Upon hearing the abbot's instructions, Leonard was momentarily stunned, then inwardly exhaled a sense of wonder: "The 'Fool's' prophecy truly came true... No, not a prophecy—He has already seen all of this." Quickly gathering his thoughts, Leonard followed protocol and received an official document from Saint Anthony the Abbot before returning to the underground level, where he took two team members and entered through the Charnes Gate. After the internal guards verified the documents, he walked through the rows of silver candles, each intricately carved with patterns, to the room where Emlin White was being held. Using a bronze key, he opened the heavy stone door. A deep blue light flooded the cell, momentarily blinding Emlin White, who instinctively closed his eyes. His complexion had grown noticeably paler than before, and his frame seemed thinner, as though a gentle breeze would easily lift him. Thinking back to the "Fool's" reply, Emlin suddenly felt confident about the current situation. Without opening his eyes, he rose slowly and chuckled, saying, "I knew you'd willingly send me out." If I'd simply said it was a routine check, would you have been disappointed? Leonard muttered a quiet thought under his breath, responding with a neutral expression: "You have thirty seconds. If you haven't stepped out of the Charnes gate by then, I'll consider you staying voluntarily." As a more experienced "Night Watchman" who had been in post for several months and served as captain of the "Red Glove" team, Leonard had extensive experience handling prisoners. Emlin's expression paused, his mouth opening slightly as if to speak, but he ultimately remained silent, passing past Leonard and his two teammates, and walked steadily out of the Charnes gate. Outside, he suddenly shivered several times, as though trying to expel the cold that had settled within him. "Once you get back, just spend a few more days in the sun—oh, the sun in Beckett's winter isn't as common, and vampires generally don't enjoy it much... You're a pharmacist, aren't you? You can certainly prepare a tonic for the sun's domain." Leonard remarked casually as he observed the situation. Emlyn's condition was compromised on two fronts: first, he hadn't consumed spiritually rich human blood for several days, relying instead on animal blood, and second, his prolonged stay behind the gates of Charnis had exposed him to the lingering influence of the night's sealing power, which needed to be counteracted by a tonic for the sun's domain. As a "mystic pharmacist," Emlyn had a good sense of his own physical and mental state—he didn't dispute it, nor did he offer a nod, merely emphasizing "the bloodline," then turning to ask, "Where is Father Utravský?" "He'll have to stay a bit longer. I hope this damn war ends soon. Don't worry—we'll get him out twice a week, to get some sun. Exactly which days will depend on the weather in Beckett." Leonard gave a simple reply, then walked all the way with Emlyn White to the surface, to the street. Here too lay a vast, desolate plain, its dried riverbeds leaving their marks upon the land. Gazing at the city—its silhouette deep black, indistinct, silent, veiled in a thin mist—Klein did not immediately move closer. Instead, he first sought a concealed spot and softly recited the honored name of the "Fool." Then, stepping backward four paces, he chanted the incantation and stepped into the gray mist—should one wish to return to the "Origin Fortress" merely by a single intention, the collective prayers of the Tarot Circle must converge, forming a strong and solid anchor that sufficiently calls upon the "Fool." Using the prayer points, Caine, at a distance, employed his "true vision" to assess the condition of the North ruins, observing that the thin mist there was slowly yet inexorably dissipating. Upon closer inspection of the city's surface, he noticed that there was not a single "spirit thread" visible—people dressed in linen robes or wearing animal hides lay scattered across the streets, utterly lifeless, unlike the vibrant, active scene he had first witnessed when the Silver City exploration team arrived. "Had the angels or sealings that once inhabited this city, upon realizing their presence had been exposed, chosen to migrate?" Caine speculated as he shifted his gaze back toward the gray-white mist cradling the "Source Citadel." He was preventing the "miracle-worker," or the "mysterious attendant," or the one corresponding to the seal, who might be hiding within the fissures of history, ambushing and exploring the ancient city of Noth—someone he didn't want to encounter, should he himself vanish into the historical mist, only to find himself face-to-face with a vast, swirling vortex formed by translucent, writhing worms coiling and embracing each other, pursued once again by those slick, terrifying tendrils. The ambush by Zarathustra had left Kline still trembling to this day, often enough to wake him in nightmares, prompting him to seek out the "Justice" lady for psychological therapy. This experience had struck him far more deeply than when he'd watched the secret figure Enyuni don a single-lens spectacles while he himself remained utterly motionless—especially since it had affected the dogs of Fugon. Once he confirmed the safety of the historical fissures, Kline returned to the real world and simply extended his hand, reached forward, and pulled out his own previous self—wearing a half-high silk hat, a black knee-length coat, and carrying a simple glass lantern. The very next moment, he "leapt" into the gray-white mist, rushing along the illuminated historical fissures all the way back to the time before the First Age, to the place where the accumulated ruins of ancient civilizations lay stacked like corpses. To him, this was a remarkably clever "safe haven," as no other "ancient scholar" could trace back to this completely extinct and forgotten prehistoric fragment. Of course, for Cline, the journey to reach this point had consumed considerable spiritual energy, and he could likely remain here for no more than another fifteen minutes—provided that his historical fissure imagery didn't undertake any particularly demanding efforts. Once his true form had settled safely, the projection of Cline in the real world advanced swiftly and reached the outer edge of the Noth ruins. He did not blindly approach or enter, but instead moved around to the small hillock opposite the dried riverbed, then raised his right hand to summon his original secret companion—the rigidly composed, deep-blue-to-nearly-black-eyed "Duke of Fall" Quonas Colgur. Qunasi's body quivered, and in an instant he became Germain Sparo. He then reached out and retrieved a lantern from the historical fissure. The image of the historical fissure, summoned by the image, became blurred in the soft glow of the lantern's yellow light, and within a few steps, he stood alone outside the city of Noth. Holding the lantern, he stepped steadily through the decaying, collapsing buildings, weaving through the thin mist, and entered the ruins. Rather than viewing the reality through "true vision" above the gray mist, direct contact revealed to Caine far more details: the humans and monsters lying in various places had already begun to show signs of decay, as though abandoned for a long time. Some sat on chairs beneath eaves, others collapsed beside hearths, some clutched moldy bread, others held hands, some leaned against walls, sitting cross-legged with lips pressed to bone flutes. This allowed Caine to imagine what the city must have been like when these people were still alive: some lounging lazily, others baking food, some shopping along the streets, others immersed in music, some chatting and bustling about, others fiercely engaged in combat at the arena. How vivid and vibrant this scene seemed—how full of life and energy! Yet in truth, everyone had already died, their souls gone, repeating the same actions in a rigid, predetermined manner. And at some moment, on some day, this eerie scene froze—suddenly ending—as everyone collapsed without warning. "A city composed entirely of secret figures, its most authentic theater… There was a similar situation in the Misty Town back then… Though I too am a Seer, I must admit that in terms of suspense, terror, and strangeness, our path absolutely ranks among the top three. Could it be that I will have to keep playing the same role—perhaps as a 'Mysterious Servant'?'" Kline carried his lantern, walking through the streets littered with fallen bodies, guided by an intuitive sense of spirit, toward the center of the ancient city of Norst. This situation convinced him that the former ruler of the Norst ruins had possessed truly exceptional intelligence. After the exploration team from the Silver City disrupted the "peace" and "harmony" of this place, instead of choosing to kill, erase traces, or eliminate evidence, the ruler had simply decided to abandon everything and relocate to another region. "Perhaps we didn't eliminate him because there was an Amun trailing behind the Silver City team at the time—well, maybe it was simply due to the favor of the 'True Maker'..." Caine casually drifted through his thoughts and soon arrived at a church that remained fairly intact. Inside, a statue of a magical wolf stood upright, with eight legs and a coat of dark, short fur. A tuft of gray-white fur adorned the wolf's head, and its black pupils occupied at least three-quarters of its eyes. "Not the Fréglara—the dark magical wolf that occasionally appeared during the Third Age, the god of wishes? After centuries of wandering in the abandoned lands, has he finally found that Sequence-1 extraordinary trait?" Caine had just formed this thought when a steady, rhythmic sound of footsteps—'tap,' 'tap,' 'tap'—suddenly echoed in his ears. Already leaning slightly toward the side, he immediately turned his gaze toward the church's exterior, where, emerging from the thin mist, a figure slowly advanced, gradually taking on a clear and defined shape. He stood nearly two meters and thirty centimeters tall, with a slightly arched back, completely white hair, fine lines at the corners of his eyes, and a scar along his mouth, dressed in a deep black clerical robe—clearly a quite elderly priest or bishop. His deep brown eyes were profound and serene, unlike the wild, bloodthirsty creatures from the depths of darkness, lacking any spark of vitality. Yet, during the long, dim nights when lightning struck infrequently, this cleric neither carried a hide lantern nor lit a flame, simply moving quietly through the thin mist.