After receiving the Gray Lady's wisdom and William's practical survival lessons, Lin Jie's somewhat restless heart settled down once more.

However, just as he thought he was about to enter a peaceful period of study immersed in an "ocean of knowledge," a piece of typeset news from the distant Scottish Highlands abruptly shattered the tranquility he had just built.

The next morning, Lin Jie was sitting in the Association's common area, flipping through the latest issue of The Scotsman.

This was a newspaper he had specifically subscribed to in order to keep up with the academic activities of the folklorist Alistair MacDonald, with whom he had briefly crossed paths.

Suddenly, his gaze was drawn to a tiny, inconspicuous obituary tucked away in the gutter of the newspaper, consisting of only a few short lines.

"Ian McGregor, a local fisherman from Urquhart Bay, was found to have passed away peacefully in his private residence this Tuesday, aged sixty-seven."

"According to the local constable, the deceased died of natural causes due to heart failure induced by long-term alcoholism;

foul play has been ruled out."

Ian McGregor—that "crazy old man" everyone at Loch Ness had dismissed as a raving lunatic.

The last stubborn believer who clung to his faith in the "Loch Ness Guardian Deity."

Lin Jie's mind conjured the old man's face, bloodshot from years of alcohol abuse, yet etched with stubbornness and bitter resentment.

He knew, of course, that Old Ian's death was inevitable.

A lonely old man who had lost all hope in life, numbing his soul with cheap liquor—the flame of his life had long burned out amidst daily poverty and the despair of being misunderstood.

Just as Lin Jie was feeling somewhat downcast about this, a burly figure appeared behind him.

"Hey, kid." The burly man Marcus interrupted his contemplation. "You look like you just lost your partner. What, did that lunatic Arthur finally toss your precious revolver into the smelting furnace by accident?"

He had intended to start with his usual crude joke, but when he saw Lin Jie's lack of reaction, he reined in his smile.

"What's wrong?" Marcus's voice grew low.

Lin Jie pushed the newspaper over.

Marcus picked it up and glanced at the inconspicuous obituary.

"Oh... I see. That's too bad, but Lin Jie, you have to understand—for an 'ordinary person' like him, being able to die quietly in his own bed, rather than being dragged off as a snack by some UMA we don't even know about, is actually a fortunate end."

"Fortunate..." Lin Jie repeated the word under his breath.

Marcus watched him in silence for a moment, then seemed to reach a decision.

"Since you happen to have time today to ponder these philosophical questions about 'death,' come with me to a place."

"We also have a 'brother'," his voice grew unusually somber, "who needs us to see him off on this final journey."

Half an hour later, Lin Jie followed Marcus to an ancient Norman-style church in East London, surrounded by ivy-covered walls, seemingly long abandoned.

The location was remote, surrounded by dilapidated warehouses and textile mills that had long ceased operation.

Though equally ancient inside, the church was impeccably clean, with rows of dark pews neatly arranged.

The stained-glass windows on the dome depicting Biblical stories had long since faded, but they still cast patches of sacred, tranquil light in the thin afternoon sun.

Before the central altar of the church, a stark black coffin made of top-quality, extremely hard "iron birch wood," devoid of any superfluous ornamentation, rested quietly.

Dozens of men and women from I.A.R.C. had gathered in silence.

They did not speak or weep, merely stood quietly.

This was a funeral meant only for hunters.

Marcus gestured for Lin Jie to "follow," then led the way toward the coffin.

Lin Jie watched as Marcus, upon reaching the coffin, did not pray or bid farewell as one would at a conventional funeral. Instead, he solemnly drew something from within his coat.

It was a massive brass-colored tooth, the size of an infant's fist, its surface covered in crystalline patterns, the tip still bearing a trace of long-dried dark red blood.

He leaned forward gently and placed the tooth, representing one of the most cunning enemies he had ever defeated, upon the coffin.

Then a second, and a third hunter stepped forward in turn.

A female hunter with the wild aura of a Gypsy woman placed an "amulet" woven from the feathers of an unknown UMA upon the coffin.

Another hunter, wearing a white felt hat, placed a bizarre, still faintly beating heart, preserved in solid ice through cryogenic alchemy, beside the tooth.

Each of them offered a trophy representing the proudest victory of their hunting careers as a final gift to their fallen comrade.

There were no sorrowful tears, no hypocritical eulogies—only pure honor.

After the funeral concluded, Marcus led Lin Jie, whose mind was reeling from the experience, to the quiet, moss-covered cemetery behind the church.

He pointed at the rows of nameless tombstones standing silently in the drizzle and said, "See, Lin Jie? This is our final resting place."

Lin Jie saw that the tombstones indeed bore no "names" or "dates of birth and death" to identify the occupants. Instead, there were only cold strings of letters and numbers forming codes, and below them, an equally cold hunter codename.

"C-077, 'Iron Fist'."

"T-013, 'Nightblade'."

"K-004, 'Beast Slayer'."

...

"Every person lying here," Marcus pulled a flat flask filled with strong whiskey from his coat and took a fierce swig, "their names won't be remembered by people in the surface world. Their families will only receive a notification of death in the line of duty from some 'non-existent' government department, along with compensation. But we remember them."

He pointed at himself, then at Lin Jie. "We, the brothers still living, will always remember what they fell protecting."

"I was only nineteen when I joined the Association." Marcus began telling Lin Jie his story. "My hometown was a tiny, tiny fishing village on the coast of Cornwall. It was poor and peaceful, until one night a monster we now call 'Dagon' and its brood crawled ashore."

"I witnessed a scene I'll never forget for the rest of my life. My father, my brothers, all my neighbors were torn to shreds in that one-sided slaughter. I survived by hiding in a barrel filled with pickled herring."

"It was the Association's hunters who saved me. They descended like gods from heaven, driving those monsters back into the sea with fire and alchemical bullets."

"From that day on, I swore I would become one of them. I would use these fists of mine to kill every last damn monster like the ones from that night."

A simple, pure expression of vengeful satisfaction appeared on his rough-hewn face.

"My first partner, 'Iron Fist' Ronnie," his gaze fell upon a tombstone engraved with "C-077," "was an even bigger guy than me. The two of us dismantled a Strigoi shrine with our bare hands, but he... he took a 'cursed bullet' from a cult traitor meant for me, and in the end, his body was corroded into a disgusting pile of sludge..."

He took another fierce gulp from his flask.

"So, Lin Jie," he turned and looked at Lin Jie with eyes already slightly reddened, speaking earnestly, "people like us, from the day we step into the inner world, never expect to die peacefully of old age in our own comfortable beds."

"Dying on a mission, dying on the path of fighting those damn monsters—for us, that is the most honorable end."