Though the sounds coming from the telegraph office were nothing special—only slightly intermittent, lacking clear inflections and tonal variation—normally not enough to evoke fear, a surge of intense, overwhelming dread suddenly erupted within Verdu's chest. It was as if a bullet streaked with flame had struck the ammunition store, precisely hitting a barrel of easily ignitable powder, instantly detonating the fear Verdu had long suppressed. The terror sweeping through every corner of his body pressed like a hand, gripping his heart, blurring his mind, and forcing him to spin around abruptly, fleeing wildly toward the ruined wharf where the pirates' ship stood. Throughout this, Verdu completely forgot to think, no longer remembering that he wore a classical robe capable of "transmission"—he simply stumbled through the wreckage on foot, tripping over debris, falling heavily, and at times gasping for breath as his clothes tightened against his face, forcing him to pause and catch his breath. Yet every time he seemed to ease,维尔杜 would rise and keep running, appearing utterly out of his mind, driven only by pure instinct. Without his strength to hold it up, the wooden door lost its balance, slid along the crumbling walls, and then crashed down onto the stone-covered ground with a sharp snap. The pale mist and the faint outlines of houses within it vanished. Five or six minutes later,维尔杜 returned to the wharf beneath the stormy clouds. His eyes were fixed, filled with panic and disorientation, completely unaware that a figure stood on the pirate ship's deck, quietly observing him. It was the young man in a half-high silk hat, dressed in a dark, long coat, with a stern expression. Without a thought,维尔杜 immediately climbed the gangplank and rushed back onto the ship, racing through the cabins, up to the second deck, and into his own room. Thud! He slammed the door shut, collapsed onto the narrow bed, and tightly wrapped himself in the blanket, trembling violently. Only when another rib broke and a sharp pain surged into his mind did Villard finally begin to stabilize, discovering his limbs heavy and his body feverish, each breath sounding like thunder. Struggling and striving, he finally managed to shed his classical robe and lay back on the bed, feeling dizziness, nausea, and realizing the air seemed never sufficient. Outside the room, the man with a stern expression suddenly raised his hand and drew from the air a human skin glove, which he placed on his left palm. Instantly, the man vanished, reappearing at a corner of the ruins, beside a plain wooden door. He then bent down, lifting the door and setting it upright against a wall that was half-cracked. Next, he mimicked Villard's movements, grasping the handle and turning it downward. Then, he pushed the door forward, causing it to swing back and rest against the wall. At the same time, he saw a gray-white mist, and within it, streets and houses faintly visible. Among the houses, the Post Office at Benshie stood out most prominently and clearly; the others were somewhat blurred. Suddenly, a calm voice from within the Post Office, speaking through the front door, asked: "You— who are you?" "I am— Germán Sparo," replied the young man, wearing a half-high silk hat, in a similarly broken tone. Inside the Post Office, silence fell abruptly, as though someone were moving silently toward the door. At that moment, Germán Sparo turned his gaze to the other side. Deep within the hazy long street, a figure approached, wearing a straw hat and a towel around his neck, bending down to pull at something. As the figure drew nearer, the outlines of the objects behind him gradually took shape. It was a small black two-wheeled vehicle with a canopy, shielding it from the scorching sun and rain. A lady seated upon it held a fan shaped like a bird and wore a fitted, long dress. Both she and the driver were partially obscured by a thicker, denser fog, making it difficult to discern their exact appearances. Only when they passed by Germain Spalro’s sightline did he manage to make out a few details through the mist. The man leaning low to pull the vehicle had a face decayed to the bone, with a pale yellow pus oozing from it; the lady’s skin, exposed by the fan and her clothing and jewelry, was swollen and luminous, dotted with numerous dark blue-black patches. A clear chime rang out as a blue train with only two carriages sped past Germain Spalro. It was only then that he noticed the street’s surface was paved with iron-black tracks, corresponding to a series of long lines above. At the top of the train's nose, a slightly complex metal frame extended, gliding smoothly along the long cables. Through the train's glass windows, Germán Sparo saw the passengers inside. They all faced the street, yet only their heads remained—each head dragging a spine streaked with blood. Germán Sparo's pupils slightly dilated as he watched this scene, remaining still for a long time without moving. A minute passed, and then he took a step forward, attempting to enter the hazy, blurred street enveloped in gray-white mist. But the mist blocked his way—no matter how he tried, he could not penetrate it. An hour later, Germán Sparo stopped trying, closed the wooden door to dispel the mist, and then carried the door directly to the pirate ship, completely unconcerned about encountering the curse. He then set the door upright on the deck and once again extended his left hand, grasping the handle. Suddenly, a crisp cracking sound emerged from Germaine Sparo's neck, as if an invisible hand had lifted his head and drawn it out, dragging a blood-soaked spine behind it. Germaine Sparo showed no change in expression, calmly raising his right hand and pressing it firmly against the top of his head, pushing the head back into place. Then, unaffected, he turned the handle and pushed open the wooden door, letting it rest against the ship's side. Yet this time, there was no gray mist appearing, no faint outlines of streets, buildings, or trains emerging—nothing out of the ordinary. The next instant, the wooden door rapidly decayed, crumbling into a muddy mass, as though it had been fleeing the experiment. Germaine Sparo did not intervene; instead, he reached into the air and retrieved a golden ring set with a ruby, wearing it for nearly ten seconds. After the ring vanished, Germaine Sparo extended his right hand and, reaching into the void, pulled out the plain wooden door once again, continuing his experiments. It was confirmed that once the wooden door departed from Banzie, its effect would vanish. Germain Spalro simply waved his hand, and it disappeared into the air. Two hours passed, and the high clouds gradually dispersed, and the long-anticipated storm never materialized. When the pirate ship had sailed away from Banzie Harbor, and after attending to his wounds, Verdu drank a potion to help him fall into sleep quickly, thus stabilizing his mental state. In the hazy, dreamlike world, he ran through a desolate wilderness, frantically searching for something, yet found nothing. Suddenly, Verdu heard a series of somewhat fragmented voices coming from deep within the wilderness: "Great one, the god of war... The symbol of iron and blood... The ruler of unrest and conflict..." These words repeated over and over, yet they did not disturb Verdu, nor did they rouse him from his dream. After an indeterminate length of time, Verdu awoke naturally and opened his eyes. At this moment, the morning light streaming through the window brought a slightly hazy brightness into the cabin. Wildu slowly sat up and found that he could recall the three-part title he had heard in his dream without needing the "astrologer's" abilities. His rich knowledge of esoteric traditions suggested that this pointed to a hidden entity of divine rank. Was it inspired by the fragmented symbols and emblems around the altar, or by the sight of that street veiled in pale mist and gray vapor? Wildu furrowed his brows, lost in thought. He did not immediately attempt to recite the title, knowing how swiftly and tragically those who had done so before had perished. The god of war... Wildu vaguely remembered having seen this name in a family manuscript, and decided to conduct some research before determining how to proceed. The figure wore a black, blood-stained armor, with a half-long fiery red hair, young and handsome. A banner-like crimson mark adorned his brow, and subtle signs of decay were visible on his face—this was the evil spirit of the "Red Angel," Solon Einhorn Medici. "Had it not been for His 'Source Keep' and 'Mysterious Servant' traits, allowing the secret figures to roam freely across the world without regard to distance, I wouldn't have needed to be so indirect," the evil spirit murmured, as though speaking to someone in particular. In the midair, a crow descended and landed atop a massive stone. A white ring encircled its right eye, and it spoke in human voice: "You've chosen to use Him, rather than him—this isn't like your style." The evil spirit chuckled warmly: "Because He wishes to be called 'He,' rather than 'Him.'" As he spoke, Sorren Einhorne Medici glanced at the raven: "Compared to your true form, this one is far more endearing, isn't it, little raven?" The raven with its white eyerings responded calmly: "Your sarcasm, much like yourself, still clings to the age before." The Red Angel spirit smiled: "Things are progressing smoothly—He has been kept in the dark, though I suspect that even if He were to discover it, He would simply choose to ignore it. To become part of the old days, 'the Door' must return. For now, His current hesitation may stem from the sheer magnitude of the disaster that would ensue should He act—ah, I find disasters quite delightful." "Little raven, when will you settle your dues? Without sufficient strength, I cannot trust the rather unintelligent member of the Abraham family." "When he prays to you." "The raven with the pale eye circle said, 'If you're worried this condition won't last long, I can host a 'Chrono-creature' within you to sustain it—no thanks needed.' As it spoke, the raven took flight and vanished into the vast night sky. The 'Red Angel' spirit turned its head, using the terrain to its advantage, gazing solemnly down upon the ruins of Banxi. PS: First additional update for the February monthly pass! The last three and a half days of March are calling for your monthly pass!