"Do you suspect the fleet of 'The Commander of Illness' is hidden right there?" Anderson replied thoughtfully, echoing Daniz's question. Daniz responded with evident excitement: "It's quite possible! Didn't 'The Black Death' vanish after sailing west from Selos Island?" Anderson gave a slight smirk and chuckled: "If the fate of 'The Commander of Illness' is so easily uncovered by you, then what's the point of her hiding? 'A place you yourself can discover'—how could that be considered truly concealed?" "What do you mean?" Daniz felt slightly dismissed. Anderson spread his hands, saying: "I'm not being dismissive at all—I'm simply thinking logically. The island must exist, but either it's of a type well-known to many here, or it's a deliberate piece of information released by someone." "If it's the former, the fleet of 'The Admiral of Illness,' Tracy, simply couldn't have hidden there. If it's the latter, that's quite interesting—so, who would have released this information?" Daniz started off a bit angry, but gradually followed Anderson's line of reasoning: "Some pirates' or adventurers' trap? Yet an island with limited resources wouldn't attract explorers. 'The Admiral of Illness' herself? To find out who was tracking her movements?" Anderson smiled: "Indeed, under my guidance, you've made considerable progress. Otherwise, I'd doubt that even if you drank the 'Mastermind's' potion, you'd be able to sharpen your mind—your ability would merely transform your enemies into duller ones, drawing them into your familiar territory and thus defeating them. That quote isn't mine—it's from Emperor Rosel." "Over the course of this time, Anderson has secured the primary ingredient and nearly all the auxiliary materials needed for the 'Conspirator' potion—only the final step remains." "Maybe you have that same ability..." Daniz murmured softly in response. Anderson didn't pay attention, continuing on his own: "If the message is one sent out by the 'Diseased in Advance' themselves, then the Hidden Island must be a trap—perhaps entirely empty, with only mirrors monitoring ships and people approaching it, or perhaps exactly what Germain Spalro described: a key stronghold of the sorceress's order." "What should we do next?" Daniz asked instinctively. Anderson gave a "hey" sound: "Can't you see that's such a simple matter?" "We find out where the message came from—then we go to that person, investigate their information sources, and keep digging layer by layer. Eventually, something will come to light." "Yes... Daniz had intended to agree and nod, but as the words formed on his lips, they turned into a soft 'hmm.' Near midnight, on the second floor of a casino. Baze, with brown hair, yawned and entered his room. He hadn't yet managed to light a candle using the moonlight streaming through the window when suddenly a brilliant white flame flared up before him, casting a bright glow that for a moment made it difficult for him to see clearly. Baze's heart tightened; he rushed toward the side and rolled onto the floor. After completing two full rolls, his movement abruptly halted, as if enchanted and turned to stone. This was because a sharp coldness and a light ache spread through his neck, making him certain that if he moved any further forward, blood would surely spill onto the ceiling. 'What do you want?' Baze's vision now restored, he saw a golden-haired man standing beside him, one hand in his coat pocket and the other holding a dark short sword, while a figure in a black cloak stood by the window, the hood drawn over most of his face. Danzel didn't answer Baz's question, instead looking at Anderson with a slightly astonished expression. "Why don't you pretend?" "How would pretending make people know who to hate?" Anderson replied with an air of indifference. "... "Danzel exhaled, "Well, I'm glad I haven't caught you with this ridiculous habit yet." "No matter," Anderson smiled. "Just ask anyone on Selos Island, and they'll know who I've been associating with lately." "Dog!" Danzel exclaimed. Baz, held steady by Anderson's short sword at the neck, couldn't move, only listened quietly, feeling as though he had returned to Trier, watching a farce. What exactly were these two here for? The intelligence dealer was deeply puzzled. At that moment, Anderson shifted his gaze, looking down at Baz. "Which one of the hidden islands—off the main route, located in the southwest—did you hear about?" Baz suddenly had a revelation and turned to Daniz at the window, saying, "You!" This piece of intelligence had been sold to only one person in the past few days!... How quickly he had been recognized? Daniz was momentarily at a loss for words. Anderson slightly pressed down the dark short sword in his hand, intensifying the sharp pain: "Please respect the order of precedence." Baz instantly felt as though his life were slipping away and quickly replied, "Yes, yes—'the one who is about to fall ill!'" "When did she tell you? Why did she tell you?" Anderson asked, showing no surprise. "The night before the 'Black Death' departed from Selos Island." "Baz replied swiftly, fearing he might die from blood loss, 'I didn't ask her why—back then, I was only captivated by her beauty. Indeed, she is no ordinary 'Illness Maiden' renowned across the five seas.' Even now, after so many years, recalling this in such a perilous situation, Baz is hard not to be awed. 'Is this what a sorceress's charm truly is?' Anderson murmured, then asked, 'Can you reach her?' 'Not at all,' Baz shook his head quickly. 'She asked me to record everyone who inquired about her whereabouts, and then inform her upon her return to Selos Island. If anyone receives news of that hidden island and actually sets sail, I simply let them go.' 'Ah, that makes sense,' Anderson nodded, drawing back his dark short sword. 'Is it a trap there?' 'I'm not sure,' Baz answered honestly. Anderson said nothing. He collected all the money from Baz's person and from the room, then pointed his short sword at the information broker and said, "I originally intended to kill you, but that would leave no one to hate me. Simply live well, and curse me daily." He then turned and walked to Danyz, and together they jumped out the window, vanishing into the dark night without streetlights. Suddenly, Baz sat up, his eyes bright and alert, with not a trace of drunkenness. He retrieved a dagger, pried open a wooden floorboard in the room, and pulled out a small piece of paper, about the size of a thumb. As he unfolded the white paper layer by layer, a thick, paste-like black substance emerged in the center. Baz took a quarter of it and walked toward the mirror in the room, ready to apply it. At that moment, he saw two figures reflected in the glass—one dressed in a white shirt and black coat, single-handedly holding a short sword, the other draped in a deep cloak, face concealed. "...”His pupils had just begun to dilate when Daniz struck him a blow to the back of the head, knocking him unconscious. His last memory was a voice speaking with a smile: "He truly hasn't let us down." "Handle Baz well," Daniz said, bending down to pick up the sticky thing that had fallen to the ground, while chuckling. "He actually believed you. He believed you because he wanted to hate you so badly that he wouldn't have killed you." The conversation he'd had with Anderson earlier was actually rehearsed—crafted as a drama—to make it logical and credible that Anderson would spare Baz, without raising suspicion. "That shows you've performed exceptionally well," Anderson smiled. "A genuine performance is truly something special." "Dog crap!" Daniz exclaimed without hesitation. He then added with a sense of wonder: "I never thought he'd be so patient—waiting until midnight before acting, and we were even more patient." "A hunter needs patience to capture prey. Sometimes, just waiting a few days can make all the difference," Anderson replied casually. For both of them, this was really a matter of necessity—whether "hunters," "provocateurs," "fire-starters," or "reapers," none of them were particularly skilled at spirit communication, let alone possessed abilities like hypnosis. To gather intelligence, they had no choice but to rely on methods such as interrogation and threats, and thus, they had to make concerted efforts in crafting their schemes. This makes perfect sense, but eventually, it will become one of my phrases when I teach others. Daniz glanced at the thick, black substance in his hands. "Seems like we're supposed to apply it to the mirror's surface—then we'll be able to connect with the 'General in Illness'?" "Likely," Anderson replied, "but even if we manage to connect, what good would that do? Invite her for breakfast on Selos Island?" He gave a mocking laugh. Daniz knew well that neither he nor Anderson could influence the people on the other side of the mirror, yet instinctively, he wanted to do more—go beyond what Germán Sparo had assigned, and fulfill the tasks with greater care. He furrowed his brow and asked, "Then what do we do next?" "Of course, we contact Germán Sparrow and hand over the matter to him. He's mysterious in every way—there's no doubt he'll find a solution." Anderson remarked with a nod. "Moreover, his assignment was to track down the whereabouts of the 'Disease-Stricken One,' and now we have results." Danzí hummed and began arranging the ceremonial candles and other items. "What are you doing?" Anderson asked, his expression slightly puzzled. Danzí, without turning around, was setting up the altar. "Summoning the messenger of Germán Sparrow," he said. "...Hmm," Anderson paused for a few seconds, then added, "I'll step outside and light a cigarette."