After watching the butler Walter leave the second floor, Caine entered the dining room and surveyed the room, noticing that the male and female servants appeared more spirited than usual, even showing a touch of restlessness. "Indeed, the 'Staff of Life' does affect humans, though not as dramatically as one might expect—rather within a normal, acceptable range. Following this logic, the reproductive capabilities of the servants must have improved. The only issue is that they lack spouses, so the enhancement remains unobserved. Hmm... Will Mr. Housekeeper's return home result in several children being born within nine to ten months? His wife is approaching forty, and giving birth at this time would be quite risky. Of course, as the counterpart to reproduction, the influence of the 'Staff of Life' will eventually spread out—so there should be no major concerns. Ah, I wonder whether these underlying effects will make childbirth easier. If, after Mr. D'Artagnan moves in, the birth rate along Berkland Street noticeably increases, then my reputation will be in serious trouble. Clay's thoughts drifted freely, and in the end, he concluded with two sentences: The 'Staff of Life' truly is quite peculiar!" From then on, each day he would spend only a limited time in the real world, striving to minimize any disruption to the human inhabitants! After breakfast, Caine took his personal servant, Enyuni, and walked down to the first floor, preparing to go for a stroll. At that moment, two second-grade maids were cleaning the hall. "Good morning, sir," they immediately rose and cleared a path as Caine approached, offering their greetings. Of course, if they were near the periphery, they would make a point of being quiet, so as not to disturb the employer—a practice instilled in them by the butler, Walter. Caine gave a gentle nod and responded briefly, then moved slowly toward the main door. At this moment, the two maids noticed a stalk of wheat planted firmly on the top of Enyuni’s head—full, golden, and inviting. Before they could take a closer look, Enyuni seemed to sense something unusual, raised his right hand, and pulled the stalk off with a firm tug. The two maids exchanged glances, surprised yet amused. In their estimation, this should have happened when Enjouin, while accompanying Monsieur Dantès to the Château de Mégève, accidentally brushed a few grains of wheat onto her clothes, carrying them all the way back to 160 Berkley Street, where they had scattered into hard-to-clean spots in her room—such as beneath the pillows. Then, last night, while dreaming, she had pushed the pillow aside and rolled one grain into her hair, which went unnoticed during her morning grooming routine. Though this sequence of events was complex and not easily achieved, it still carried a certain likelihood. "It's simply impossible that Enjouin grew a wheat grain herself," the two maids murmured, and then resumed their tasks. Of course, this is not the custom of the upper class in Beckland. Last year, the smog was severe, and the air was quite sharp and unpleasant—nobody would willingly endure the cold wind and dampness, spending time strolling through the streets. As neighbors, when they encountered each other, they would certainly exchange greetings. But when passing one another, a prominent lawyer, glancing casually, noticed that Doane Tan-Tsai’s personal servant raised his hand to cover his mouth and nose, as if yawning. When the young mixed-blood man lowered his right hand, the lawyer suddenly noticed something different: "His nose seems more prominent now..." "Ah, I must have been thinking about this so often that I've developed a fantasy," he murmured. "If only my own nose were a bit straighter..." While thinking this, he rubbed his nose gently, and at the same time, he observed two wild dogs racing ahead, attempting to mate right in the street. …After a walk, Caine returned to the living room on the third floor and lifted the "Staff of Life" above the gray mist. "Indeed, there's a definite effect. The 'Sorcerer of Mysteries' seems to focus primarily on creating startling scenes to unsettle people and employing unusual methods to induce fear—this truly resembles a 'director,' though one of a horror film. 'Hmm,' he mused, 'it doesn't necessarily have to be genuinely frightening. Within the calm rhythm of daily life, there are countless scenes of terror that go unnoticed by ordinary people. Only when one occasionally reflects or delves deeper into thought do these subtle fears surface—enough to make one hesitant to turn off the lights, or even to experience nightmares. That, too, is a form of horror film.' Caine examined his current state, reviewed and synthesized his experiences over the past few months, and ultimately distilled the key concept of 'director of a horror film.' With this insight, he now had several clear ideas about how to rapidly absorb the magic potion. This requires him not only to defeat the enemies, but also to treat them like protagonists or key supporting characters in a horror film! "That's quite a challenge. For targets of divine rank, I'll definitely have to give it my all—there simply won't be time to play things fancy... Hmm, actually, it's not necessary to target divine beings. As a performer, I can simply 'teleport' to the sea and cast in some lucky pirates as participants, weaving in some horror tales. "Yes, as a director, one must ensure that one's 'work' endures. So, each time, I'll need to let some portion of the 'cast' survive, carry their nightmares into the public sphere, and build up maritime legends—otherwise, they'll all end up being devoured by the 'creeping hunger.' "While formulating this plan, Kline suddenly thought of a question: Among the horror legends with a solid following on the Northern Continent and at sea, how many were deliberately crafted by the 'Weird Magi'? "Definitely there are some... Oh, if Amun were to take on the role of the 'Weird Wizard,' he'd likely absorb all the potions within a month—his talent in this area is simply astonishing, and he rarely thinks about consequences. In fact, while hunting down pirates to film a horror movie, he could also find opportunities to scare a few other half-gods without necessarily having to fight them to the death—once the objective is achieved, he could simply step away." With a sudden thought, Caine devised an alternative approach to the performance. Thus, he seriously considered his targets: "Angels and above are out—anyone unfamiliar would immediately turn my experience into a horror film, someone who'd die on the spot. Those I know well would simply recognize me as the 'Mystic Magician' and be unable to scare me at all. Among the Saints, many have vanished from my sight—scaring the Archbishops would trigger an unnecessary chain of reactions, escalating world tensions and possibly precipitating war earlier than expected. As for the rest—well, after all this elimination, the most suitable targets turn out to be the fervent semi-divine devotee of the Artificial Divine Order of the Spiritual Church, Patrick Bryan, and the members of the Council of Fate, Will O'Connet, as well as..." He compiled the list and decided to visit Dr. Alan Kres during the coming days, bringing a few ice creams for a certain infant and inquiring about the recent whereabouts of those 'members.' After all, to unsettle someone's subordinates, one must first gain the approval of the Speaker. With his thoughts settled, Klein felt in a good mood. He stepped out again, made a prayer and a donation at Saint Samuel's Church, and stayed at the "Rune Charitable Scholarship Fund" until noon. In the afternoon, he met several businessmen seeking investments, as well as professional lawyers and accountants, conducting himself like a typical wealthy man. After having a meal and returning to a semi-open room with a large balcony, Klein was considering whether to visit Dr. Allen Cris's home directly tomorrow or invite the family for dinner at Serenzo, a restaurant renowned for its excellent ice cream. Then, inspiration struck. He glanced over, not at all surprised to see the messenger girl materializing out of the air, holding four golden-haired, bright-eyed heads. One of the heads was nibbling on a letter. "Who sent these?" Klein asked, already accustomed and anticipating the moment. Since he hadn't answered yet, Rénite Tini-kor had to respond with three heads: "Idiot…", "the…", "king…". Patrick Bryan? Had that nickname evolved already? Cline took the letter and opened it—sure enough, it came from the zealous half-deity of the Divine Crafters' Order. In his writing, he stated: "I have already prepared the special rite that will further restore my teacher, Hettel, and, with your permission, I shall perform it at dawn tomorrow…" A rite directed at Hettel, the angel? The Divine Crafters' Order could no longer evade their probing of Patrick—this could be interfered with by the "paper angels" just perfectly. Well… Cline gave a slight shake of his wrist and burned the letter. Then, he pulled out a fresh sheet of paper and wrote his reply: "Agreed—be especially careful." ... In the quiet night, near midnight, an empty factory building in the Saint George district. A clear space has been cleared, and nearly ten figures in black robes, each wearing hoods, stand gathered. At the center stands a deep black coffin, appearing heavy and substantial. Around it are scattered golden ornaments bearing traces of earth, several candles casting a pale flame, and a series of skulls. These stark white skulls—some human, others animal, and some remarkably strange, with deformities that make it hard to imagine their original forms—are stacked most densely in front. Patrick Bryan stands there, dressed in a black robe but with his hood unraised, revealing a well-defined, slender face with dark hair and brown eyes. Though this half-god has yet to do anything, the atmosphere around him has grown profoundly cold, as though countless unseen beings are celebrating in the shadows. As Patrick Byrne raised his right hand, the hooded believers began to dance—a slightly tremulous, wildly ecstatic, rhythmically driven movement. This was the "spirit dance," the rite favored by the god of death; the more spiritually attuned the dancers, the more effective the ritual. As the dance grew more intense and a cold, formless wind blew out from within the coffin, Patrick Byrne bowed his head and recited, in a language seemingly drawn from the underworld: "The King of the Deep Hell; The Angel who plays the symphony of death; The Ruler above the River of Souls."