"That gentleman—how long has he been dead?" Klein asked directly, as he was gathering his things. If it had passed 15 minutes, the information would sharply diminish; beyond one hour, it would be only superficial. If it exceeded a month, the mediumship itself would likely fail. "Unfortuntately, the initial examination report indicates that Senator Menard passed away between 9 and 11 p.m. yesterday," Dune shook his head. "You just need to offer your assistance—you needn't worry about whether anything will be gained." "Understood," Klein said, removing his coat, taking up his hat and cane, and heading toward the duty room. Dune Smith would take over his shift at the Charnes gate. In theory, as a special individual, one could learn spiritual sight, divination, and ritual magic simply by enhancing one's spiritual awareness—especially the "Night Watchers" sequence, renowned for their high inspiration. In fact, the distinctions among the various "professions" in similar aspects remain quite evident. For instance, both Duan Smith and Leonard Mitchell currently possess clairvoyance, yet they perceive only pale white or soft blue hues in the energy fields, unable to accurately discern the condition of different body parts. While, when in a clairvoyant state, they can clearly see ethereal entities and spirits, this ability is far less intuitive and effective than their innate inspiration. This explains why the "Night Watchers," the "Midnight Poets," and the "Night Terrors" often avoid activating their clairvoyance. Similarly, if they so wished, they could learn techniques such as pendulum reading, divination with staffs, or dream interpretation—though the success rate of such learning remains uncertain. The same applies to the field of ritual magic. As they passed each other, Duan suddenly remarked, "I almost forgot to mention that this matter is also under the supervision of Inspector Toller. He's waiting for you in the reception hall of the security company. Don't forget to wear your new uniform and bring your updated credentials." "Klein didn't find it surprising at all. "New uniforms, new credentials? The Tinggen City Police Department must be quite efficient," he remarked, having just been promoted to rank 8 the day before. "Because this case is particularly significant, so..." Dune gestured helplessly and took the seat previously occupied by Klein. It had been some time since they last saw each other, and the tall officer had grown even more rounded, his belly now particularly prominent, complemented by a dense beard and hair—much like a brown bear who had just escaped from the circus. "Good to be working with you again," said Tolle, relieved to recognize the night watchman, straightening up and extending his hand as if it were a bear's paw. Not quite a paw, though—Klein silently corrected himself, offering a polite handshake. "Me too." At that moment, Tolle glanced at Klein's shoulder boards, adorned with two gleaming silver stars, and expressed a touch of admiration. "We're now on equal footing—less than a month ago, we weren't." Klein had intended to say something serious—perhaps, "The dangers we face may be ten times greater than yours"—but as the words formed, he thought of his current status: a Sequence 8 "clown." Maybe it was time to try it out. Drawing on the reflection of his expression in his mind, he smiled warmly, clearly responding: "Perhaps in another two or three months, you'll have to call me 'senior.'" "You're truly witty," Tolé laughed, pointing toward the door. "Shall we go?" "Of course," said Cline, still holding his cane. For him, it was only now, after becoming a 'clown,' that this 'weapon' truly belonged to him. As they stepped out of the Black Thorns Security Company building, Cline and Tolé walked side by side down the stairs—thin and broad-shouldered, a striking contrast. "I think we could even amuse the audience at a circus," Cline suddenly remarked. Tolé nodded in full agreement: "Yes, I believe our contrast has a strong comedic effect. Did you know? Some circuses are now experimenting with groups of clowns of varying body types and heights." No, actually, I meant the animal trainers and the brown bears... Cline certainly wouldn't have said something so unkind, so he simply added, "Unfortunately, our Tinggen city doesn't have a permanent circus." "Yes, but we do have the opera house, the grand theater, and the concert halls." Tolle responded with a touch of regret. The two exchanged greetings and boarded the police department's carriage. It wasn't until then that Caine shifted the conversation to the case: "Is it certain that Senator Menard was murdered?" "We're not entirely sure, but neither his wife nor his two sons believe that a sudden illness could have been the cause. There are indeed some issues at the scene—when Menard was found, he was completely naked, lying on the bed in the guest room." Tolle said, carefully weighing his words. "Did Menard and his wife share a bedroom?" Caine leaned back against the carriage wall, mimicking the detectives he had seen in various shows from his past life. Tolle shook his head: "No, his wife has not been in Tinggen recently. She went to Beckland for an important social ball. You may not be familiar with her—she is the daughter of a rising political leader and a member of the House of Commons. She's still on the return steam train, having only communicated her stance via telegraph." "Mendel is also a member of the New Party and has served as a city councilor in Tinggen for over ten years. He plans to run for mayor next year." "So his death might be connected to that?" Klein asked casually, then chuckled. "I'm only assisting with the autopsy—nothing else falls within my scope of responsibility. You don't have to answer." Toller sighed lightly, not particularly concerned. "The autopsy... you're being cautious." "As for your speculation, I can only say it's possible. Last night, Councilor Mendel hosted a gathering at his home, with so many guests coming and going that we haven't yet identified the primary suspect. All the guests are of respectable standing, so we must be especially careful not to make any mistakes." "Understood," Klein nodded gently, then asked a few more questions about the scene. Mendel's home is situated in the Jin Wutong district, a standalone house surrounded by gardens and lawns on all sides, with a stable, a water fountain, and a wide, concrete-paved road. Caine donned a soft cap bearing the police insignia, following Commissioner Toller through the formally established but effectively symbolic perimeter lines, entering the main door of the two-story building under the watchful eyes of several officers. In the living area, four newly appointed inspectors were individually speaking with guests, gathering statements. Upon a quick glance, Caine noticed several gentlemen in tailcoats and a number of elegant ladies in court dresses, their fine black lace veils partially covering their faces. "Those are the guests who stayed overnight here," Toller explained, leading Caine up the stairs toward the second floor. Along the way, perhaps the presence of the commissioners' shoulder insignias, the officers on duty greeted both of them with respectful demeanor, offering no resistance at all. "This is the guest room where the body of the Member of Parliament, Mendel, was discovered." Tolé, tall and robust, stopped before a deep red wooden door. Cain pondered, asking, "Who occupied this room last night?" "Nobody. This house has too many guest rooms—many of them went unused." Tolé donned his white gloves and turned the deep red door handle. He asked the guard inside to step aside temporarily, then nodded to Cain and said, "Inspector Moretti, from now on it's up to you." "May the goddess protect us both—may we find something worthwhile." Cain also donned his white gloves and secured the door. He walked over to the bed, where the crimson bedsheet lay unusually disheveled, and a body covered in a white cloth lay upon it. Cain, now a seasoned observer, did not flinch as he pulled back the cloth to gaze upon Lord Menard. The man was in his forties, with a short, golden beard, and his face bore a mixture of pain and pleasure, entwined and in constant tension. Klein stepped back two paces, retrieved the necessary materials, and swiftly completed the preliminary preparations for the spirit summoning ritual. After reciting a series of incantations, he silently repeated the divinatory phrase he had long intended to use, immersed in the serene, distant fragrance and the cool breeze surrounding him: "the cause of the death of the Honorable Menard." "the cause of the death of the Honorable Menard." ... As he repeated the phrase, Klein gradually moved toward the armchair, settled into it, and slowly sat down. His eyes darkened, he leaned back, and swiftly entered a deep sleep. In the ethereal, hazy, and dreamlike world, he suddenly saw the gentleman he had just encountered. Menard's blue eyes were open, struggling fiercely as he lay pressed against the body of a tall, fair-skinned woman. At first, he radiated an expression of profound satisfaction and joy; then, suddenly, he retracted his right hand and pressed it to his chest, his face twisting into a fierce, agonized expression. Crash! As Menard collapsed, the scene rapidly shattered, and Klein opened his eyes, awakening from the dream. I never thought I’d get to see a little mishap like this again… So, did Senator Menard die of heartbreak on the bed, from sheer exhaustion? Klein chuckled softly, rubbing his temple. He pulled out a pen and paper, once again performing the ritual, sketching out the lady he had seen in his dream—though only up to the neck. She was a woman of indistinct age, possessing the mature grace of someone in her thirties, yet still carrying the freshness of youth. Her eyes were moist and luminous, giving off a delicate, vulnerable charm. Glancing at his own sketch, Klein gathered up the ritual materials and removed the spiritual barrier. He turned slightly, reaching out to grasp the silver-embossed black staff resting beside the bed. Suddenly, he heard a soft, rasping sound deep in his throat—a sound so subtle it instantly caused tiny bumps to rise on his skin! He turned sharply toward the bed and saw Senator Menard’s hands tightly gripping the dark red bedsheet, his palms now bluish and swollen with pressure. With a sudden snap, the member who died between 9 and 11 p.m. yesterday sat up, saliva flowing from his mouth, eyes hollow and open. PS: Tomorrow is Dragon Boat Festival. Adding one more chapter—same time: midnight, noon, and evening.