In the first-class dining room, Klein, who had casually found a seat in an inconspicuous corner, spotted a familiar figure. The other person familiarly sat down at the same table as him.
After half a second of silence, he said in a cold tone with a trace of barely perceptible speechlessness, "Why are you using Sherlock Moriarty's appearance?"
Cyril smiled. "Don't you think it's interesting?"
"No." Klein calmly shook his head, then fell silent.
Beside them, Danitz, wearing a wig, with his eyebrows darkened and his face and neck painted a deep yellowish-brown, lowered his head and listened very seriously to their conversation, his thoughts wandering.
Sherlock Moriarty?
Was he also a member of that secret organization? Once they got off the ship, he could ask around. Perhaps he would learn which secret organization they truly came from and what their purpose was.
As his thoughts drifted, a gentle breeze suddenly swept through the dining room. A soft voice echoed in everyone's ears along with the wind: "Praise You, King who rules the skies; sing praises to You, Emperor who commands the seas..."
As though their souls had been brushed by a mild breeze, everyone in the dining room went from being irritated or drowsy to looking utterly content.
Danitz leaned against the back of his chair and closed his eyes. He suddenly felt as if his soul had been cleansed.
After roughly two or three minutes, the elderly man standing at the front of the dining room stopped his recitation. Wearing a black soft hat and a black robe embroidered with Storm symbols, he swept his gaze over the crowd before walking toward the door.
As he walked, the breeze swirling through the dining room subsided, and the people who had closed their eyes and listened gradually came to