The eccentric doctor never makes a misdiagnosis!

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Like flies and mosquitoes buzzing in the ears, they are hard to stop.

"No, I can't stay in the room any longer, I need to go out for a walk."

He put down the rubbing of "The Traveler's Chronicle" he was holding, quickly got up from the bed, went to the sink, turned on the tap, and washed his face. The cold liquid took away the heat from his cheeks, making him feel a little better.

Before leaving, the inchworm opened its rolling suitcase. It then took out a small-caliber pistol and a ceremonial dagger.

There was no arms embargo between Norrington and Golmouth, so the trafficking of uncontrolled weapons was permitted during the voyage. However, according to the White Cup Order's shipping rules, passengers were required to check their firearms separately and were not allowed to possess them during the voyage.

The reason he was able to put the gun directly into the suitcase was mainly due to the crew credentials granted by Professor Utus.

This allows the Inchworm to be considered, in principle, an internal crew member of the Leviathan, even if equipped with private arms, which is in accordance with regulations.

Without the aid of relics or special rituals, most esoteric disciples who had not reached the high priesthood could be killed by a burst of brass bullets. Such is the fragility of mortals. Perhaps only those who worship the blade or the cup can escape this fate.

But the problem is... if it's a threat that can be dealt with with a single shot, then there's no need for me to take any action at all.

Professor Utus was able to keep up with the remnants of the Glandular Prophet even when he was unarmed, and he could shatter the head of the Abyssal Evil with a single punch. Any cult disciple who had not reached the rank of High Priest would probably not be able to survive a single encounter with him.

For inchworms, carrying a gun is more about seeking psychological comfort.

After packing his belongings, he pushed open the door of his cabin and stepped into the corridor. Almost at the same moment, he felt the restlessness burning in his left eye slightly subside, and his palpitations lessen as well.

Is my left eye trying to tell me I can't stay in the room any longer?

But... what does it want me to do?

Or perhaps, what does the hermit want her to do?

Still puzzled, the inchworm headed towards the Leviathan's interior restaurant.

The spacious restaurant was still lit with soft incandescent lights, and many passengers lingered there. Although it was past dinner time, the restaurant offered a variety of services, including late-night snacks and drinks, and was open almost 24 hours a day.

Lingzhi did not sense anything unusual, and his left eye was also calm.

The inchworm ordered a cup of Golmouth's specialty herbal tea, "Tranquility," then picked up a magazine with a women's portrait cover and sat down in a corner. He pretended to be a passenger passing the time.

The spirit of the moth is chaotic, mixed, forgetful, and irrational, which makes it difficult for him to maintain the rigor and sharpness that Sister Heda does at all times.

But at the same time, sometimes he would suddenly have inspiration for no reason and notice clues hidden beneath the surface.

Perhaps it was a sudden missed beat in the heart, or perhaps it was a fleeting glance back.

"If suspicious persons could be identified by visual observation alone, then I probably wouldn't be in any trouble. The existing Northern Blade Remnants are all Hunters with a certain number of years of service, and they have been evading hunting for a long time, so they must have counter-surveillance awareness and methods far beyond ordinary people."

"The crew of the Leviathan were either teaching assistants in the Department of Oceanography or veteran pirates who had followed Captain Niflöll in their early years... and most of them were also very experienced."

Despite this, the inchworm did not stop observing.

As he slowly finished the steaming floral tea and turned the last page of the magazine featuring glamorous women, he still found nothing.

It's time to leave; there's probably no point in staying any longer.

The inchworm patted its clothes and slowly got up from its seat.

Just then, his left eye suddenly shifted uncontrollably to one side, staring intently at a bald, middle-aged man who was strolling towards the corridor.

If anyone noticed the inchworm's gaze, they would probably be surprised or even astonished.

At this moment, his two eyes were defying human instinct, each focusing in a way that resembled a chameleon. Yet his expression was extremely natural, without any deliberate tendency.

Finally... the guidance of the hermit lady has arrived.

The inchworm extended its middle finger and lightly lifted the frame of its glasses, subtly concealing its gaze and the quietly rising joy within it. It licked its lips, then slipped into the sparse crowd leaving the restaurant and quietly followed the bald middle-aged man.

I had noticed him before.

However, in the hot climate of Golmouth, being bald is not a rare feature. Some men, even without genetic issues, shave their heads for reasons such as convenience while working or to keep their scalps cool.

Besides that, this guy was a portly middle-aged man. He wore a slightly pilling gray polyester jacket, walked with a very slight sway, his cheeks were flushed, his eyes were smug, and he smelled of alcohol.

Hmm... It's like a small businessman who, in his excitement after making some money, takes a couple of sips of wine.

If it weren't for the sudden, intense gaze from his left eye, the inchworm probably wouldn't have noticed him even if it sat there all day. To be honest, most people wouldn't associate this person with the Northern Blade or any other esoteric sect disciple.

The inchworm still vividly remembered the tall, imposing funeral attendant beside the hermit lady.

The nun's leather funeral home robes, the wooden-handled folding knife and standard firearm at her waist, the spare magazines piled high on her skirt, the black sword as tall as a person, and the calm, cold, and profound murderous intent in her gray-chestnut eyes...

This was his preconceived notion of the Mysterious Hunter.

If that bald, middle-aged man really is the Northern Blade, then it means he was also a Hunter of Secrets before.

Oh, what a damn contrast.

The inchworm followed him slowly, maintaining a distance that was neither too close nor too far. Thanks to the astonishing coordination of the Moth Dancer, his steps were almost silent, and his figure blended seamlessly into the lamplight.

Even so, he still couldn't be sure that he hadn't been discovered.

...Perhaps I should inform Professor Utus first.

If he could, Inchworm would never venture alone into dangerous territory like those reckless investigators from the Secret Service. In his original life plan, he intended to stay at home with his esoteric texts until he reached the fourth tier, never leaving the house unless he needed to purchase materials or had a mission for the cult.

But now that he has turned to worship the hermit lady, he naturally has to serve her.

If we turn back halfway here, we probably won't have this opportunity to gather intelligence again.

After quickly dispelling his distracting thoughts, he followed the guidance of his left eye. The middle-aged man seemed oblivious, but instead of returning directly to his cabin, he began circling the corridors of the Leviathan.

Although the inchworm in his left eye already indicated that he had a problem, this guy's current actions proved it.

However, was he simply following his professional habits to evade possible tracking, or had he already become aware of him?

The inchworm certainly hopes for the former, but it also has to consider the possibility of the latter.

Very quick, he noticed that the middle-aged man had slipped into the downward staircase at the corner of the corridor.

This is a delicate position.

There is an unavoidable blind spot at the corner at the end of the corridor. If he stops there, I might bump into him head-on if I follow him rashly.

At times like these, the inchworm envies the agents of the Secret Service. Whether it's tracking, surveillance, or communication, the callbirds can handle it all, offering a high degree of stealth without having to put themselves in danger.

As he had this thought, he suddenly felt a slight itch around his left eye and his vision began to tremble slightly.

In a flash, the inchworm's left eyeball, like that of an arachnid, twitched and crawled out of its eye socket. Its movements were quite agile and light; in an instant, it had jumped off its cheek and landed in the dark shadows on the ground.

At that moment, the visual field of his left and right eyes was also split into two independent ends.

The spider-like left eye darted rapidly towards the corner at the end of the corridor, then spotted a middle-aged man leaning tightly against the wall, his gaze cold and wary. His seemingly bulky body was taut, his muscles tense, ready to choke the intruder with his bare hands.

This indicates that he was not carrying any weapons, or that he did not intend to use them.

With its left eyelid closed, the inchworm's Adam's apple twitched slightly. It swallowed a mouthful of saliva with a hint of lingering fear, then hid itself in the corner of the middle of the corridor.

A minute later, the bald middle-aged man regained his composure. To restore the rosy glow of alcohol to his face, he even took out a bottle of white rum and gulped down two mouthfuls.

He stepped back into the corridor, his gaze subtly sweeping back in the direction he had come from.

Most passengers had returned to their rooms to rest, with only a few still chatting by the railing and enjoying the cool night breeze.

"Am I too nervous?"

Clapham squinted, muttering to himself with a hint of doubt.

Under normal circumstances, he would never doubt his intuition, which stemmed from the spirit of the Blade. This sensitivity to danger had saved him more than once in Loreton, and had even helped him evade the pursuit of the Mysteries.

但在踏上这1艘前往诺0灵顿0的船舶7后，这份6直觉时不9时便化作1心底的恐惧悄4然浮现。以至3于他整天6都有些疑神疑鬼，心神不宁，为同僚所嘲谑。

Perhaps, it really is fear at work...

Clapham pulled a pack of David Hayden cigarettes from Loretown from his pocket, took one out, lit it, and took a deep drag, the strong aroma of tobacco spreading out.

His fingers were trembling slightly.

Clapham had also served at the Funeral Court and knew all too well the hunters’ views and methods toward traitors.

Now, he has become the so-called "Winter Fangs"... in reality, nothing more than Saffold private soldiers who have no control over their own lives, and whose sordid deeds are countless. If he is captured, a clean and swift death would probably be considered a good ending.

Now that he thought about the ship heading to Norrington, how could he not be afraid, how could he not tremble?

Once a blade wielder becomes weak-willed, their spirit will lose its indomitable sharpness.

To mask their fear and incompetence, they can only seek solace elsewhere... whether by indulging in money and power, by reveling in the embrace of desire, or by wallowing in the dark emotions of tormenting and cruelly abusing others.

"Forget it, let's meet up with those guys first. According to the clues in the relic, the 'goods' that Solous idiot accidentally took out should be hidden in the lower deck of the checked baggage. God knows how she even managed to get on Whitecup's ship."

"We need to act faster, or something unexpected might happen..."

Thinking of this, Clapham couldn't help but shudder.

He had received the latest intelligence: the "Snow Country's Edge" slave trading shop located in the Belfarne underground exchange had been burned down, and all escape routes were locked. The number of charred corpses also matched the number of Solos's team perfectly.

Burning the crime scene to the ground and severing the leader's head... this is undoubtedly the Funeral Court's consistent style of doing things.

These guys who made a fortune from the slave trade must have suffered a ruthless purge with no survivors.

Damn it, this is the worst luck ever!

This meant that the Funeral Court's sword and eyes and ears had quietly infiltrated the Land of the Deep, and Golmouth was no longer safe. If he could, he would never have come to Foy to wade into this mess. However... the orders of the Saffold Council could not be disobeyed.

6. Finding the lost saber-toothed creature is Clapham's mission; if he fails, he will have to pay with his life when the time limit expires. Then another group of unfortunate souls will take over.

The inchworm was too far away, and its left eye was deaf, to hear Clapham's babbling.

However, this eye has excellent vision and can adjust its focus and light sensitivity on its own. As a result, it can extract one or two relatively clear individual words from the other person's mouth by observing changes in lip movements.

The company said, "Meet, hide, in the hold. And there's 'cargo'..."

Although the full picture is still unknown, the inchworm felt certain that this guy harbored ill intentions and some kind of ulterior motive. Furthermore, the word "meet" suggests he had accomplices, and most likely more than one.

Leaving its left eye to keep watch, the inchworm chose a spot with a few more passengers, turned around, and headed straight for the captain's cabin of the Leviathan.

Most of the time, investigators choose to venture out alone out of necessity.

Whether it's due to time constraints, a critical situation, a mission, or inaction by the authorities... given a choice, it's unlikely anyone would be foolish enough to forgo the opportunity to seek help from the authorities.

What could be more reassuring than having a professor from the Department of Oceanography standing next to you who could shatter the skull of a monster from the Abyss with a single punch?

And now I can keep monitoring with my left eye without worrying about losing them.

It's a pity this isn't Norrington, otherwise the Hunter would definitely be extremely interested in the news about the suspected Broken Blade. The bounty alone could fill his increasingly depleted wallet...

Actually, the inchworm's economic situation was quite optimistic.

However, he had previously paid the Hermit Lady 600 Norringtons in the Third Habitat in exchange for information about purchasing the shelled relic, and before applying for reimbursement from the Misty Society with the transaction receipt from the Full Moon Auction, he had already changed his object of worship...

This has led to him being extremely strapped for cash recently, but fortunately, he lives on the Leviathan and has no living expenses.

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soup!

Chapter Five: The Compass of the Fox Tooth

Once it was certain that it was far enough away from the middle-aged man with the shiny bald head, the inchworm immediately quickened its pace.

However, he was clearly not yet fully adapted to the dual-vision system, and nearly tripped and fell on the gangway leading to the captain's cabin. Without binocular coordination, a person's perception of distance and depth is weakened, and physical coordination is also affected.

But the inchworm was, after all, a disciple of the moth. In her early years in Atilia, she even forged her identity and gender to apply for a dance job at a tavern club called "Bell Fork and Bone Cup." Her classical and exquisite choreography and graceful, elegant steps made her quite popular with her patrons.

His mastery and control over the body was the foundation of all his secret rituals. (¥≈/=★)

After just a few breaths, the inchworm gradually got used to the dizzying sensation brought about by the double vision.

That bald guy probably had accomplices, but they're currently separated, and I haven't truly been exposed. At least there shouldn't be any unexpected danger on the way to the captain's cabin.

In addition, having spent nearly two months on the Leviathan, he was quite familiar with the ship's environment and would certainly not make any mistakes such as not being able to find a place or going to the wrong room.

After showing his identification to the guards along the way, the inchworm arrived at the captain's cabin without any trouble. Coincidentally, Utus was leaning against the door, sipping a bottle of amber rum with an antique and exquisite packaging.

According to the White Cup Order's navigation regulations, crew members are prohibited from consuming alcohol during voyages.

This rule was for safety reasons and had nothing to do with rank or position. It applied equally to the captain, first mate, chief engineer, shipmaster, crew, and even the most ordinary sailors. But given Captain Niflår's background, they clearly didn't strictly adhere to it.

"Is there anything special, Mr. Inchworm?"

Upon seeing the inchworm looking flustered, Utus immediately hid the wine bottle and asked a question.

The inchworm quickly adjusted its breathing and then explained its purpose.

“Professor Utus, I have found suspicious individuals… most likely the Northern Blade, less likely other cult disciples who have infiltrated the ship.”

Upon hearing this, Utus stretched his neck, clearly intrigued.

For some reason, he did not participate in the siege of the Star Abyss Society on the night of Mordway, and his recent voyages have been unusually smooth, with almost no accidents... which made him somewhat itchy to get involved.