"It can only last for a minute or so... That's awfully short." A thought struck Cline, and without pausing to consider anything else, he took two steps to the desk. Setting down his copy of "The Travels of Grossel," he picked up the "0–08" and quickly wrote on a blank sheet of paper: "King George III intends to use this speech to draw out all his enemies who are attempting to disrupt his rituals. Should everything go smoothly without any unforeseen incidents, he will also take the opportunity to consume the magical potion, revealing his true intentions and aiming for the divine rank. Given the numerous uncertainties that lie ahead, even then, his current preparations are already thorough and well-considered. 'This is a very reasonable course of development.'" As he finished the final period, Cline hadn't yet taken the time to carefully review the content for errors when his slightly dimmed quill simply vanished silently—without a trace, as if it had never arrived at all. Yet those few sentences seemed to drain Klein's energy, causing a slight dizziness and forcing him to step back, eventually sitting down heavily in the chair. "It doesn't make sense… I don't recall Ins. Zangwei being particularly exhausted or strained back then… Ah, probably because I had to summon him forcefully and didn't allow '0–08' to weave the narrative on its own. During the writing, I had to rely entirely on my own spiritual strength. Ins. Zangwei, on the other hand, could draw upon '0–08's support, thus sustaining much less effort." Klein closed his eyes and meditated for a while, finally regaining his composure. Under normal circumstances, someone who had only met him once and never truly interacted with him—someone who had no substantive connection—would have been completely unable to summon this "Class 0" sealed object. Yet, he possessed two key advantages: first, the direct blessing of the "Fated Serpent," granting him luck; and second, he held the "Grosel Travelogue," an item left behind by the "Imaginary Dragon" Angerwid, which held a deep, intrinsic connection to the "City of Miracles" Liviethed—and thus, to the "0–08." If it weren't for certain high-level entities interfering, these two items would have already met. Klein wasn't certain whether this kind of fate-based or inherent connection would actually increase the chances of successful summoning, so he simply decided to try it—without risking any loss—and to his surprise, it worked. Precisely because of this, he was hesitant to use the "Grosel Travelogue" to carry the content of the "0–08" projection, and even kept them at a safe distance, fearing some unforeseen, catastrophic accident. After all, this is Beckland—a city of extremely high population density "Well, logically speaking, there shouldn't be any surprises. After all, '0–08' is an image from the historical fissure—fictitious, and *The Grolsch Travelogue* is the materialization of the 'Dragon of Imagination'—also fictitious. A fiction paired with another fiction simply can't generate something truly extraordinary, lacking the essential substance of exceptional qualities... Perhaps I should conduct an experiment on a remote, uninhabited reef island later on." "Hope it's useful..." After gazing at it for a while, Caine folded the paper and tucked it into his coat pocket. Then, he returned *The Travels of Grozsel* to the Gray Mist. Having completed these tasks, Caine began to ponder another matter—when to go out and buy ice cream for Will. "Becelands has Chalatu, probably also Amun. If I go out too often, I might run into them unexpectedly, which would be risky... What if I summon ice cream for Will through the historical fissures? It would taste very real when eaten, but vanish after just a few minutes—no worries about gaining weight, truly wonderful..." Caine murmured these thoughts to himself. In the end, he decided to change his clothes and go out, because one must keep one's promises! ........ Saturday morning brought a gray, misty sky, pressing down on the heart with an unexplained sense of weight. This is a common sight in Beckland during deep winter, though there's not as much thick haze or sharp odors as last year. Still, due to the region's geography and climate, such conditions will inevitably persist for the long term, and air pollution control will never be declared a success within just one or two years. Melissa fastened a long black wool coat over her dress and wore a hat with a cascade of fine black lace, then hurried toward the door. Benson, holding his hat, shook his head in disbelief: "A young woman under twenty should dress like someone under twenty—this is far too mature, too old-fashioned, isn't it? Old-fashioned." Melissa glanced at her brother and replied simply: "The price of each pound of bread has gone up by a quarter of a penny." "Prices..." Benson murmured in admiration. He then produced a silver watch engraved with vine patterns, snapped it open, and glanced at the time: "Let's go—the way to the city square is still a long one." "Melissa" nodded once, and together with her brother, they stepped out onto the street. "Good morning, Mrs. Daniel," said Benson, smiling as he approached a neighbor who had just stepped out. He was skilled at conversation and had long since built strong relationships with the neighbors around him. The woman known as Mrs. Daniel wore a full black dress, in her forties, slender in build, with a fine black lace veil draped from her hat. Upon hearing him, she merely nodded and responded briefly: "Good morning, both of you." She made no small talk, and moved on with a reserved, detached air. Benson watched her retreating figure, deliberately slowed his pace, and only when he had pulled some distance between them did he turn to his sister and ask, "What's happened to Mrs. Daniel?" "I've been so busy lately, I haven't visited the neighbors in a while," Melissa said, pressing her lips together. "Her eldest son, Larry, has been confirmed dead at the front lines in the Mandara Mountains—news came in yesterday." "That tall, reserved young man—so thoughtful, kind, and sincere? He told me last time he had been promoted in the military and had become a尉官..." Benson asked with mild surprise. Melissa nodded: "I can't imagine Larry dying like that..." Just as she couldn't imagine a classmate she knew at school dying right before her eyes. In just a few seconds, some people were left unable to speak, communicate, or even read. Benson paused, then sighed: "I've been busy lately, mainly handling pension matters. Perhaps my list didn't include Larry, so I'm not entirely clear." "The list came with a wealth of details—some were cheerful and warm, others witty and engaging, some were only children of their parents, others strong-willed and leaders among the soldiers, some had just married and still no children, others were preparing gifts for their young daughters, some carried love letters, intending to deliver them to the post right after the battle ended... They were all dead." Melissa and Benson fell silent at the same time. For a long while, no one spoke. Near the intersection, Melissa looked ahead at the road and spoke softly, "Do you think King陛下 will deliver a speech today?" "Perhaps it will be a call to action, or a message of unwavering confidence," Benson replied casually. Melissa turned to look at her brother, "This isn't like you, Benson. You should have made some jokes." "Mockery should only come after you've heard the speech and understood its specifics. The most fundamental principle of human conduct is simply not to offer judgment on things you haven't fully grasped—otherwise, you'd be no better than a tufted baboon." Bensen smiled. At that moment, he spotted another neighbor. The man had white hair, his face half-concealed by several layers of a scarf, wearing a thick jacket and carrying a cloth bag, hurrying past the siblings. "Mr. Thomas's appearance is rather unusual—does he have another errand he's running for?" Bensen glanced at the man's back and asked, slightly puzzled. "Mrs. Thomas is ill," Melissa replied in a low voice, "and has depleted a significant portion of the family's savings. Food prices have risen considerably lately, and Mr. Thomas's income hasn't changed much. So he has to queue at the relief center every few days for bread. He's a well-dressed gentleman, and perhaps he doesn't want people to recognize him as such." "There's also the matter of the food at the relief stations—it's always limited. If you arrive too late, there may be nothing left. You'd have to go to the church, the poor house, or other such places and apply separately. Today's relief begins right after the King's speech, and Mr. Thomas should have thought of going directly there." Benson nodded slowly, expressing concern. "What illness has Mrs. Thomas been suffering from? I know several good doctors." "A disease caused by anxiety," Melissa said, recounting what she had heard. "Mrs. Thomas is deeply worried about her young son serving in the army." "You mean young Thomas?" Benson's brow slightly furrowed. After receiving a confirming nod from his sister, he fell silent, as though recalling something. Only when they approached the nearest town square did he look ahead and speak softly, "Young Thomas has been killed in action..." ...Melissa remained silent, her expression momentarily hazy. They walked on silently, as if relying on inertia. Ahead of them, more and more people emerged—some in formal attire, carrying canes, dressed like gentlemen; others in dresses dominated by blue, green, yellow, and red; some in knitwear or jackets paired with trousers; and others in deep, subdued black garments. They stepped out of their homes, came down their streets, like droplets splashing into a stream, merging at the intersection to form a gentle rivulet. As the rivulet surged forward, streams converged, weaving together at the plaza entrance into a powerful flood. The flood flowed steadily, gradually submerging the plaza. Amidst this tide of people, Melissa felt herself no larger than a single droplet of water.