At the moment, Alfred felt as though the temperature in the room had dropped abruptly. An indescribable chill seeped into his body, cooling his blood and marrow. When the liner docked at Utopia Port, he had already envisioned the worst-case scenario—Utopia being the headquarters of a cult, where every single person might be a dangerous, unstable madman. Yet now, the reality might be even worse: perhaps Utopia didn’t exist at all! In this moment, Alfred was profoundly grateful that he was no longer the noble youth he had been when he left Beckland, but someone with accumulated experience, who had managed to avoid a deep immersion into Utopia Port. Under the watchful eyes of his adjutant and staff, the young general walked back and forth with a composed demeanor, and calmly instructed: "Prepare a telegram to MI9, reporting on the situation in Utopia." "Meanwhile, please have the local official extraordinary act immediately to contact the captain and request the list of personnel entering Utopia Harbor; if necessary, visit each one personally to verify any issues." "Yes," his deputy promptly aligned his feet and bowed in response. Once the deputy had left the study, Alfred turned to another attendant and said: "Bring the typewriter from downstairs—I need to prepare a detailed report." His plan was to first send the key information by telegraph without delaying the initial actions, and then present the more detailed information in confidential form, providing the senior military leadership with the basis for their judgment. …… At the steam train station, Winder stepped into a second-class carriage, one hand resting on his hat and the other holding his suitcase. He was not yet thirty, with dark hair at the temples and steady brown eyes. Though he lacked any particularly striking features, he exuded a comfortable, reassuring presence. A few months ago, he was an active intelligence officer in the Fénéport section of the D'Isle Gulf, having earned a solid record of accomplishments. Now, he is a distinguished Seventh Sequence Agent, assigned to the Internal Operations Division of MI9. Today, his objective is to deliver a classified document to Beckett, personally handing it over to the Director of MI9. After seating himself, Winder composed himself, purchasing a newspaper from the newspaper vendor by the window and reading it leisurely. This was the outward appearance; in truth, he was using his exceptional abilities to observe and sketch detailed portraits of the passengers around him, noting their distinctive traits and characteristics, preparing meticulously for any potential unforeseen events. Whistle! The steam train began to move, its rhythmic clatter carrying it steadily forward, and the scenery outside sped past in swift succession. Several hours later, Winder cast a concerned glance out the window, as dark clouds had gathered overhead, signaling an approaching storm. This means the steam train will arrive early at a certain station, wait out the storm, and only resume its journey once the rain has subsided—sometimes even until the next morning—rather than reaching its scheduled destination. For Wendl, this will inevitably disrupt his carefully laid plans, introducing additional risks. Yet, he cannot prevent it; he cannot, like the "Sea God" promoted by the new government of Rosedale Island, alter the weather. His only recourse is to pray—to pray to the "Lord of Storms." In practice, prayer often proves ineffective. As the sky darkened, signals were already illuminated on the platform ahead, urging the train to slow down and stop. Hoo! The whistle blew again and again, the train grew ever more sluggish, and ultimately came to a halt at a platform that everyone found strangely unfamiliar. The next instant, as steam surged from the locomotive's nose, a mechanical door opened, and the train conductor stood at the entrance, calling out into the air to the staff on the platform: "What's going on ahead?" "Torrential rain—nothing visible!" the station staff member, whose hair was already slightly whitened, answered loudly. As soon as he finished speaking, a deep rumble rolled across the sky, making everyone tremble and sensing the approaching downpour. "Damn it!" the conductor cursed, "Which station is this?" Since this was an unplanned stop, he wasn't familiar with the current station, as his train had not stopped at every station along the route in the past. "Utopia! A small station! Now you handle the rest!" The staff member shouted a few times before picking up his glass lantern and running toward the other end of the platform, "I need to relay the signal to the following trains!" The conductor had no doubt about the staff's attitude, as this was entirely within normal scheduling procedures—otherwise, a rear-end collision between two steam trains would have occurred. He could even be certain that the other staff members at the Utopia station were already sending telegrams to other stations to alert them. Of course, they likely only learned of the heavy rainfall ahead when they received the telegrams themselves. "Utopia," Wendel whispered the name aloud, but found no useful information in his mind. He didn't dwell on it much, since there were countless lesser-known steam train stations across the entire kingdom of Roon—this was simply a reflection of the nation's overall strength. Glancing at the dark, overcast sky, he mumbled a few words before announcing to the passengers via the newly equipped public loudspeaker: "A storm is approaching. The train will stop at Utopia Station and remain there until 8 a.m. tomorrow." He anticipated the storm to last until tonight. "You may stay in the carriage or choose to leave and go to the city to find a hotel. Tomorrow, simply present your ticket stub to board again—just make sure you arrive on time." The conductor offered two options. Wendel glanced at the passengers in the second-class carriage, paused for a few seconds, then picked up his leather suitcase and stepped out of the train. He wasn't unwilling to endure an uncomfortable, irregular sleeping environment—having served as an intelligence officer, he had faced many hardships—but he judged, based on professional judgment, that the less isolated carriage spaces were not as safe as hotel private rooms. Of course, he could stay awake all night, but that would inevitably affect his condition the next day, and clearly, there was still a long journey ahead. After leaving the Utopia station, Wendel boarded a rented horse carriage by the roadside and told the driver, "To the city square." In the kingdom of Roon, there would surely be a church and at least one hotel near the city square. "Mr. Wendel, are you going to the hotel?" The coachman, gently coaxing the horses into motion, struck up a casual conversation. "Hmm," Wendel, a Seventh-tier extraordinary, didn't hide his thoughts. In his view, as long as he remained within the realm's towns, he could easily assemble a team of assistants with his standing, and his own capabilities were sufficient to carry out the task. "Our finest hotel is the 'Red Boots.' Shall we go there?" the coachman asked, in a tone that any man would recognize as subtly suggestive. If he weren't on a mission, Wendel would have been quite content to enjoy the experience. But now, he had to shake his head firmly: "I'd like a quiet hotel." "Well..." the coachman responded, somewhat disappointed, "Then let's go to the 'Irises' then—there won't be any disturbances." As the carriage moved forward, Wendel turned his gaze to the window, observing the outside scene. Perhaps due to the approaching storm, everyone on the road was rushing about, even the newsboys seemed drained of energy. "A small city..." Wendel made an initial judgment based on the lack of street carriage services here. He had seen only one omnibus, indicating that most of Utopia could be reached on foot within a reasonable time. As he had anticipated, the hired carriage arrived at the "Iris" inn within less than ten minutes. After paying the fare, Wendel rushed inside the inn just before the downpour began. A rushing sound followed him as he entered. After checking in and setting down his luggage, Wendel rested briefly, then took his confidential document and headed to the restaurant on the ground floor for dinner. He carefully ordered a non-alcoholic beverage—said to be a local specialty, "bubbly iced tea"—paired with a pan-fried pork chop served with apple juice. As a former intelligence officer who had moved in upper-society circles, Winder hadn't held high expectations for this dinner—yet the outcome exceeded his expectations: the pork cutlet was tender and juicy, with a rich, aromatic flavor, while the apple juice, slightly tart, cut through much of the richness; the sparkling iced tea brought a refreshing quality, especially delightful... When it came time to settle the bill, Winder nodded politely to the mid-height server and said, "Thank the chef for this wonderful dinner." The ordinary-looking server smiled and replied, "We'll certainly pass on your thanks. In all of Utopia City, our chefs at 'Iris' are among the very best." Winder made no further small talk, quickly returned to his room, and took several measures to secure against potential intrusions. Then he fell asleep immediately, without hesitation. He was using the relatively safe, period when potential adversaries would consider it unsuitable for action—this time, deliberately setting aside the night hours. It wasn’t clear how long it had been before Wendel was suddenly jolted awake by a sharp, intense commotion. He checked his watch—still not quite dawn. In the room next door… a woman’s voice… a man’s voice… Wendel sat up, leaning close to listen and distinguish. At first, he thought it might be the couple making love, but soon realized the intensity was far beyond that—furniture had even been knocked against the walls. Was it a fight turning into a physical altercation? Wendel murmured this to himself when he heard a woman’s cry, her curses, and her sharp screams. Was the man assaulting the woman? Though Wendel, a gentleman of Ruin, adhered to the faith of the “Lord of Storms,” which, both openly and subtly, held a certain prejudice toward women, he still believed men should never physically roughhouse women. After a brief pause, he decided to go over and knock on the door, gently reminding his neighbors to be mindful. Just then, a piercing cry came through—clearly from the man! A heavy object crashed to the floor with a solid thud. Wendel's eyebrows lifted slightly, keenly detecting the scent of a criminal case. He stood up, donned his coat, and went to the adjacent room. With his fingers curled, he tapped twice in a steady rhythm. A few seconds later, the door creaked open, and a beautiful lady with湖-green eyes and hair slightly bluish-brown appeared before Wendel. Her hair was disheveled, her face pale, and her light green garments spotted with fresh blood. In her hands, she held a dagger that dripped steadily with blood.