Back in the real world, Caine immediately took out a sheet of paper and pen, writing a brief letter: "Investigate the unnamed island that caused the deaths of Green, William, and Perley—this can be approached through Edward's, Benjamin Abraham's, and the descendants of the three deceased." This letter was addressed to "Mystic Queen" Bernadette, so Caine omitted the reasons, trusting she would understand its significance. Folding the letter neatly, Caine casually pulled out a candle and began the summoning ritual. After completing the initial steps, he placed the letter on the altar, stepped back two paces, and recited in ancient Hermes tongue: "I! I summon by my name: the formless beings dwelling in the upper realms, the unusual spirits kind to humanity, the messenger uniquely entrusted to Bernadette Gustave." As soon as he finished speaking, Caine felt a sudden spark of inspiration, and instinctively activated his spiritual vision. Yet, nothing appeared to him. Then he realized the letter placed on the altar was gone. The messenger of the "Mysterious Queen" was quite special indeed... He paused for a moment, silently reflecting. And the reason it wasn't last week is that at that time, in the eyes of ordinary citizens, the situation in Beckland was especially tense, with a new wave of attacks looming at any moment—so people naturally stayed home as much as possible. Folth had even prepared a full set of remarks to steer the conversation toward the hospital legends during her visits, only to find that she never actually needed them. Her teachers, classmates, and former colleagues would often spontaneously shift the topic to these hospital-related stories after just a few casual exchanges—without exception—creating the impression that such incidents were now widespread across all hospitals. No, Folth knew this wasn't just an impression; it felt real, and she found herself unexpectedly frightened, wondering whether she'd have nightmares as a result. This really doesn't need much alteration—just change the miraculous recovery of the patient to a scenario where, although the physical injuries have healed, the patient has completely lost their mental faculties. That would make a compelling thriller, set in a familiar urban environment and unfolding within a hospital that naturally evokes a sense of dread—perfect immersion. I can almost foresee another bestseller taking shape, though I'm not sure if I'm up to handling this genre... Hmm. The only issue is that the story lacks sufficient emotional depth. What about a female patient tenderly kissing the face now covered with mushrooms and wild grass? Wouldn't that seem rather unusual...? Fores thought as she walked, gradually entering a state of creative flow. At that very moment, she blinked, and out of the shadow beyond the reach of the gas lamps, a figure stepped into view. The figure wore a black overcoat and a half-high hat, with a face marked by strong lines and a stern expression—except that he didn't wear gold-framed glasses—exactly like the wildly adventurous seafarer Germain Spauld, who had dominated the five seas. Though Folshe knew that "The World" gentleman wouldn't hunt her, but merely come to fulfill his contract, she still felt a sudden surge of tension, as though facing the most rigorous teacher during her school days. "Good evening," she said, slowing her steps slightly but continuing forward, and offering a polite greeting. Kren nodded, said nothing, and simply turned, walking directly into the quiet side alley. The gas streetlamps inside had already been damaged and emitted no light at all. Observing the dim surroundings, Folshe remained silent, slightly lowering her head, and moved steadily behind Germain Spauld. Deep in the alley, Caine surveyed the surroundings and spoke in a low, steady voice: "Ask your teacher if he knows of Benjamin Abraham. If he does, I want all the information he has about him, as well as every written document and drawing he has left." "Hmm... well, yes," Folsie said, rather tense as she had been waiting for the "World" gentleman to whisk her away to another place. Unexpectedly, he had suddenly brought up a different matter, and she had nearly failed to respond. She didn't ask why, simply nodded eagerly, as though this were something she had been eager to do all along. Then, she took a deep breath and waited for Germain Spaulo to approach, to take her shoulders and begin the "transportation." But after several seconds, nothing happened. Folsie looked up in surprise, only to find the "World" gentleman still standing before her, gazing at her. Then she heard him speak in a low tone: "Now write." "Write it now... Furse hadn't asked why, simply saying, "I didn't bring paper, pen, envelope, or stamps." Before she finished speaking, those four items were thrown toward her. "..." Furse caught them and stepped several paces out, quickly writing a letter to her teacher, Dorian Gray Abraham, under the gas-lit glow at the alley entrance and against the solid wall. With the aid of the "True View," Caine now knows that Chalatu has not yet taken an interest in the "Magician" lady, and the contact is safe. ——How could Caine possibly feel confident in meeting her and taking her on a journey, knowing that she had already encountered Chalatu's secret attendant? Now, he is certain that Chalatu has been drawn by the seal of the Abraham family or by the "Saint of Secrets," Butis, and the "Magician," a mere Sequence 6, has gone unnoticed and thus remains unexposed. A few minutes later, Folsie finished writing, sealed the envelope with a sticky herb powder she carried, and affixed the stamp. "Shall we now drop it into the mailbox?" Folsie glanced at the envelope bearing her teacher's address and full name, hesitating slightly. She believed this matter should be handled personally, not entrusted to "the World," for otherwise, her teacher might be put in danger. Of course, if Germán Sparo insisted, Folshe felt she had no choice—no matter how she tore the letter into fragments and swallowed it whole, there was still a chance she might be hypnotized or spirit-guided. Klein gave a barely perceptible nod. "Drop it off here." Huff... Folshe took a deep, long breath, turned around, and jogged toward the street, eventually finding the mailbox. Once she had completed all this and returned to the dim little alley, she didn’t wait for Germán Sparo to speak. She immediately handed over the pen and the remaining two stamps, speaking quickly. "One stamp is enough." Klein glanced at the "Magician" lady, took the stamps and pen, and said calmly: "This indicates that your teacher’s residence is within no more than 100 kilometers of Beckett." "...?" Folshe’s expression froze. What on earth? I also know that your teacher lives in Port Prizren, and that she’s likely still there… As for why I’ve sent you three stamps—of course, it’s intentional. Klein mumbled a few thoughts to himself, then walked a few steps and came to stand before the "Magician" lady. He then extended his left hand, wearing transparent gloves, and grasped the woman’s shoulder. "Magician" Forth automatically lowered her head again. The surrounding color blocks instantly grew richer and layered upon one another, and countless figures, whose forms were difficult to describe, flashed into view swiftly. When the sights and tones returned to normal, Forth reflexively raised her head, intending to say a thank you. But there—Germaine Spalro was gone! Forth glanced around, slightly bewildered, and found herself standing in a quiet corner, in front of a door through which the sounds of bustling activity and the aroma of wine poured in. Vorth pulled at her cloak, with a touch of hesitance befitting a stranger, and stepped out through the door, where she saw many men dressed as pirates. They carried short swords at their hips, wore guns at their belts, drank strong wine, and were animatedly discussing the relative strengths of the fleets of Vosak and Runn. Among them, several elegantly dressed women mingled, like butterflies in graceful flight. In her long, slightly wavy brown hair, in her Beckett-style woolen long dress, and in her dark cloak, Vorth appeared mature and composed—yet her expression remained timid and reserved, as though a lamb had stepped into a pack of wolves. She stood out conspicuously, drawing a steady stream of glances. The words the others spoke to her sounded vaguely familiar—perhaps a dialect she had once learned—but she still couldn’t quite understand them within a short time. Where am I? What am I doing? Who are they... As Folsen stood in bewilderment, a broad-shouldered man pushed his way forward, speaking in somewhat stilted Runen: "Ten sul, for one night!"