Finally, Dorian stopped beside the letter. He bent at the waist, extended his right hand, and with slightly trembling fingers gently grasped the edge of the paper, lifting it. This time, Dorian read carefully, word by word, from the beginning, sometimes suddenly enlightened, sometimes confused, sometimes puzzled, sometimes deeply distressed. The letter from Fotheringhame was not long—he read it twice in just three minutes—and then fell into a prolonged silence. Sunlight streamed through the window, casting a gentle glow over the table that had tipped over. Dorian Gray Abraham's lips moved suddenly, yet no sound came out. With his right thumb and forefinger, he quickly rubbed the letter across the surface, and the paper caught flame, turning a bright crimson. After completing this, Dorian gathered his belongings, freshened up, and left the apartment, departing for another place under the identity he had previously prepared. Once settled, he sat by the desk, gazing at the bronze ornament, lost in thought. As the sunlight grew sparser and dimmer, Dorian's eyelids fluttered, and he sighed deeply and slowly. He then unfolded the letter, picked up his pen, and wrote thoughtfully: “…I’m very pleased to see that you’ve absorbed the ‘Archivist’ potion within a few months—this means you truly have the potential to become a half-god. …These are the points I understand about the ‘Traveler’ archetype, but you must remember that every personality is unique; in practice, the performance will always show some variations and cannot be strictly copied. This doesn’t mean others’ performance guidelines are wrong—it simply means they may create significant internal conflict, affecting your mental state. At times, making slight adjustments might slow down the absorption of the potion, yet it could be more beneficial for you. You must keep in mind that performance is a tool, not a master. I look forward to the day when you’ve fully absorbed the ‘Traveler’ potion, and on that day, I will prepare the appropriate materials and a gift for you.” "...I'm very interested in the matter of the curse upon the Abraham family that the gentleman mentioned... I believe you've already sensed that I've been studying this subject quite closely, otherwise you wouldn't keep asking me about it so often... 'I hope you can go further and delve deeper into it...' After writing the letter, Dorian Gray Abraham closed his eyes and quickly folded the paper. ........ In January 1351, Beckland's New Year was notably quieter than in past years. In the basement of a house in the West District, several candles flickered with a yellowish flame, illuminating the altars, chairs, and round table arranged around the room. At the edges of the light, where the darkness was most profound, a figure appeared faintly, occasionally swaying and stretching, thin and intangible—like a shadow coming to life. Suddenly, the figure spoke in a low voice: 'You have arrived earlier than I expected.' " By the candlelight, where the flame was brightest, a figure swiftly took shape. It was a man dressed in a striking black robe, with wavy brown hair, each strand firm and resilient, and deep, profound eyes that seemed to hold countless stories. He was one of the Five Sages of the Aurora Order—the Sage of Secrets, Butis. Butis smiled. "For me, distance is not an issue." He then pulled out a chair and sat down, turning to the long, slender shadow. "Have all the details been verified? Any anomalies detected?" The shadow, nearly blending into the darkness, responded in a low tone. "Everything is normal." "Really?" Butis instinctively questioned the certainty, for he had a natural skepticism. "Ksma, could this be a trap?" The Sage of the Deep Darkness, Ksma, slowly shook his head. "The target has been exceptionally cautious—there is no intention of deliberate exposure." "Had it not been for her seeking the cursed artifacts of the ancient spirits of resentment, we would have never suspected any connection between her and the Abraham family." The "Saint of Secrets," Butis, spoke as if musing: "The cursed artifacts of the ancient spirits of resentment—this is one of the primary materials of the 'Archivist.' I recall that the Abraham family indeed has surplus Asman brains... Ah, their reluctance to directly offer the 'Archivist's' exceptional qualities, preferring to subject us to tests—this is truly the Abraham style. In short, they simply lack trust." The "Saint of the Deep Darkness," Ksma, did not join Butis's remarks, but spoke on her own: "Even when she was seeking the primary material for the 'Archivist's' elixir, we had not noticed any issues, since not every devotee possesses the requisite esoteric knowledge. Yet she continues to raise questions related to the 'Apprentice' and the Abraham lineage." "She is indeed very cautious. The circle of extraordinary individuals seeking materials is distinct from the circle of those merely asking questions—different matters are handled in different circles, and sometimes she even hires other attendees of the gatherings to make her requests on her behalf. 'Had it not been for several circles that have our people, consolidating the information, we would never have noticed her.' 'The Keeper of Secrets,' Butis, nodded slightly and then asked, 'Why not act directly, and why come to me specifically?' In the shadows, the darkness stirred gently, responding: 'The situation in Becland is growing increasingly tense. The Night Watch, the Sentinels, and the Mechanized Hearts teams are conducting successive sweeps—our movements are being closely monitored. If I were to handle this matter personally, everything would go smoothly under normal circumstances. But should any unforeseen incident arise, I would not have the capacity to shepherd a 'Keeper of Secrets'—I might not even be able to extricate myself in time. Moreover, isn't it precisely your family, the Abraham family, that has captured the most interest?" "Bu-ti-s laughed heartily. "I have no interest in them at all—I simply want them all to die." To ensure my own safety, the most crucial thing is to extinguish vengeance before it even begins. That is my philosophy." As he spoke, the "Saint of Secrets" drew out a crystal sphere from a dark pocket of his black robe. The sphere was neither clear nor translucent, as though filled with deep, profound night. With the gentle touch of his hands and the movement of his lips, shimmering points of brilliance began to emerge within it, like grains of stardust, slowly rotating and weaving together into a complex scene. "That's acceptable," Bu-ti-s glanced at the crystal sphere in his right hand, nodded lightly. Then he turned his gaze toward the "ghostly figure." "Tell me more specific details." "Learning that there will be a remarkable gathering within a certain circle tonight, and that the target might appear," the "Saint of Secrets" Butis stood up and said to the "Saint of Darkness" Ksma, "I need to make some preparations." As soon as he spoke, he opened his right hand gently and lifted it—then closed his fingers. Instantly, the area where he stood began to warp and vanish. The candles, flames, round table, and chairs that had been there disappeared, leaving only the floor tiles and ceiling. After a while, shadows swayed and everything gradually returned. Though the "Saint of Secrets" Butis appeared unchanged from before, the figure of the "Saint of Darkness" Ksma gradually emerged from the darkness. He looked at Butis and said in a steady tone, "Your caution exceeds what is necessary." "But that is not a drawback. I hope to resolve the matter before anyone else notices." "Buthis smiled in reply,"Come with me as well, and serve as my support, staying hidden behind the shadows without stepping forward. As soon as you detect anything unusual, simply retreat immediately." "...Agreed." The "Lord of the Deep Darkness," Ksma, slowly stepped out of the shadows. He appeared young, with striking features, yet his face seemed veiled in a subtle, ever-present veil of deep darkness. As he drew near Buthis, faint, ethereal sounds of chewing, gnawing, and digestion—unearthly and seemingly originating from nowhere—echoed in his ears. He sensed a clear, unrelenting malice and hunger, so intense that even as a half-god, he could not help shivering. Ksma's gaze froze for a moment, filled with astonishment and surprise, fixed upon Buthis's face. Buthis smiled, revealing a slightly cruel expression. A few seconds later, they departed one by one—Buthis through a teleportation, and Ksma seamlessly blending into the shadows—leaving the house behind. ...At the junction between the Eastern District of Beckland and the Bridge District, within a dilapidated apartment building that once housed a budget hotel, several rooms on the ground floor had been converted into open, interconnected spaces. When Butis stepped out of the spiritual realm, the extraordinary gathering had still another two or three hours to go, and no one had yet arrived. He surveyed the room, taking in the scattered chairs and cluttered long tables. After assessing the surroundings, he moved toward the corner, gently pulling with his right hand as though tugging at a curtain. The area immediately fell into shadow, warped slightly, and then vanished. Since there had been no physical objects or markers to define the space, no one would notice the absence of that area—only perceive that the distance between the walls and himself seemed slightly closer, though upon closer inspection, everything appeared perfectly normal. This was the "Sorcerer of Secrets'" technique of "spatial concealment." They can harness this ability to divide a space into two, concealing part of it so that entry is only possible through a specific "gate." At that moment, within the hidden section, the rooms remain intact—complete with floor tiles, ceiling panels, and a panicking cockroach scrambling across the floor. The cockroach rushes toward the dividing line and is halted by the deep, unending darkness. "The Saint of Secrets," Butis, surveys the scene and his gaze settles on a transparent vortex hovering in midair. This is the "gate." Every space concealed in this manner must inevitably feature such a gate. After a moment's thought, Butis reaches into the inner pocket of his dark robe, retrieves a mirror, and embeds it at the gate's location. The mirror warps slightly, swiftly reflecting the scene beyond: scattered chairs and long tables, empty and unoccupied. Thus, Butis monitors the gathering place of the extraordinary beings through this mirror. Time passed second by second, and various extraordinary individuals, each concealing their identities with elaborate attire, arrived in succession. One figure wearing a hood habitually settled in a corner by the window, pulling out a compact notebook with a copper-green exterior, flipping through a few pages casually, as if reviewing key points for upcoming questions or checking whether her preparations were thorough. Behind her, against the wall, stood a plain mirror.