could clearly feel the overwhelming power of the "Radiant Cross," and her resolve to save him wavered. Folsom too had noticed what was unfolding on that side, and she pointed to "Lehmann’s Travel Notes," raised her left index finger, and whispered in a very low tone to Hurst: "Only one chance." "I'll do my best to help you create it. If we fail, or if you can't grasp it, then we'll let it go." Hux had no hesitation, simply nodding firmly. Folshe immediately straightened half-way, flipping the "Leyman's Travel Notes" to the page with the surface that had turned yellowed and brittle. On this page, intricate, twisted, and hard to describe symbols and markings covered the surface, giving a vivid impression of a gale howling through the air. "The Sailor" channels half-divine power—"Tornado!" After scanning the surroundings once more, confirming no other enemies were present, Folshe's gaze passed through the gaps between the wooden crates and settled firmly on Viscount Stedford, his fingers gliding lightly across the yellowed page. Suddenly, a sharp, resonant "wooooh" burst forth, and a visible hurricane rose from beneath Stedford's feet, surging upward toward the ceiling. The court steward, caught off guard by such a sudden and devastating assault, lost his balance entirely and was violently lifted, crashing into the warehouse roof with a thunderous crash. Boom! The roof was torn apart by the hurricane, some sections collapsing downward, others spiraling higher and higher in the wind. Viscount Stafford was thrown so violently he nearly lost consciousness and could no longer hold onto the "Radiant Cross," allowing it to drift from his grasp. The sharp point, streaked with blood, detached from its corresponding finger, and the dull green patina once again spread across the cross's surface. Yet, not a single flaw in its radiance faded. Seeing this, Hugh immediately surged forth from his hiding place, his eyes first reflecting the image of Viscount Stafford, then blazing with two brilliant "lightning strikes." "Spiritual Piercing!"