After briefly reviewing the clues Aether had found, Rover stroked his chin, stood up, and first went to examine the broken rope above the stage.
"Abby, can you sniff out what caused this?"
Since the rope couldn't have snapped on its own, there must have been an external force. If Abby could trace the source of that force, the scope of their investigation would narrow significantly.
"This... I can sense residual energy on the cross-section, but... but I've never encountered this kind of energy before. Or... maybe my nose is acting up."
Abby hesitated, unusually reluctant to draw a conclusion, which genuinely surprised Rover.
After all, Abby's ability to identify and track information was top-notch. If even he was uncertain, Rover had to accept one fact:
This was a power Rover had never encountered during his travels across Teyvat.
Suppressing his speculations, Rover called over a police officer and shared his findings.
The officer chuckled awkwardly before explaining:
"That energy is called Indemnitium. It's dispersed throughout the entire theater. After every trial, the Oratrice Mecanique d'Analyse Cardinale involuntarily releases it. We've always treated it as a normal phenomenon."
Indemnitium?
Rover glanced at Abby, who met his skeptical gaze with crossed arms and unwavering confidence.
"Of course I can sense it everywhere, but the cross-section of the rope has a much higher concentration of that... whatever-it's-called energy compared to other places."
Rover patted Abby's head, signaling his trust in Abby's judgment. Seemingly confirming a theory, he headed into the basement.
"Mhm, it's here too!"
If even the sealed basement had traces of it...
A nearly impossible conclusion formed in Rover's mind. He requested the deceased Marcel's suitcase. Out of respect, the officers had left the victim's belongings untouched.
But everyone knew the key clues likely weren't in the suitcase—after all, the three individuals involved in the case had no apparent connection to Marcel. Their relationship was like stars in the galaxy, separated by vast distances.
The suitcase had a mechanical electronic lock. Rover's first thought was to force it open since the owner was dead and the password lost.
But he had forgotten about the Shorekeeper.
The Shorekeeper stepped forward, crouched down, and lightly touched the lock. A few lines of data flickered in her eyes as faint fluorescence merged into the electronic lock. Soon, it clicked open.
"I can directly unlock lower-tech devices like this. If you encounter any electronic difficulties, leave them to me."
A faint smile graced her lips as she quietly watched Rover.
Inside the suitcase, aside from clothes, there was a notebook—more precisely, an experiment log. After flipping through a few pages, Rover's pupils constricted at its contents.
After quickly skimming the entire log, only one last doubt remained unresolved in Rover's mind.
Organizing his thoughts, he approached Neuvillette for a discussion.
With Neuvillette's permission, Rover secured private time with Lyney and his siblings.
"After the magic exchange began—from Lynette displaying the box, selecting numbers, to picking an audience member—that process took at least five minutes. During that time, Mr. Lyney, what were you doing in the basement?"
Lyney shook his head, wearing an expression of resignation, as if he'd been asked this many times.
"I stayed inside the box the whole time. I didn't do anything."
Rover pulled over a chair and sat down calmly. His gaze, dark and inscrutable, fixed on Lyney.
"The box isn't soundproof. I assume you heard the commotion outside, Mr. Lyney?"
Now it was Lyney's turn to look confused.
"I didn't hear anything outside the box."
Rover smiled.
"The water stains and the disheveled state of the girl's clothes prove something happened in the basement. Yet you deny it. That can only mean..."
His eyes sharpened, as if piercing through the truth hidden behind Lyney's calm facade.
"You weren't in the basement at the time, were you?"
Lyney maintained his composure, countering smoothly:
"Where does Mr. Rover think I was?"
Shifting the question back—a clever move. But...
Behind him, Freminet's expression flickered with panic for a split second, something Rover didn't miss.
"You're fearless because the Oratrice has never sentenced anyone to death—at least not in centuries. Even if exiled to prison, the Knave would find a way to retrieve you."
Rover wasn't in a hurry. He laid out their reliance: all three were from the House of the Hearth, Fatui operatives under the command of the Harbinger "The Knave."
With their motives largely exposed, Lyney finally relaxed.
"So, what does our great detective plan to do?"
Rover leaned forward, fingers tapping the table rhythmically, as if pressuring the trio to respond.
"Based on my understanding of the Fatui, there's only one thing in this opera house worth risking your reputations to conceal."
His next words sent a chill down Lyney's spine.
"The Oratrice Mecanique d'Analyse Cardinale, correct?"
Like a final layer peeled away, Lyney's defenses crumbled. Genuine resignation flashed across his face, as if his performance had been seen through.
"I'm not Aether. Aether might spend time coaxing answers out of you. I don't have time for games. You have two choices."
"One: Tell me the path from the basement to the Oratrice, and I'll clear your names."
"Two: I'll have Aether expose your motives during the trial. The resulting backlash will make the Fatui's operations in Fontaine impossible."
"Choose."
Smart people recognize when they're cornered. After a bitter laugh, Lyney chose the first option without hesitation.
With the route in hand, Rover stood and vanished from their sight.
"Are we really putting all our hopes in him?" Freminet whispered.
Lyney sighed.
He knew the risks, but the first option was the only choice. The Knave's plans couldn't be disrupted.
"Do we have a choice?"
Lyney smiled self-deprecatingly. Once someone else held the reins of fate, they could only follow.
Such was powerlessness.
...
"Aether, just follow my instructions when you take the stage. Don't be nervous."
"Mm... I'm still unsure about the culprit. Just buy me time until I return."
After sharing his deductions, Rover had one final task.
Aether repeated Rover's reasoning in his mind. The culprit was so absurd it seemed like a fantasy—yet the evidence pointed nowhere else.
"Got it. Leave it to me and Paimon!"
Clutching the stack of clues, Aether glanced back at Rover before heading to the stage.
The two walked opposite paths, as if marching toward separate battles.
"Let the trial commence!"
Neuvillette took his seat, and Lyney's trial began.
...
Following Lyney's directions, Rover navigated the winding pipes until he reached the heart of the Oratrice.
At first glance, it was empty—completely devoid of anything.
But Rover's spatial awareness was sharp. After experiencing so many anomalies, he could sense an invisible veil shrouding the area.
Simple reasoning.
Rover unleashed Havoc particles, shaping them into a scythe. With a light slash, space split open.
Beyond the rift, an opulent opera house came into view. Onstage, as if sensing the intruder, a figure turned toward Rover.
"Though it's not yet time, since the detective has uncovered the truth, I suppose it's my cue to enter."
A familiar girl waved her hand, and Rover found himself inside the opera house.
Only then did Rover recognize her face—and the source of that familiarity.
She looked identical to Furina, yet unlike Furina, who was so human—curious about everything, enamored with mortal delights—this Furina exuded divinity, her bearing akin to that of an archon.
"Hello. Allow me to reintroduce myself. I am Focalors—you could say another aspect of Furina."
Rover's attention fixed on the massive blade hovering above Focalors, brimming with energy potent enough to slay a god.
"You don't seem surprised."
Focalors descended from the stage, stopping before Rover.
"The Oratrice, symbolizing absolute justice, is controlled by the Hydro Archon. And the culprit is the archon herself. So—is this your idea of justice?"
Rover sat down, a mocking glint in his eyes as Focalors fell silent.
Their gazes clashed, neither yielding, each testing the other's resolve.
The silence grew glacial. The first to speak would concede.
Finally, a sigh broke the stillness—a sign of surrender.
"I see your resolve. A detective possesses the wisdom to uncover truth, but do you have the courage to face it all?"
Focalors took a deep breath, returning to the stage. What followed was a performance—one that would unveil the truth.