Having traversed countless realms, can you possibly be as clever as me?

Dongjiang saw nothing, nor did Chase, but he could sense these spirits and their connection to Constantine.

Because of him, or even because he was the one who caused their death?

Constantine's face grew even paler, but he did not stop the ceremony. He stubbed out his cigarette on his palm—another scorch mark next to his fresh wound, the excruciating pain making him even more focused.

The ceremony continued, and just as he was about to clearly see the murderer—

boom!!!

A golden light exploded at the center of the ritual array. Caught off guard, Constantine was instantly pulled by the force and slammed heavily against the wall beside him!

"John!!!"

His assistant, Chase, rushed over to help him up. Constantine coughed heavily, thick white smoke billowing from his mouth.

"Damn it, what the hell..."

He cursed incessantly, shoved Chase aside, and stared intently at Tsurugi, demanding...

"Who is this person? Why is the power of Heaven directly protecting him! I was almost burned to ashes just now!"

Tsugumi slightly averted her gaze and smiled.

"Who knows? But I think Mr. John, it's beyond your capabilities."

Constantine stared intently into Tsurugi's eyes, as if trying to find some clue. Then he dismissed Chase and remained in the room with Tsurugi one-on-one.

“You must know something!” Constantine said confidently.

"Is Heaven behind all this? Are you finally about to lose your patience?!"

“Mr. John, you’ve made a mistake,” Tsugumi said calmly.

"The human world is a hunting ground for demons, but for heaven it's just a sheepfold. If you want to take a sheep from the pen, do you need anyone's permission?"

"Don't give me that nonsense!" Constantine stared intently at Tsurugi, his voice hoarse.

"If this matter is related to Heaven, then I have no right to get involved!"

"Yes, of course," Tsurugi said slowly.

"If the murderer is from Heaven, then you can simply use the power of Hell, can't you?"

"Damn it, are you a demon or a saint?!" Constantine cursed.

"You're a devil for tempting others to use the power of hell!"

"Whether you use it or not is your freedom. You can decide for yourself how to choose."

Tsugumi seemed completely unconcerned, sketching a few lines on the paper before handing it to Constantine.

"This is the Goetia Sign of Asmodeus. I don't need to teach you how to summon him. John Constantine, you really don't have much time left. May you truly be able to redeem your soul."

Having said that, he turned and left, leaving Constantine staring blankly at the Gethia Seal in his hand.

"Hey John, is that guy really reliable?" Chas walked in, glanced at Tsurugi's departing figure downstairs, and couldn't help but ask.

"Who knows, but he's definitely a damn saint!" Constantine lit a cigarette, put it in his mouth, and said sullenly.

Given his years of experience in both setting traps and being set traps, it wouldn't be surprising, even expected, that Tsurugi was truly the culprit behind all this. Moreover, the way he acted made it seem as if he was openly telling Constantine that he was the mastermind.

But the more Constantine thought about it, the more he felt that it wasn't him. But... just as Constantine was thinking, a sharp pain came from his lungs.

He lay on the ground, coughing violently as if he were coughing up his lungs. He refused Chase's help, kneeling on the ground panting, staring at the dark bloodstains with black spots that had stained the floor.

"Your days are numbered," Tsurugi's calm words echoed in Constantine's mind. How could he not understand? The trial was coming, and his own end seemed not far off.

"Damn it... I tried it!"

Constantine took out the Gethias Seal that Tsurugi had given him, gritted his teeth, and finally made up his mind.

Meanwhile, shortly after Tsugumi left Constantine's apartment, two men in dark suits followed her.

Before Dongjiang could take more than a few steps, they came up from both sides and sandwiched him between them.

"Don't move! We're from MI6. Come with us!"

A cold, hard object pressed against Tsurugi's back, followed by a chilling London accent coming from behind.

Tsurugi gave a light, flippant whistle and raised his hand with amusement.

"Yes, yes, yes, it's Krger... MI6 agent, how could I dare to disobey you?"

Things are getting interesting, Tsugumi squinted.

Having transmigrated, my only purpose is to kill, kill, kill! : 77. A top agent, huh? Go find your queen right now!

Rainwater slid down Dongjiang's neck and into his shirt collar, cold and sticky. Two agents in dark suits grabbed his arms, one on each side, and shoved him into the back seat of a black Bentley with professional yet rough movements.

The sound of the car door closing was muffled, isolating it from the damp streets of London at night.

“Take it easy, guys,” Tsugumi’s relaxed voice sounded unusually calm in the enclosed carriage. “For your own sake, it’s best not to do this anymore.”

The agent on the left—whose jaw was as square as a granite block—did not respond, but simply placed a black blindfold over Tsugumi's head. The movement was noticeably gentler, and Tsugumi offered no resistance, obediently lowering his head and waiting with interest for the next segment.

The car traveled through the streets of London for about forty minutes, stopping and starting, winding and turning, and finally stopped, at which point Tsurugi was pulled out of the car.

Stepping onto the wet stone path and passing through several doors, the smell of disinfectant gradually replaced the scent of rain. Finally, he was forced onto a cold metal chair, and his blindfold was abruptly ripped off.

The room before me was a bizarre hybrid of an underground laboratory and a Victorian study. The walls were exposed concrete, but in the center of the room stood a classic mahogany desk, neatly arranged with brass instruments and leather-bound notebooks. Cool white light poured down from overhead, leaving sharp edges in the shadows.

Good evening, Mr. Tsugumi.

The sound came from the other end of the room. A man in a dark green three-piece suit emerged from the shadows, carrying a bone china teacup. He was around fifty years old, with neatly combed gray hair, sharp blue eyes behind his glasses like a scalpel, and a distant yet polite smile on his lips.

"I hope my colleague wasn't too rude." The gentleman gently placed his teacup on the desk, the metal teaspoon clinking against the saucer.

Tsurugi stretched out her handcuffed hands, the metal scraping leaving red marks on her wrists.

"That's certainly not respectful. By the way, do you provide refreshments before the interrogation? I'm a little hungry this late."

The gentleman chuckled softly, a laugh as dry as autumn leaves.

"I'm sorry, our chef has already finished get off work. However, if you cooperate, perhaps we can finish earlier so you can enjoy a decent dinner."

He picked up a folder from the table and slowly opened it.

“Tsugumi, a Hong Kong resident, has been running a small firm in Kowloon, Hong Kong for three years. No criminal record, at least no official record.” He looked up.

"But you arrived in the UK with a visa a week ago, and over two consecutive days, you came into contact with several marked special groups of people and areas, including John Constantine, a midnight pub, and St. Fehr's Cathedral at Scotland Yard. Can you explain that?"

Tsuruga blinked. Well, he had almost forgotten that when he entered these mission worlds, he would be given some random background information or identity settings.

However, it seems that these identities and backgrounds didn't really play any role outside of the first world.

"So?" Tsugumi spread her hands and asked teasingly.

"What do the higher authorities of the British Empire intend to ask the third class of people in the colonies?"

“This is not a regular consultation.” The gentleman leaned forward, placing his hands crossed on the table.

"This is a matter of great importance concerning the entire British Empire and world security; you have no obligation to refuse."

"What do I care whether your queen and her long-lived prince live or die? Oh, I forgot, he was just a thirteen-year-old prince at this time. Tsk tsk tsk, he'll be the crown prince for over seventy years."

The agent on the right—younger, blond, with a fierce look in his eyes—took a step forward, but the gentleman gently raised his hand to stop him, calmly warning him.

“I must warn you to watch your words and actions, Mr. Tsurugi, or we won’t hesitate to use some rough methods.”

"Oh, I'm so sorry." Tsugumi waved her hand, then smiled.

"Then I'll insult someone else. How's our Su Suizong—that is, our Comrade Khrushchev—doing now? Still having a good appetite, huh? After all, World War III might be just around the corner. Hopefully, he can lead the Soviets to victory as tenaciously as Comrade Stalin, whom he criticized."

"If he loses, I wonder how many people in MI6 will be mourning for him?"

The gentleman paused for a moment, then shook his head.

"What a pity, you acted irrationally—Lanmarok, give our Mr. Tsuru a proper welcome."

After saying that, he straightened his tie, gracefully walked around the table and left the room. Before closing the door, you could already see the young agent clenching his fist and punching out.

He went to another room and sat down. This room was only separated from the interrogation room by a wall, and he could already hear the muffled sounds of fists hitting flesh coming from inside.

The gentleman and another equally well-dressed and gentlemanly agent could only see a blurry shadow, as if viewing some kind of underwater scene through a thick fog.

"Hasn't he confessed yet, Galahad?" another agent asked, his tone as casual as if he were asking about the weather.

“We need to go through the necessary procedures.” Galahad handed over a glass of whiskey. “He has the answers we need, you know, Lancelot.”

Lancelot took the glass, but instead of drinking it immediately, he looked through the amber liquid at the milky white liquid.

"He's from Hong Kong, right?"

Galahad nodded.

"That makes things much simpler," Lancelot said dismissively, taking a sip of his drink.

"These colonial fools never understand their place; they mix a few English words into their speech and think they're part of the British Empire."

Galahad's lips curled into a slight smile: "Indeed. They enjoy our system, our protection, yet they still fantasize about enjoying the same status as us."

“Ridiculous.” Lancelot sat down on the leather sofa, crossing his legs. “Either choose to be part of the civilized world and accept our rules, or stay where they belong. You can’t have both.”

On the other side of the glass, the light and shadow flickered, as if someone was staggering. Both of them glanced at it, but quickly looked away.

“Honestly,” Galahad continued, “I still don’t quite understand why Arthur has us closely monitoring these special groups, but forbids us from contacting them. We’re top agents, after all.”

“Because they possess a power that we never had.” Lancelot swirled his glass. “It can even be traced back to before the establishment of our elite agents. Those mysterious powers have always been elusive to us, neither under our control nor outside our sphere of influence.”

“Angels, demons?” Galahad raised an eyebrow. “Do they really exist? Nonsense. If they did, they wouldn’t be doing much.

“I don’t know much either, but Arthur said that the situation has been very turbulent recently, with the United States and the Soviet Union—although they blocked the news of those sudden events, we still got intelligence from the KGB’s spies who had infiltrated MI6.”

Lancelot's gaze was deep.

"He knew about classified intelligence such as attacks on the Kremlin and the White House. Clearly, this guy from the colony also has special 'intelligence channels' just like those we can't reach."

The light and shadow on the other side of the glass flickered violently again. This time it lasted even longer.

Galahad was silent for a moment: "So, we're going to get information from him? Did you tell Arthur about this?"

“Use the necessary means to obtain the necessary information.” Lancelot’s tone was matter-of-fact. “Once you have the intelligence, just deal with it. No record, no trial, no consular notification. Just pretend this person never existed.”

"This is extreme."

“This is pragmatism.” Lancelot leaned forward. “We are protecting Great Britain, Her Majesty the Queen, and the safety of millions of true British citizens. For this goal, what is there to hesitate about sacrificing a… outsider with a complicated background?”