Dawn was breaking under a light drizzle in the Philip District of old Birmingham, at a newsstand one kilometer from Westin Street.

The owner greeted a strange customer: a man wearing sunglasses on a foggy day and carrying a parasol on a drizzly morning.

"You’re not from the United Kingdom, are you?" the owner said.

The man stiffened. "How can you tell?"

The slightly balding owner chuckled, extending a hand out from the stand to feel the raindrops. "In the United Kingdom, no one uses an umbrella for a light drizzle like this."

Hearing this, the black-haired young man fell silent for a moment before closing the parasol and handing it to the owner.

The owner was taken aback. "Sir, you really don’t have to..."

"I just want to get inside your stand to shelter from the rain," the young man said.

It dawned on the owner, and he quickly stepped aside to let the young man in.

"L. I’m called L," the young man said nonchalantly after stepping inside. "The countersign is ’All that glitters is not gold.’ I need all newspapers from Birmingham from the past six years that report any casualties."

According to the map of Westminster Cathedral’s Birmingham assets that Stella had given him, this newsstand was one of their outposts.

"Please show me your white card."

"A white card? I don’t have one."

’No white card? Does that mean he’s a probationary or trainee agent?’

The owner, who had just begun to stir into action, went still at Baron’s words.

His tone turned cold and rigid. "I am a B Level intelligence agent for Birmingham. I need an order with the proper clearance level to access the archives. I can’t do anything for you without it."

’No clearance? I need a white card? This isn’t what Stella told me.’

Baron frowned instinctively. To the newsstand owner, it was the classic sign of a rookie.

The bald owner yawned and waved a dismissive hand. "Alright, alright, a trainee agent, is it? In that case, you can just pay me to do the job... but the fee for this kind of manual labor is a bit steep..."

"I don’t have a white card. Will a Black Card do?"

Baron produced the card Stella had given him from his coat.

"Ah, a Black Card, that’ll do... A Black Card?!"

The owner nearly shouted the last part.

He hurriedly lowered his voice, his expression changing in a flash to one of deep respect. "An A+ agent, of course you can! Please, have a seat. The morning wind is a bit chilly. How about some macarons and coffee..."

Baron was ushered inside. Within moments, the table was laden with all sorts of treats. A little while after that, all the Birmingham newspapers from the past six years were stacked on the table as well.

"It’s all here, sir," the owner said, rubbing his bald head.

Baron nodded, completely at ease.

This was the first time since he’d crossed over that he’d felt the utility of "power." He’d spent the last several days being either hunted down or surrounded; it was enough to give him PTSD.

’Come to think of it, Westminster Cathedral’s hierarchical system is pretty damn nice.’

’Hmm... though these macarons are a little too sweet.’

As Baron ate the sweets and flipped through the newspapers, another person arrived at the stand. The man leaned toward the owner, spoke the same countersign as Baron, and produced a white card.

"Seagull, did you win the lottery today? So many desserts on the table—macarons, donuts..."

The man was about to sit down next to Baron when the owner, Seagull, stopped him.

The agent was baffled. Seagull grabbed a small stool and said curtly, "Sit over there by the door."

"You..." The agent started to protest, but Seagull leaned in and whispered something in his ear. The agent fell silent, his gaze toward Baron now filled with apprehension, aspiration, and awe.

At Westminster Cathedral, there were only three types of agents who could use a Black Card:

Those with immense potential; those who were not good people; or those with immense potential who were also not good people.

...

Baron spent the entire morning at the newsstand. He finally finished skimming the major news from Birmingham over the last six years and noticed a few things he had previously overlooked.

He said goodbye to Seagull, taking a newspaper from six years ago. It reported on a family of three who died in a car crash, an incident that corresponded to the case of the Bagins Family from the Inner Side.

He made a call from the side of the road to the Bagins Clinic on the Inner Side. As expected, Don Quixote answered. At this hour, Master Bagins would still be asleep.

Baron asked Don Quixote a single question. After getting the answer he wanted, he hung up.

A clear plan had already formed in his mind.

Since he couldn’t find a way to shake the blame for Anthony’s death on the Inner Side, he would first focus on clearing his name for the murder of Lady Eleanor and her family on the Outer Side.

With this thought in mind, he pushed open a door and bumped right into someone, accompanied by a delicate "Ouch!". The person was soft, and the scent of white lilies filled the air.

His gaze traveled up a pure white chiffon dress to golden hair that cascaded like a waterfall to her waist, a graceful, swan-like face, and clear, azure eyes.

Baron’s heart skipped a beat. ’It’s Alice.’

Alice Rovira. The office secretary. Baron’s former supervisor.

According to his predecessor’s diary, aside from their daily work together, Alice would also visit him from time to time.

Alice noticed Baron too, but she was just rubbing her forehead and complaining that it hurt. She clearly hadn’t recognized the man in front of her.

Baron relaxed internally.

’Right,’ he thought. ’I’m wearing large sunglasses that hide the shape of my face, I’m in a high-end, custom-tailored suit, and my mannerisms are probably a little different from my predecessor’s. Even if our faces are similar, who would immediately connect me to a fugitive who could be dead or alive?’

Baron didn’t linger. He muttered an apology and turned to walk past Alice.

Even with the disguise, it was best to stay as far away from potential risks as possible.

"Mr. Constantine, just a simple apology? That’s not nearly enough," Alice said plaintively.

Baron’s heart leaped, but he didn’t stop. He kept walking, his pace steady.

Alice bit her lip, gathered the white lilies that had scattered on the ground, and hurried after Baron.

"Mr. Baron Constantin, stop pretending. I recognize you."

"You’re mistaken," the man said.

"I’m not. I’m very familiar with your scent—that safe, dependable scent. You are Mr. Constantine!" Alice insisted, clutching the flowers as she followed him.

"I don’t smell anything," Baron said.

From behind his sunglasses, he stole a sidelong glance at the young woman.

Alice clutched her flowers, trotting to keep up with him. Baron’s strides were long, so every few steps she had to take a little skip on her toes. Her figure was slender and delicate, like a dandelion seed carried along by the wind.

Baron stopped abruptly.

Not watching where she was going, Alice bumped right into him. Baron caught her before she could fall. His tone was stiff. "How long are you going to follow me?"

"Until you apologize and admit that you’re Constantine," Alice huffed.

Baron fell silent, then sighed. "I’m sorry."

"So insincere," Alice quipped, but then she smiled. "But I’ll forgive you anyway, Mr. Constantine."

"Miss Alice, how did you know it was me? And don’t say it was my ’scent.’ You’re not some kind of animal."

He decided to drop the act. Whether danger or a trap lay hidden behind the young woman’s sweet smile, he wasn’t going to lie to her anymore.

Alice’s sea-blue eyes twinkled. "That’s a secret."

"A secret?" Baron said. "Miss Alice, do you realize I’m a wanted murderer? Aren’t you afraid I might kidnap you to pry that secret out of you?"

"I’m not afraid," Alice said. "Because Mr. Constantine is a good person." Baron sighed, muttering about what kind of good person he could possibly be, but the young woman added, "Even if you don’t believe it yourself, I believe you are."

As she spoke, she looked intently at Baron’s sunglasses—or rather, at the dark eyes she knew were behind them.

’Such... inexplicable trust.’

Baron gave a wry smile. He had been about to ask her about the debtor’s business card, but now he decided against it.

His intuition told him that Alice wouldn’t know anything about it.

At the end of the day, she was just an ordinary girl.

’Intuition? To hell with intuition!’

Baron asked bluntly, "Miss Alice, who gave you that debtor’s business card back then? And why was Lady Eleanor’s address written on it?"

"A business card?" Alice touched her chin in thought, her brow furrowing prettily. "That’s strange. I don’t remember giving you a debtor’s business card, Mr. Constantine."

Baron’s heart sank. Seeing her look so troubled as she muttered "Why?", he wisely changed the subject. "Miss Alice, what brings you here?"

"Me?"

A dejected look suddenly crossed Alice’s face. Baron had been wrong earlier—Alice really was like a small animal, completely unable to hide any emotion she was feeling.

She cradled the white lilies that Baron had knocked from her hands and said in a low voice, "I’m going to the cemetery to pay my respects to Lady Eleanor’s family."

’Eleanor’s family...’

Baron, still clutching the newspaper, suddenly had a bold idea that he needed to verify immediately.

So he said, "Let’s go together."

...

「The cemetery.」

Baron watched as Alice finished paying her respects, dried her tears, and warned him to not get caught by the police before hailing a taxi and leaving.

After night fell and he was certain the cemetery was empty, Baron quietly returned to the spot where Alice had been that afternoon.

He looked at the photo of the family of three on the headstone: a grandfather, a grandmother, and a granddaughter.

After a moment’s hesitation, he put on his [Blocking] trench coat and began to dig.

Once he reached the coffins, he took a deep breath to steady himself. After silently reciting the Heart-Calming Mantra three times, he pushed open the lids of the three coffins, which lay side by side.

Just as the rain began to fall, a clap of thunder echoed. A flash of lightning lit up the dark cemetery, and with it, the inside of the coffins.

The hair on Baron’s arms stood on end. A chill shot up from the soles of his feet to the crown of his head. He felt as if his very blood were turning to ice, each breath a frosty puff.

His eyes flew wide, his dark pupils reflecting only more darkness. The coffins were empty! There was no one inside!

Just then, thunder boomed and a downpour began, the raindrops striking his face like tiny knives.

Baron’s instincts screamed that something was wrong. He looked up and saw that amidst the downpour and thunder, several figures were descending from the sky.

The silver glint of blades, the long legs beneath fluttering robes... It was the Battle Nuns!

Leading them was none other than Camilla, the curvaceous, green-haired woman from that day.

She brandished a large blade, the water on it glinting like blood in the flashes of lightning. She called out in a sultry voice:

"Hey there, handsome! Found you!"