Under the bright afternoon sunlight, Caine swiftly adjusted the firing position of his revolver, opened the corresponding mechanism, and entered a state where he could instantly fire and hit his enemies, causing the brass metal of the gun to gleam with a flowing radiance. Holding the gun in one hand and extending it forward, he remained vigilant for any possible changes in his surroundings. At the same time, he was somewhat concerned about Captain Dunn and Mr. El Hasson in the gray double-breasted coat, as both were "Nightmares"—specialists in subtly influencing their opponents—whose direct confrontations remained uncertain. As Caine's thoughts turned, Mr. El Hasson deliberately slowed his forward stride, his expression becoming calm and sorrowful. His mouth opened, reciting a poem that brought calm and a sense of being immersed in the evening: "Whenever the sun sinks in the west," "droplets gather on the evening's robe," "she appears pale as a moonlit night," "or like stars that accompany the moon," "the evening primrose, nurtured by night dew," "unfolds its graceful, delicate blooms," "like a recluse who shuns the sunlight." ... (Note 1) The resonance of the recitation spread, and Kline nearly lost his tense alertness, allowing himself to fully relax. Fortunately, he had prior experience with such moments, and he wasn't directly facing the direction where El. Hassen stood, so he quickly stabilized his spirit, maintaining a semi-meditative state to counter the poem's influence. He exhaled softly, silently relieved, no longer doubting the direct combat prowess of Dune and El. Since he had only recently been promoted and wasn't particularly familiar with the sequence of magical potions, he had momentarily forgotten that Sequence 7's "Nightmare" was advanced from Sequence 8's "Midnight Poet," retaining all its original abilities with slight enhancements. Klein's entire impression of the "Midnight Poet" came from Leonard Mitchell, knowing that this profession inherited the special traits of the "Never-Sleeping," excelling in combat, shooting, climbing, and sensing, and also skilled at using poems of varying styles to produce different effects on the surrounding beings—essentially, a violent poet. As El Hassan's chanting continued, a ripple passed through the stacked wooden crates, and suddenly a man in a black tailcoat, wearing a half-high silk hat, emerged. Yet, his face was painted in red, yellow, and white hues, forming a comically upturned expression at both corners of his mouth—creating a strikingly absurd contrast with his otherwise formal evening attire. Tapping, tapping, tapping! Introduced as a marksman, the dark-haired Lorota surged forward swiftly, one hand gripping her rifle, the other clenched into a fist, closing the distance to the dapper clown in just a few steps. The dapper clown seemed influenced by El. Hassen's poem, his body slightly swaying, his gaze calm and serene, showing no desire to resist at all. Crack! Lorota executed a diagonal step with a punching motion, raising her arm and delivering a powerful blow to the clown's face. Thud! The air exploded as the dapper clown suddenly shattered like a mirror, fragmenting into pieces that swiftly evaporated and vanished. At this moment, in the shadowy corner of the stack of wooden crates a few steps away, the outline of the dapper clown quickly reformed, reappearing. The one who had just been affected was merely a phantom! Just a performance! The dapper clown, as always, kept his mouth open, his smile awkward and comical, one hand resting on his half-high hat, the other raised, and he gave a sharp, decisive tap of his finger. Thwack! His sharp finger snaps echoed like gunfire. Lorota darted left, rolling continuously to evade. Yet nothing happened—only the virtual shots rang out. Pang! Pang! Pang! Dunn and El raised their rifles, steady and precise, while the tuxedoed clown moved fluidly—left and right, retreating and rolling—his movements as graceful as a circus act. Suddenly, the dark-haired Lorota surged forward again, the famed marksman twisting and extending her arms, punching with determination. Pang! The tuxedoed clown couldn’t dodge in time, lifting his left arm to block the blow. As he paused, Dunn and El immediately aimed and fired. At that moment, an orange flame suddenly flared up at the spot where the clown’s arm met Lorota’s punch. In a flash, the flame engulfed the clown, spreading toward Lorota. Pang! Pang! Deng and Ai both fired their revolvers, striking the flame. The fire surged rapidly, soon leaving only black dust swirling in the air. Yet there he stood again, a few meters away, half-hidden behind several stacked wooden crates. He raised his right hand and tapped once more. *Pang!* With the sound of virtual gunfire, Lòlòta suddenly halted, pausing her charge—before she could rush forward, a spray of soil erupted and bullet holes appeared in front of her. This strike from the tuxedo clown was no longer mere illusion! Real and unreal, true and false—so interwoven that it was hard to tell which was which. *Pang!* *Pang!* *Pang!* The tuxedo clown tapped his fingers rapidly, darting in and out, exchanging shots with Deng and Ai. Observing this scene, Lòlòta narrowed her eyes and lifted her left hand, holding her dark golden tubular revolver. *Pang!* The tuxedo clown suddenly bent low, ducking to evade the fatal blow; his half-high silk hat drifted backward, falling to the dust, bearing clear signs of scorched bullet holes. With several rolls, he climbed nimbly up the stacked wooden crates, like a curly-haired baboon, and from his elevated position tapped out a series of sharp clicks, launching air projectiles. Arl Hassen stepped back a few paces, lowered his gun, and began reciting once more: "Her beauty is open only to the night," "But the night pays her no heed," "Her love is entirely blind..." ... (Note 1) The dapper clown leapt between the crates, suddenly raised his hands to scratch his ears, and gazed at Arl with his fixed, comic expression. Was he really going to block his ears right then? The sequence potions held by the Conclave were rather peculiar... Clay watched intently, forming a clear hunch. Just as his thought took shape, he spotted a figure materializing on the roof of the warehouse to the side, swiftly racing toward the very farthest room where Riel Biber was concealed. The figure wore gray and white dockworker's attire, and seemed to have paint of red, yellow, and white applied to its face. The Clown in the tails draws the captain's attention—someone else goes to retrieve the notes? Klein's thoughts drift, instinctively lifting his right hand and firing at the figure above the ceiling. He'd aimed precisely, with good lead, but the figure suddenly crouched down, shifting from running to flipping. *Thwack!* Klein didn't stop—his trigger finger kept pressing—and as he did, the figure halted abruptly, blood blossoming across its body. The figure stared at him in surprise, enduring the wound, and continued toward the farthest warehouse. Ah, a bit of "Go with the flow" gunplay—Klein shakes his head, fires again. This time, the bullet strikes the wooden roof beside the figure. *Thwack!* *Thwack!* *Thwack!* Leonard and Borgias also fire, but neither hits the figure. Klein had meant to comment on their poor aim, yet his finger suddenly halts on the trigger. Right! Why should he stop him? Didn't I just divination that the warehouse itself poses a great danger? Why not send this man to scout ahead, to run into trouble? That's precisely what Leonard and the Borghese gentleman have in mind... As the thought formed, Caine raised the gun and fired upward. *Bang!* *Bang!* *Bang!* With the three shots, the figure moved unimpeded to the roof of the farthest warehouse. He suddenly plunged downward, elbow striking, and with a crash, tumbled through the broken roof. At that moment, the eyes of Lady Loretta, with her black hair, deepened into an even darker hue, and her left hand made a strange downward pulling motion. The dashing movements of the tailor-clad clown instantly stalled—her ankles seemed gripped tightly by an invisible hand. Yet Dune did not immediately fire; instead, he lowered his revolver. He opened his mouth, allowing the air around him to vibrate purely through the resonance of his spirit—without moving his throat—producing a faint, elusive, and strange sound: "Her flowers bloom until dawn." "But when the daylight opens her eyes," "and she is watched, ashamed, with nowhere to hide," "she wilts and fades in dizziness..." (Annotation 1) The struggling movements of the tuxedo clown suddenly grew weak, as though the very desire to survive had vanished. Arl Hassen raised his pistol, aimed at the enemy, and his fingers poised to trigger the shot. At that very instant, a sharp, piercing cry erupted from the deepest warehouse: "Ah!" The cry carried an intensity of fear so profound it seemed to convey an unimaginable terror. As Clain felt a deep chill, the cry abruptly ceased, and the innermost warehouse fell into a profound, unnerving silence. Clang! Arl was slightly affected—the bullet struck only the tuxedo clown in the abdomen. Lotus. Lotus. Lotus! The quiet of the innermost warehouse is once again broken by a breath that should have been gentle—it starts soft and grows stronger, sending ripples through everyone’s nerves. Thump. Thump. Thump! Thump. Thump. Thump! The "2–049" inside the iron-black box suddenly erupts, going wild beyond measure. Note 1: Quoted from Clare’s "Loveliness of the Nightingale," with fly-blank spaces, translated.