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Upon hearing the sudden knocking at the door, Kline, preoccupied with thoughts of the previous host's mysterious suicide and the potential dangers he might face, instinctively opened the drawer, retrieved the revolver, and cautiously inquired, his voice tinged with vigilance.

Outside, after two seconds of silence, a slightly sharp voice with an Ahova accent called out, "I'm Monbadton, Bich Monbadton."

After a pause, the voice added, "Police."

Monbadton... As the name penetrated his ears, Kline immediately thought of its corresponding owner.

He was one of the policemen responsible for the apartment district, a rough and brutal man who loved to get his hands dirty. However, perhaps only such a person could handle the drunkards, thieves, part-time thieves, ruffians, and thugs in the area.

And the unique voice was one of his trademarks.

"Alright, I'm coming!" Kline replied loudly.

He had intended to throw the revolver back into the drawer, but considering that the police outside were here for an unknown reason, perhaps involving a search, he carefully ran to the extinguished stove and placed the revolver inside.

Then, he picked up a small basket of coal, shook a few pieces into the stove, covered the gun with them, and finally placed the kettle on top to conceal everything.

After completing these tasks, he straightened his clothing, quickly approached the door, and as he opened it, muttered vaguely, "Sorry, just woke up from a nap."

Outside stood four police officers in black uniforms with white checkers, wearing badges and soft hats. Monbadton, with his stubbled cheeks, coughed and said to Kline, "These three officers have some questions for you."

Police? Kline reflexively looked at the shoulder patches of the other three, noticing two with three silver hexagonal stars and one with two stars, all appearing more senior than Monbadton with his three V-shaped labels.

As a history student, Kline hadn't researched police shoulder patch grades, but he knew that Monbadton often boasted of being a seasoned sheriff.

So, were these three inspectors? Influenced by classmates like Benson and Welch, Kline had some common sense; he stepped aside, gesturing towards the interior of the room, and asked, "Please come in. What is this about?"

The leading officer, a middle-aged man with sharp eyes that seemed to penetrate the soul, looked around the room while speaking in a deep voice, "Do you know Welch MacGowan?"

"What happened to him?" Kline's heart trembled, blurting out the question.

"I'm asking you," the imposing middle-aged officer replied sternly.

Beside him, another officer with three stars looked at Kline and said gently, "Don't be nervous, we're just asking routine questions."

This officer, around thirty, with a straight nose and gray eyes, exuded an indescribable depth, like a rarely visited lake in an ancient forest.

Taking a deep breath, Kline organized his thoughts and replied, "If you're referring to Welch MacGowan from Conston, a graduate of Hoye University, then yes, I know him. We were classmates, under the guidance of Senior Associate Professor Quentin Cohen."

In the Lurun Kingdom, "professor" wasn't just a title; it was also a position, akin to the combination of a professor and a department head on Earth. In other words, each university department could only have one professor. To become a professor, an associate professor had to wait for their superior to retire or rely on their own abilities to push them out.

Given the need to retain talent, after years of exploration, the Kingdom's Higher Education Commission introduced the position of Senior Associate Professor in the lecturer, associate professor, and professor three-tier system, for gentlemen and ladies with high academic qualifications or sufficient seniority who couldn't become professors.

At this point, Kline glanced at the middle-aged officer's eyes, considering for a moment before continuing, "To be honest, we had a good relationship. Recently, we've been meeting with Naya to interpret and discuss the 'Fourth Era' documents he obtained, a notebook. Officers, what has happened to him?"

The middle-aged officer didn't answer but turned to look at his gray-eyed companion.

The officer with the soft badge and average features, speaking gently, said, "Unfortunately, Mr. MacGowan has passed away."

"How did it happen?" Although he had a premonition, Kline couldn't help but express his astonishment.

Welch died just like the previous host?

That's a bit terrifying!

"Where's Naya?" Kline hurriedly asked.

"Ms. Naya has also passed away." The gray-eyed officer said calmly, "They both died in Mr. MacGowan's residence."

"Murdered?" Kline had a guess.

Perhaps it was suicide...

The gray-eyed officer shook his head, "No, from the evidence at the scene, it appears they committed suicide. Mr. MacGowan repeatedly hit his head against the wall, causing extensive bleeding, while Ms. Naya drowned herself in a basin of water, the kind used for washing one's face."

"That's impossible..." Kline's hair stood on end as he listened, as if he could imagine the eerie scene.

A girl kneeling on a chair, burying her face in a basin full of water, her brown hair cascading down, swaying in the wind, yet remaining still; Welch lying on the ground, his eyes fixed on the ceiling, his forehead completely shattered, covered in blood, with bloodstains everywhere on the walls from the impact...

The corner of the gray-eyed officer's mouth twitched, "We thought the same, but the autopsy results and the scene ruled out drugs and external forces. They, I mean, Mr. MacGowan and Ms. Naya, showed no signs of resistance."

Before Kline could speak again, he stepped into the room and casually asked, "When was the last time you saw Mr. MacGowan or Ms. Naya?"

As he spoke, he gestured to his colleague with two silver stars.

That was a young officer, roughly the same age as Kline, with black hair and green eyes, handsome, exuding a poet's romantic temperament.

Upon hearing the question, Kline's mind raced as he pondered his response, "It should have been on June 26th. We interpreted a new passage together from a notebook, and afterward, I returned home to prepare for the interview on the 30th, an interview for the history department at Tingen University."

Tingen City was known as the City of Universities, with Tingen and Hoye universities, a technical school, law school, and business school, second only to the capital, Beckland.

Just as he finished, he saw the young officer walk to the desk and pick up the more diary-like "notebook."

Oops! Forgot to hide it! Kline exclaimed briefly, "You!"

The young officer smiled at him but didn't stop flipping through the "notes," while the gray-eyed officer explained, "This is a necessary procedure."

At this point, Monbadton and the imposing middle-aged officer stood by, observing without interrupting or assisting in the search.

Where's your search warrant? Kline had intended to question them like this, but upon careful thought, he realized that the Ruun Kingdom's judiciary system hadn't evolved to

 the point of having search warrants, at least not to his knowledge. After all, even the police force had only been established fifteen or sixteen years ago.

In the previous host's childhood, they were still called sheriffs.

Kline couldn't stop them, watching helplessly as the young officer quickly perused "his notes," while the gray-eyed officer didn't ask any more questions.

"What strange thing?" The young officer, reaching the end, suddenly spoke, "And what does this sentence mean? 'Everyone will die, including me'..."

Apart from deities, isn't it common knowledge that everyone will die? Kline had originally prepared to argue, but suddenly realized that he had intended to "get in line" with the police to guard against potential dangers. He just lacked a reason, an excuse.

In less than a second, he made a decision, covering his forehead with his hand and answered with a painful tone, "I don't know, I really don't know... When I woke up this morning, I felt something was off, as if I had forgotten something, especially parts of the past few days, and I don't even know why I wrote that sentence."

Sometimes, honesty is the best way to solve a problem. Of course, honesty requires skill, knowing what to say and what not to say is one thing, which to say first, which to say later, and how to say it is another.

As a "keyboard" expert, Kline had also studied some rhetoric.

"Nonsense! Do you think we're fools?" Monbadton angrily interjected, unable to bear it anymore.

This lie is too clumsy, it's insulting our intelligence!

You're pretending to have a mental illness would be better than pretending to have amnesia!

"Really," Kline responded calmly to Monbadton and the middle-aged officer's gazes.

This matter really couldn't be more real.

"Perhaps it's really possible." At this moment, the gray-eyed officer spoke slowly.

What? You're buying this? Kline was surprised himself.

The gray-eyed officer smiled at him and said, "In a couple of days, an expert will come. Trust me, she should be able to help you recall your lost memories."

An expert? Helping recall memories? In the field of psychology? Kline frowned.

If she triggers my Earth memories, what should I do? He suddenly felt a toothache.

The young officer put down the notes, searched the desk and the room, fortunately focusing on the books and not picking up the kettle to examine.

"Alright, Mr. Kline, thank you for your cooperation. It's best for you to stay in Tingen in the next few days. If you must leave, please inform Officer Monbadton, otherwise, you will be considered a fugitive." The gray-eyed officer reminded him one last time.

Is that it? Is today's investigation over? No more questions, no further investigation? Or are they going to arrest me and use torture? Kline was puzzled for a moment.

But he also wanted to solve the bizarre events brought by Welch, so he nodded, "No problem."

The officers exited the room one by one, and the young man walking at the end suddenly patted Kline on the shoulder, "Good luck, you're lucky."

"What?" Kline looked confused.

The young officer with a poet's temperament smiled slightly, "Generally, encountering such an event where everyone involved dies is the norm."

"We're glad and consider ourselves fortunate to see you still alive."

With that, he left the room, closing the door politely behind him.

Everyone involved dies is the norm? Glad I'm still alive? Consider ourselves fortunate I'm still alive?

On this June afternoon, Kline shivered all over.