Maintaining a smile and calming his composure, Emlin replied, "I can find enough capable assistants." He didn't want to rely too heavily on the vampire aristocracy, for otherwise he would inevitably become yet another liaison, observer, or messenger—someone with no say in the final distribution of spoils. Many of the dukes and marquesses among the vampires have direct descendants eager to ascend to semi-divine status and become counts. Initially, Emlin had believed in his own status as the vampire savior, convinced that the higher-ups would treat every matter and every member fairly. But as the "Hanged Man" repeatedly uncovered the underlying intentions hidden within the commands, initiatives, and words of high-ranking vampires like Marquis Nibes, Emlin had grown increasingly cautious. Mariqi's brow furrowed slightly. "Sherlock Moriarty?" Emlin was puzzled, adjusting his posture. "Why do you think it's him?" "In past years, he would have directly said, 'Why mention Sherlock Moriarty when he's been away from Beckett for nearly two years?' But now, he senses subtle information embedded in Marić's words and instinctively adjusts his question. In Marić's eyes, Sherlock Moriarty isn't ordinary, is he? Indeed, he isn't. As he speaks, Emlyn formulates his own thoughts. Upon hearing Emlyn's question, Marić's eyes instantly take on a strange expression, as if meeting him for the first time. He quickly composes himself, delivering his response with a neutral tone: 'We'll need to consider this. We hope you can present a more compelling proposal next time we meet.' 'Understood,' Emlyn quietly exhales in relief. He then rises, offering a graceful bow. After arranging their point of contact, he donned his silk hat and turned to walk out of the room. On the way back to his residence, Emlin mentally reviewed his initial plan: "Once I secure a cooperation agreement with the Moderation deity of the Rose School, I can present it to the Marquis and Dukes to request the use of the family's Level 1 seal items. By citing the cooperation partner's requirements, I can delay or even block the family's deities from directly intervening. Hmm, to achieve this agreement, I'll need to demonstrate sufficient strength to convince the Mariichi and others—so I'll have to issue tasks at the Tarot Assembly and see whether the Ladies of the Hermit, the Justice, the Turned Card, and others are willing to accept them. The Lady of the Magician is also a strong candidate—she can summon the projection of the World, Germaine Spalro. Right now, the biggest challenge is that I simply can't offer adequate compensation. I'll have to try pre-arranging payments or making promises, settling the costs gradually once I become a Count." As he thought about this, Emlin suddenly felt grateful for having joined the Tarot Assembly. This is the only organization he knows that can exchange future commitments for current supplies. Within the House of the Blood, at the Church of the Holy Ones, one must gradually accumulate merits to secure a place in line for exceptional traits or promotion ceremonies—sometimes, a single extraordinary being may never amass enough contributions throughout their lifetime. It is akin to a credit loan guaranteed by the "Fool," issued to assign tasks, with repayment due either upon successful promotion or in installments thereafter. Emlyn habitually aligns the essence of matters with what he is most familiar with. Though he himself has never taken out a loan from a bank, many of the Blood have extensive experience and frequently engage in internal exchanges. ——They typically maintain fixed, costly hobbies, and their treasured possessions often prove difficult to liquidate, compelling them to rely on loans from friends or banks to manage cash flow. Emlin remembered a noble family not particularly skilled in business, one that earned its living purely through medicine, who had acquired a rare artwork by securing a loan from the Bank of Bekland. After that, unwilling to part with their mortgaged properties, the family repaid the loan over a span of two centuries—officially, it was passed down from father to son, then to grandson—thanks to the family's exceptionally long lifespans. Emlin considered this to be a mark of great integrity. She saw citizens with pale faces, their eyes filled with longing; she saw mothers cradling infants, soothing them while anxiously scanning the queue, which seemed unchanged in length; she saw many dressed in fine attire, in formal suits and long dresses; she saw others lowering their hats and donning veils, as if unwilling for anyone around to recognize them. Occasionally, those who refused to abide by the order were pulled out by the priests and police maintaining the line and placed at the very end. Meals were handed out one by one, and the cloth bags piled behind the long table grew progressively thinner, then emptied. Eventually, all the food was distributed, yet the long line had only been reduced by half. The citizens who had not received aid expressed a mixture of disappointment, discouragement, reluctance, and hope—yet they remained silent, without protest or dispute, simply moving mechanically toward other distribution points. They had already gone through such incidents too many times over the past few months, and by now knew well that emotional outbursts, though unnecessary, only wasted their already limited energy—energy that couldn’t quickly shift them to another relief station or a lower-cost food distribution point. At this moment, their expressions were listless, their eyes slightly hollow as they turned away from the square, like a group of the living dead. During this time, a woman holding a child stumbled and fell to the ground. The child immediately began crying, her cries filled with clear distress. As she cried, she drew in breaths and said, “Mommy, I’m so hungry…” “There will be food soon, there will be food soon,” the woman said, lifting the child and gently patting her back, her eyes glistening with tears. As Audrey prepared to speak, she saw Melissa reach into a wooden box beneath the long table and pull out a food item, then quickly run toward the mother and child. "I didn't see it earlier—there's still one more..." Melissa knelt down, offering the bread, dried mushrooms, and dried fruit she was holding, then whispered softly, afraid to draw attention and spark competition among the onlookers. The remaining food was actually meant for the foundation staff who had been working tirelessly all day—what Melissa offered was her own share. The woman received the food, handed it to her child, and kept saying, "Thank you, thank you..." The child clutched the food tightly, repeating in a childlike voice, "Thank you, thank you..." Audrey glanced around instinctively and noticed that the church priest, most of the police officers, and the "night-watchers" among the citizens—those who had been quietly on guard against unforeseen events—were all expressing open sympathy, compassion, and sorrow. When the crowd had mostly dispersed, Audrey took her own share and offered it to Melissa: "Yours, deservedly." Melissa looked at Miss Hall and shook her head. "I'm bringing my own. Miss Hall, don't worry—I'll have food at home. My brother is a government employee..." Audrey smiled gently, placing a slice of toast, dried mushrooms, and fruit preserves into Melissa's hands. "You needn't worry about me either—my family has been busy preparing desserts outside for me." As she spoke, she received a wooden box from her personal maid, Anne, and opened it for Melissa. Inside were beautifully arranged cucumber sandwiches, cream scones, and small carrot cake. Melissa was clearly taken aback. She stared at the desserts for several seconds, then looked up at Miss Hall. After a moment, she lowered her head, said nothing, and began to eat her toast with the water served at St. Samuel's Church. Audrey seemed to be "frozen" by his gaze, holding the wooden box, standing motionless for several seconds, her lips tightly pressed together. Otherwise, this "Fool" of his would be driven to mental collapse by the constant work phone calls. Nim wasn't at all surprised—back in ancient times, the sun god had been just like that. He thought for a moment and then asked, "What specific requirements does the ritual for the priest have?" "These mushrooms feed on the monsters' flesh and blood, growing and reproducing rapidly, while accumulating all toxins, pollution, and madness within the purely black variety—making them an ideal medium for the curse or a paint for the arrows..." The residents of Moon City listened with renewed enthusiasm, clasped their hands together, bowed their heads, and cried out in unison: "Hail the 'Fool'!" At that moment, Caine seemed to hear countless ethereal voices emerging from the air, blending with the genuine praise and surrounding him, anchoring him.