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Chapter Text

Zhou Mingrui coughed awkwardly into the crook of his elbow.

"So, uh..." he began, hesitation twisting his tongue into knots. 

"Are you... the original owner of this body?" 

Are you Klein Moretti? 

He does not say. 

Zhou Mingrui winced. It wasn't the kind of question anyone in their right mind would ever dare to ask. But after suddenly transmigrating into this world, it was something that needs to be addressed. 

Didn't make it any less mortifying though. 

'What could possibly be more humiliating than being caught red-handed by the rightful owner of the body you're currently inhabiting in?' Zhou Mingrui lampooned. 

Heaven knows how close he'd come to leaping out of his skin when a voice suddenly asked, "who are you?"—right as he was inspecting a bullet wound in his temple. 

The other soul—Klein Moretti—remained noticeably silent for a while, perhaps mulling over his own thoughts Zhou Mingrui isn't privy to. 

The silence was awkward, to say the least, but what could he do? Zhou Mingrui helplessly shrugged. It stretches for one second longer before a hesitant voice echoed in his mind. 

"... Yes," the unseen history graduate says, "may I know who you are, sir?" 

Zhou Mingrui smiled. "You don't need to use honorifics with me," he said, setting aside the bloodied rag in his hand. 

The bloodstains were mostly taken care of, but this—this strange situation they'd both found themselves in—was far more pressing than cleaning up after Klein's supposed suicide attempt. 

Zhou Mingrui sifted through the memories he had just inherited. The original owner of this body was a reserved yet refined young man; studious, diligent, and quietly ambitious. 

Before his tragic 'suicide', Klein Moretti had been preparing for an interview at his Alma Mater, hoping to become a professor. A noble pursuit, born from the desire to lift his family out of the poverty they had long endured. 

It was a pity he'd ended up in such a miserable predicament. Zhou Mingrui couldn't help but feel a pang of sympathy. 

"Do you have my memories?" he asked. "I just went through yours, so it seems reasonable to assume you have mine as well." 

"... Yes," Klein Moretti answers, hesitant and suspicious. "I possess memories that clearly aren't mine... so they must be yours." 

"I see," Zhou Mingrui murmurs, thoughtful. 

"But, to be honest... I don't think I can fully comprehend those things yet. Those... things you call 'technology'—they... make little sense to me."

Klein continued. "And... I couldn't help but notice... that your moon seemed... silver, not red." 

Zhou Mingrui nodded, gaze drifting towards the window where the crimson moon hung ominously in the sky. 

It used to be silver. 

"I suspect," Zhou Mingrui says lowly. "I suspect... that I have transmigrated." 

"... Transmigrated," Klein Moretti parroted unsurely. 

Hm.

How is Zhou Mingrui supposed to explain these things to someone who hadn't grown up in modern times? He chuckles dryly.

"Since you have access to my memories... you should be able to find information about parallel worlds, transmigration, and other related topics there." 

Klein didn't reply for a long time. The silence lingered like fog, heavy yet not necessarily uncomfortable.

Zhou Mingrui took the opportunity to wet another rag, carefully wiping away the last traces of dried blood; and the faint, unpleasant remains of what had once been part of Klein's brain—from his—no, their shared face. 

The young spirit was likely peering through Zhou Mingrui's memories. But recalling and understanding them shouldn't have taken this long. 

Just as Zhou Mingrui was taking the initiative to speak, Klein Moretti finally responded; his voice faint and trembling. 

"... Very interesting information." 

Zhou Mingrui snorts, amused as he recognized the bewilderment and creeping existential doubt in Klein's tone. It seemed his newfound roommate's silence came not from confusion, but from the monumental task of piecing together a worldview that had just been utterly shattered. 

After some time, Klein's voice returned; steadier yet still tinged with hesitation. "So, what happens now?" he asks. 

"After all, our 'situation' is... peculiar enough as it is. And it... doesn't seem to be the same as... those 'transmigration' stories you've read before." 

Klein paused, as though weighing his next words. "More importantly, I'm still alive. And that kind of plot seems rather rare, isn't it?" 

... 

"... I didn't think you'll be this brave," Zhou Mingrui mutters. "I applaud you, that was really bold." 

"... Isn't that just a reasonable hypothetical question?" 

Chuckling, "you... don't actually have anything else to say?" Zhou Mingrui can't help but blurt out. "I mean... unintentionally or not, I did steal your body away from you." 

Klein gave a weary, bitter laugh. "You're the one in control now, aren't you? There's nothing I can do about it. So, what can I say? At the very least, I'm still alive." 

Zhou Mingrui could imagine Klein's helpless smile as his voice softened. "I only ask one thing; please don't hurt my brother and sister." 

Zhou Mingrui's mouth opened, then closed; his words failing him. He didn't know how to comfort the other presence inside his mind. It must be terrifying, isn't it? Being suddenly possessed like this. 

"I won't," the Transmigrator finally whispered; a promise. The words felt hollow, powerless. Who could believe them? If the roles were reversed, Zhou Mingrui knew he wouldn't easily trust such vow either. 

Fearing the unknown was only human nature. And judging from Klein's memories, this was an era steeped in religion; a time when Gods and Deities were said to 'oversee' humanity. 

Tragic stories weren't rare. 

Cults. Sacrifices. Mysterious Entities. Malevolent Gods. Zhou Mingrui grimaced. Wherever Klein Moretti lingered, he had to be terrified. 

The bloody, otherworldly light of the moon spilled steadily into the room; as if offering an unsettling 'hello'.

Silence hung heavy in the air, and Zhou Mingrui found himself at a loss for words, unsure how to ease the oppressive weight pressing down on them. 

Restless, he turned to the fragments of Klein Moretti's memories. Born in Tingen, within the Kingdom of Loen. 

His father had been a sergeant in the Royal Army, lost to a colonial conflict with the Southern Continent. His mother, a devoted follower of the Evernight Goddess, had died the same year Klein passed the entrance exam to Khoy University. 

Klein also had siblings; an older brother named Benson Moretti, and a younger sister named Melissa Moretti. 

He'd received—and accepted—an invitation to decipher a relic of history; the Antigonus Family's Notebook. 

But in their pursuit for knowledge, they encountered countless anomalies; sudden bouts of mental overstimulation, inexplicable physical exhaustion, and other disturbances that defied explanation. 

Then—much to Zhou Mingrui's surprise—Klein Moretti's memories abruptly stopped on the dawn of June 27th. 

Ouch. 

Zhou Mingrui hissed, carefully touching his temples; genuinely shocked at the feel of smooth, undamaged skin. 

How magical, the Transmigrator dryly thought. 

Absentmindedly, he toyed with the revolver in his hand; thoughts swirling. Ancient Notebooks. Curious minds. Abnormal physical conditions. A baffling suicide attempt. 

Zhou Mingrui's eyes trembled. Isn't this straight out of a horror movie? Or maybe, it's like one of those famous analog stories... 

With religion so deeply ingrained into this world. Maybe some mysterious, malevolent forces really do exist. 

But it's fine. Zhou Mingrui's lips pressed into a thin line. If these inexplicable powers had caused his transmigration, perhaps they could also be the key for his return. 

Zhou Mingrui gave a helpless smile. Hm, maybe he should try that luck-changing ritual again. And if that doesn't work... well, he could always dabble in the mystical. 

'I wonder what happened to me now,' Zhou Mingrui sighed; his thoughts drifting to his parents and how they were coping with his... 'accident'.

"Mr. Zhou?" Klein's voice timidly rang out. "Are you still there?" 

"Ah!"

The gun cluttered to the ground from Zhou Mingrui's surprise. 

Oops. 

"... Aren't you going to put the gun away first?" Klein suggests. 

Ah, right. 

Flustered, Zhou Mingrui coughed, and quickly opened a drawer; tucking the weapon away out of sight, and out of mind. 

Klein let out a faint sigh that seemed to vibrate through his intangible body. Despite inheriting Zhou Mingrui's so-called 'memories', he still struggled to trust them blindly. Or to believe that the other entity was truly harmless and benevolent. 

Demons and Evil Spirits had countless ways to mislead and ensnare mortals. Ordinary people were the easiest prey. And here, Klein was completely powerless. 

He had no idea where this spirit who calls itself 'Zhou Mingrui' came from, nor can Klein guess it's intentions—whether it plans to feast on Klein's soul from the inside out, or if it plans to spread deadly contaminations to numerous innocent bystanders—klein isn't certain. 

Could it be a curse from the Notebook? Possibly. But most unsettling of all, Klein couldn't fathom what the other might be planning to do with his body. 

Anxious, he guessed and guessed, and guessed. But the intentions of this Transmigrator remained a complete mystery.

With that helplessness pressing down on him, Klein could only yield—letting go of control over his own limbs... over his very identity. 

He tried to reclaim command over his body, but it didn't faze the entity in the slightest. Perhaps it didn't even notice. What could Klein do against an existence that refused to be moved? 

Klein also searched for flaws in Zhou Mingrui's 'memories', but inevitably found nothing. This being was... merely an ordinary person, seemingly as unfortunate as Klein himself when it came to the supernatural. 

Could such a reality truly exist? Klein doubted it. And yet, the intricate details—the history, the world-building—were undeniable. 

Goddess above, Klein thought wryly, a faint smile tugging at his lips. Perhaps this is the price I pay for chasing knowledge I was never meant to touch. 

Mother, Father... Forgive your foolish, stupid son. Benson, Melissa...

Klein could only hope that 'Zhou Mingrui' would honor his words; that he truly would not harm his siblings as he had promised. 

After all, what use would it be for an evil spirit to deceive an ordinary person like him over something so trivial, and so meaningless? 

As the crimson glow faded into obscurity, Klein's room slowly regained its natural colors. 

Zhou Mingrui—who had been sitting for an indeterminate amount of time—caught Melissa's voice echoing down the hall. 

Instantly, he snapped back to his senses, with Klein quietly absent in the recesses of his mind. 

His joints protested from being held still for so long, but Zhou Mingrui stood and stretched, relieved to feel no numbness in his arms or legs. 

Pins and needles are no fun at all, he mused. 

Klein's bedroom door opened, revealing Melissa's surprised expression. 

"Klein?" she says. "Why are you up so early?' 

Instinctively, Zhou Mingrui mumbled. "I... couldn't sleep, probably because I'm so nervous." 

Melissa stared at him with a hint of disapproval, as if ready to scold her older brother for his carelessness. 

'Ah.'

Zhou Mingrui mused, 'she's looking at me as if I'm mentally unstable, hm.'

Then Melissa's expression softened, and she smiled, knowing. 

"Don't be nervous," she soothes. "You need enough rest so you'll be at your best for the interview." 

Zhou Mingrui sighed, memories of his mother resurfacing; her familiar, caring scolding whenever he neglected himself...

"I know," he replied. "Don't worry, Melissa." 

As a stranger occupying Klein Moretti's body, Zhou Mingrui felt uncertain. How should he behave in front of Melissa? After all, isn't the original owner watching from somewhere inside, silently observing? 

How could anyone convincingly act as someone else while being potentially scrutinized by the very person they were impersonating?

It's... undeniably embarrassing. 

But Klein, for the most part, remained silent; unresponsive. Much to the Transmigrator's growing confusion. 

Formless. Limbless. Klein Moretti watched through Zhou Mingrui's eyes.

It's a peculiar feeling; to be nothing more than a ghost within his own body, forced to watch as a mere observer unable to do anything of value. 

The only comfort he has was that the being inhabiting his body was honoring his promise. 

How curious.

Klein's expression turned oddly strained, though no one else could see it. 

It's more of a phantom sensation than anything real. It's in the faint awareness of his brow furrowing in confusion, the ghostly twitch of his lips in uncertainty. 

Yet—when he tried to touch his face, all he could reach was nothing but air. 

Zhou Mingrui took out a silver, vine-leaf pocket watch from his pockets. Curiously, he pressed the top gently, causing its cover to flip open. 

Klein peered over impassively, unable to look away. 'It seems I can only see what Mr. Zhou sees,' he mused. 

He flexed his hand, more of an instinctual feeling than an actual sensation. More of a transfer of information than something that could be felt. 

'How strange,' Klein thinks, 'yet nonetheless fitting with my situation.' 

"It looks like it's broken again," Zhou Mingrui mumbles, subconsciously twisting the top dial to wind the pocket watch. 

The second hand remained motionless, much to Zhou Mingrui's expressive bewilderment.

Ah.

Klein's lips twitched imperceptibly. 

"How do you fix this thing?" Zhou Mingrui mumbles, and Klein Moretti's perception of reality changed with a flick of his neck. 

Melissa shot him an expressionless look, and briskly walked over to take the pocket watch away from Zhou Mingrui's hands, thinking it's her brother. 

Oh, dear... 

Klein flinched, and wisely stayed silent; nervous. They watched as Melissa pulled a button sitting atop the pocket watch.

With a few simple turns, the tick-tocking of the second-hand sounded. 

"Isn't pulling the crown up ususally meant for adjusting the time...?" Zhou Mingrui mumbles. 

Somehow, Klein feels the words were meant for him to hear. At that moment, a bell chimed from a faraway cathedral.

It chimed six times, echoing like a distant, ethereal dream. 

"... Melissa's very good at tinkering," Klein says. Zhou Mingrui nods imperceptibly, considering. 

Alright, he does not say. Klein breathes, obviously relieved. 

"It's okay now," Melissa says after a while, expressionless.

Klein twitched, helpless and exasperated. 

He watched as his little sister then pressed the top button down, and handed the pocket watch back to Zhou Mingrui. 

"Take it," Melissa urged. 

Klein Moretti sighs. 

Zhou Mingrui offered a polite smile, masking his embarrassment as he slipped the watch back into his pocket. 

Mhm. 

Zhou Mingrui watched as Klein's younger sister fixed him a sharp, piercing stare before turning towards the cupboard. 

She silently grabbed her toiletries and towel, opened the door, and made her way to the public bathroom.

Zhou Mingrui stares at her departing back, a strange expression on his face as he reminisces. Melissa's look just now... why does it seem like she thinks her brother is mentally problematic? 

Zhou Mingrui shook his head, exasperated as he wonders; perhaps it's a look of love and concern for an older brother she considers retarded? 

Then the Transmigrator stills, the thought catching up to him. 

Ah, Klein. 

Zhou Mingrui sighs. 

Alone in Klein's room, Zhou Mingrui addressed the other occupant inside his mind. 

"... I've been wondering," he starts casually. "Your... 'incident' should have caused quite a commotion; and yet, Melissa, who was just a wall away, didn't notice it at all." 

Absentmindedly, Zhou Mingrui played around with the pocket watch's cover. Periodically opening it up with a click, then closing it again with a flick of his finger. 

Was she sleeping too soundly? Or, is Klein's 'suicide' shrouded with too much mystery and mysticism? 

Zhou Mingrui frowned, his expression unreadable as he delved in deep into his thoughts. 

For some reason, why does it seem... familiar? 

Familiar... failed suicide attempt... Antigonus Family's Notebook... cursed, malevolent... Mysteries... 

Zhou Mingrui shook his head, thoughts clearing as he breathes. "It's strange, isn't it?" he asks, targeting the person stuck inside his subconscious. 

"... Indeed," Klein says at last, unsure. "I... did commit 'suicide'. There's no way around it... it was really, really strange." 

Silence. 

"My... memories," Klein continues, "they are... fragmented, incomplete. But I did remember some... disturbing images; Welch and Naya..." 

At this, Klein's voice seemed a little bit choked with emotion. "Something happened to them."

It felt like something etched in stone, immutable in the pursuit of a goal. Fate... Zhou Mingrui frowned, lips pursed. 

He gazed out the window—Tingen City welcoming him like an old friend finally returned. This... is no coincidence. 

Zhou Mingrui's expression turned incredibly strange. 

Click! 

The pocket watch opened. 

Clack! 

The pocket watch closed. 

It happened twice. Then twice again. Again, and again. It happened twice again. 

Klein, merely existing as some kind of Schrodinger's Cat, frowned from within a bottomless, claustrophobic abyss. 

'... What is he thinking?' he mused. 

The door opens once more. Zhou Mingrui's back straightened, instantly focusing to reality. 

Zhou Mingrui blinked, owlish and dumb. Then he smiles at Melissa's approaching form. 

"Already washed up?" he comments good-naturedly—as he had done many times before.

Melissa grins, indulgent as always as she speaks. "Klein, take out all the remaining bread," she orders.

"Remember to buy fresh ones today. Some meat and peas too. Your interview's coming soon. I'll make you mutton stewed with peas." 

As she spoke, she grabbed a stove out from the corner and lit some charcoal, soon setting a pot of water to boil. 

Zhou Mingrui watched her curiously, observing; as she opened the cupboard's lowest drawer and took out what seemed to be treasure—a can of inferior tea leaves. 

Melissa then threw about ten leaves into the pot and pretended it was real tea. Zhou Mingrui's lips twitched imperceptibly. 

Fondly and without any reasonable context, what an endearing girl, Zhou Mingrui thinks.

He accepted his fair share of bread alongside a cup of cheap tea with an expressionless face. Inwardly, he grimaced. 

'There is no sawdust... or excessive glutten mixed in, but it is... unappetizing,' complains Zhou Mingrui inside his head. 

Klein listened to his complaints, a strange look flickering on his face; disbelieving. Yet in the end, chose to say nothing. 

'...Foodie,' Klein thought, reminiscing Zhou Mingrui's plentiful memories of Earth and his so-called 'food-loving' country. 

It took a while, but after the pair of siblings finished eating their breakfast, Melissa once again reminded him of their groceries.

Zhou Mingrui wonders if he's being treated like an easily forgetful child, and his lips curled upwards; exasperatedly amused. 

"Remember," Melissa reminds sternly, "buy fresh bread. All we need is eight pounds. The weather is hot, so the bread will easily spoil." 

Melissa adjusted her hair neatly behind her back, continuing, "Also, buy the mutton and peas. Remember to buy them!" 

Indeed, Zhou Mingrui nods with a smile. She even had to repeat to emphasize it another time...

Exasperated, "alright," he agrees. Melissa did not say anything further. Zhou Mingrui contents himself with watching her get ready for school. 

'Today isn't a Sunday, so she had an entire day of classes to attend...' 

Hm. 

Just as Melissa was putting on her tattered veil cap—one that their mother left behind—Zhou Mingrui inexplicably focuses on one word. 

Sunday, he repeated the word multiple times in his head, contemplating. 

In the Northern Continent, a year was likewise divided into twelve months, compromising 365 or sometimes 366 days. A week, too, was split into seven days. 

The division of months stemmed from astronomical observations, which made Zhou Mingrui wonder if he had ended up in a parallel world.

As for the division of days, that originated from religion; because the Northern Continent worshipped the seven Orthodox Gods.

The Eternal Blazing Sun, the Lord of Storms, the God of Knowledge and Wisdom, the Evernight Goddess, Earth Mother, the God of Combat, and the God of Steam and Machinery. 

Zhou Mingrui shuddered. He wonders; if another God were to awaken and be officially recognized, would that increase the days to eight? 

Why does it sound possible? 

Zhou Mingrui bade Melissa Moretti farewell with a gentle smile, though a strange emotion lingered in his chest. 

Goodbye, Melissa. 

When the distant cathedral bells began to toll, he returned to his chair. The sound echoed seven times before he rose quietly, moving toward the cupboard to retrieve Klein Moretti's clothes. 

A black vest paired with a matching suit, slim trousers, and a half-top hat—combined with that faint scholarly air—made Zhou Mingrui feel as if he were watching an English drama from the Victorian era. 

Yet, it didn't feel as foreign as he'd imagined. It was almost like slipping into a second skin—one he had already, unknowingly, accepted as his own. 

Then, as if struck by a splash of cold water, Zhou Mingrui froze; staring at his reflection in quiet shock. 

"I'm not even going for an interview..." he mutters softly with a wry smile. He shook his head, shrugging off the suit and vest before exchanging them for a brownish-yellow coat. 

Then, he replaced the half-top hat with a felt one of the same shade, its rounded brim further softening his appearance. 

Has Klein Moretti ever looked like this?

Zhou Mingrui trailed off, forgetting his words. For some reason, he half-expected to see black and gold instead.

(... A large cloak draped over a slender frame. A face concealed beneath a hood... 

... A gentle yet inhuman smile that still carried a trace of fleeting humanity... 

... All veiled in mist that obscured the figure's ominous, mysterious form...) 

With his outfit done, Zhou Mingrui moved to the side of the bed and lifted a square cushion. Sliding his hand into a small, inconspicuous hole beneath it, he fumbled around until his fingers brushed against a hidden intermediate layer. 

When he withdraw his right hand, a small roll of banknotes rested in his palm; eight in total, their faded dark-green color revealing their age and wear. 

These were all of Benson's remaining savings, even including the living expenses for the next three days. Among them were two five-soli notes and six one-soli notes. 

In the Loen Kingdom's currency system, the soli ranked second in value. It originated from ancient silver coins, with one soli equal equal to twelve copper pence. The notes in denominations of one and five soli. 

At the top of the hierarchy was the gold pound; paper money backed by gold and directly pegged to its value. One gold pound equaled twenty soli, with denominations of one, five, and ten. 

Zhou Mingrui unfolded one of the notes and caught a faint, distinctive scent of ink. 

It was the smell of money. 

Perhaps a residue of Klein's memory fragments, or his own growing obsession with wealth, Zhou Mingrui felt an immediate, inexplicable affection for these notes; as if he had fallen in love the moment he touched them. 

"Behold, their designs are so beautiful,' Zhou Mingrui praised. 'It makes the stern and old-fashioned George III and his two mustaches appear especially adorable..."

'... Adorable,' Klein Moretti parrots uncertainly. 

"Behold, the watermark that can be seen when the note is placed against the sunlight is so alluring."

'Is it?' Klein squints through Zhou Mingrui's eyes. While the recent history graduate did need money, he wasn't so captivated by a handful of banknotes that he would admire their design. 

It was more a fleeting curiosity than genuine fascination. Still, he couldn't deny that Zhou Mingrui's thoughts struck him as both amusing and peculiar. 

"The exquisite design for the anti-counterfeit label makes it completely different from those fake fancy schlocks!"

Klein Moretti's expression grew even stranger and stranger, listening; as Zhou Mingrui admired the banknotes for nearly a minute. 

'I didn't think someone could be this obsessed with money...'

Finally, the Transmigrator pulled out two one-soli notes, rolled up the remaining bills, and tucked them back into the cushion's hidden compartment. 

After smoothing the cloth around the hidden compartment, Zhou Mingrui neatly folded the two notes he had taken out and slipped them into the left pocket of his brownish-yellow jacket, keeping them separate from the few pence he carried in his trouser pocket. 

With everything in place, he tucked a key into his right pocket, grabbed a dark brown paper bag, and hurried towards the door. 

His brisk footsteps gradually slowed, until he came to a stop. Standing there, Zhou Mingrui realized he had begun to frown—though he wasn't quite sure when it had started. 

"Klein?" Zhou Mingrui mutters. 

"... Yes?" Klein unsurely responds. 

'I can't believe I was too distracted to realize the owner of this body is still here!' Zhou Mingrui scolded himself.

'Klein must have seen everything I did...' he trailed off, 'I didn't even ask for permission.' 

"I don't think I can switch places with you right now," admits Zhou Mingrui, "and honestly, I don't even know how." 

Klein listens quietly, bewildered. 

"So," Zhou Mingrui continues, "till we figure it out... let me act as Klein Moretti for the time being." 

"Oh," Klein says at last. "Sure, you have my permission," he acquiesced, thinking about Zhou Mingrui's benevolence so far. 

'He doesn't seem dangerous... I don't think there's a problem,' Klein settles. 

"My suicide though," he reminds the Transmigrator, "it's fraught with peculiarities." 

"That's true," Zhou Mingrui nods, arriving at the same conclusion himself. 'Would I encounter any 'accidents' if I were to leave just like that?' 

After a moment of deep thought, Zhou Mingrui returned to his desk and slid open the drawer. From within, he retrieved a gleaming brass revolver; the only defensive weapon he could think of, and the only one with enough stopping power. 

Though he had never practiced shooting, simply brandishing the revolver was enough to intimidate anyone. 

'Now, I felt like Gehrman Sparrow again,' Zhou Mingrui thought with pride. 

Then he stills, 'who's Gehrman?' 

Klein Moretti stared at the scene with a sharp sense of deja vu, thinking; 'is carrying such a weapon even legal?' 

The answer was obvious; no, not at all. 'Mr. Zhou... you'll get us arrested for this, I won't lie,' the history graduate worries. 

Yet, he couldn't argue against the careful, deliberate actions of the other. 

Zhou Mingrui stroked the revolver's cold metal before tucking it in into the same pocket as his banknotes. He closed his hand over the money, his fingers resting against the gun's handle—perfectly concealed! 

For a moment, a foolish sense of security settles over him. Then almost immediately, an uneasy worry prickled at the edges of his mind. 

'What if I end up misfiring?' 

Overwhelmed by the sudden thought, Zhou Mingrui hastily sought a solution. He drew the revolver and released its cylinder, aligning the empty chamber—left behind from the 'suicide'—with the gun's hammer before snapping it shut again. 

This way, even in the event of a misfire, it would only discharge an 'empty round'! 

Klein, observing Zhou Mingrui's actions through his own eyes, couldn't help but wonder why the Transmigrator seemed so familiar with a gun. 

He rifled through the other's memories of the other world, but inevitably found nothing substantial—except for a series of extremely violent games. 

Once again, Klein Moretti's expression twisted into something strange and unreadable. 

After sliding the revolver back into his pocket, Zhou Mingrui let his left hand rest there securely. 

Then, with his right hand, he pressed his hat firmly in place, opened the door, and stepped out. 

Chapter Text

Even in daylight, the corridor remained dim, with only a sliver of sunlight streaming through the window at its end.

Zhou Mingrui hurried down the stairs, exited the apartment, and paused as the brilliance and warmth of the sun washed over him. 

Although it was nearly July—the height of summer—Tingen's northern location in the Loen Kingdom gave it a distinct climate.

Even at its warmest, the temperature rarely reached 30 degrees Celsius, and the mornings remained pleasantly cool. 

However, the streets were awash with filthy water and strewn junk. From Klein's memories, such scenes were common in the poorer districts, sewers or not.

After all, there were simply too many people, each struggling to make a living. 

"Come and have a taste of our freshly roasted fish!" 

"Hot, fresh oyster soup! Have a bowl in the morning and stay energized all day!" 

"Fresh fish from the port—only five pence each!" 

"Muffins and eel soup, the perfect pairing!" 

"Conch! Conch! Fresh conch!" 

"Vegetables straight from the farms outside the city—cheap and crisp!" 

Street hawkers selling vegetables, fruits, and steaming food called out their wares as they tried to draw in the hurried passerby.

Some pedestrians stopped to compare prices before making a choice, while others waved them off impatiently, still anxious about finding work for the day. 

(... A slideshow flickered before Zhou Mingrui's eyes, images blending until they nearly merged.

... The same scene, the same faces, replaying over and over, and over again; like an endless loop on repeat...

... It vanished before he could even make sense of it, soon fading like mist under the morning sun...)

Zhou Mingrui breathed in the air; a mingling of foul odors and mouthwatering scents.

Clutching the revolver tightly in his left hand, and the notes in the same grip, he pressed down his hat with his right and slouched slightly as he made his way through the bustling street. 

(... Klein Moretti inhaled Tingen City's tainted air, his expression firm as he pressed forward...

... A gun in hand, mysticism in his veins, and the ever-present fear of pain and suffering...

... Yet, he kept moving...)

In such crowded areas, thieves were inevitable. The street was also filled with impoverished citizens working odd jobs after losing their previous ones, as well as hungry children exploited by adults to do their bidding. 

(... Suffering seems like the eternal curse of humanity's existence; constant, and unyielding...

... Across eras, regardless of wealth or progress, pain has always found its way...

... Still, even if its fruitless, why not try?)

Zhou Mingrui continued on until the press of people eased, and the street regained its usual rhythm. Straightening his back, he lifted his head and looked ahead. 

(... They are Guardians—wretched, pitiful, yet hopeful—fighting again, and again, and again...

... Failure after failure, after failure, yet still clinging to the same delusion of grandeur...

... What can one do in a world doomed to destruction?)

Not far ahead, a vagrant accordionist was busking, his tune shifting between gentle harmony and passionate rhythm.

Beside him sat several children in tattered clothes, their faces pale and thin from hunger. 

(... If Fate can deceive, then why not turn the tables and deceive Fate itself?)

They swayed to the music, improvising their own little dances. Joy lit up their faces, as if, for a fleeting moment, they were princes or angels untouched by the harshness around them. 

(... Those who fool Fate can be fooled by Fate in return. Power and cunning may grant a fleeting edge, but the threads of destiny are tangled far beyond mortal comprehension... 

... Even the most careful schemes can unravel in an instant, leaving behind only the bitter taste of irony...) 

A woman with a deadpan expression passed by, her skirt stained and her skin lackluster. 

(... But what if the fool who is fooled is The Fool himself? Would it halt the game, leaving all in a suspended standstill, or can it be... 

... Perhaps Fate can still be modified, step by step, yet still remain to be untouched—an unyielding path only a trickster can alter...)

Her eyes seemed lifeless, moving sluggishly—until they fell on the cluster of children. For a brief moment, a faint spark appeared, as if she were glimpsing herself from thirty years past. 

(... With endless power comes endless possibilities...

... The circus still goes on, its grand finale looming in the horizon. Yet the performance itself can be shifted, rearranged, even overwritten—each act a choice, each step a subtle defiance... 

... All the World's a stage—)

Zhou Mingrui overtook her, turned down another street, and came to a stop in front of Symrin Bakery. 

(... "and we... the mere players...")

The owner of the bakery was a seventy-plus year old granny named Wendy Smyrin. Her hair was entirely gray-white, and a warm, constant smile graced her face. 

From the earliest of Klein's memories, she had been here, selling bread and pastries. 

'Oh, the Tingen biscuits and lemon cakes she baked—truly delicious...' Zhou Mingrui thought, gulping a mouthful of saliva. 

"It is," Klein replied, wistful. 

Eh? 

Immediately, Zhou Mingrui's smile froze. 

What? 

Before Zhou Mingrui could formulate a thought—"oh!" Mrs. Smyrin gasps. "If it isn't dear Klein, eh?" 

Zhou Mingrui forced himself to reply. "Mrs. Smyrin, good day. Eight pounds of rye bread please." 

"Of course, good day to you as well, young man," Mrs. Smyrin smiled. "Where's Benson? Still not back?" 

"In a few more days," answers Zhou Mingrui vaguely. 

As Mrs. Smyrin took the rye bread, she let out a soft sigh. "He's such a hardworking boy... he'll make a good husband someday." 

With a playful curl of her lips and a clap, she teased. "All is well now I see. You've graduated! You're officially a history graduate of our Khoy University~" 

Zhou Mingrui smiled helplessly as Mrs. Smyrin continues. "Soon, you'll be earning your own money. You shouldn't still be living in that apartment. At the very least, you deserve a bathroom of your own." 

"Mrs. Smyrin, you seem unusually lively today," Zhou Mingrui could only offer a dry smile in response. 

Indeed, if Klein manage to pass his interview and secure a position as a lecturer at Tingen University, his family's social standing would instantly rise.

...

Zhou Mingrui inwardly frowned. While it's not entirely his fault, he still felt guilty about stealing the real Klein Moretti's body. 

"... renting a bungalow in the suburbs... five or six rooms, two bathrooms..." 

Klein Moretti's daydreaming voice rang out in Zhou Mingrui's head. 

Ah. 

"... a huge balcony upstairs, two rooms... a dining room, a living room, a kitchen, a bathroom... an underground storage room on the first floor..." 

Zhou Mingrui wisely pretended not to hear. He felt as if all those thoughts had slipped out by accident—or maybe, Klein had simply thought about them too loudly. 

Though—Zhou Mingrui considers. Those weren't exactly some wistful fantasy. Even a probationary lecturer at Tingen University earned two gold pounds a week. After the probation, the salary would rise to three pounds and ten soli. 

By comparison, Klein's brother; Benson, despite years of work, earned only one pound and ten soli weekly. Ordinary factory workers made less than a pound, or just a little more at best. 

Meanwhile, renting a bungalow cost around nineteen soli to one pound and eighteen soli. 

'This is the difference between earning three to four thousand yuan and earning fourteen to fifteen thousand yuan a month...' Zhou Mingrui thought. 

"That's a lot of thousand," Klein replied curiously. 

Zhou Mingrui paused—then he tries to will his thoughts aloud. 

"Yuan is my country's base unit of currency," he vaguely explained to Klein, trying out his newfound telepathy. "Modern times call for modern currency, is all." 

Klein's voice grew thoughtful as he replied. "Your approach to managing money seems remarkably sophisticated..."

"... I would have liked to know more, but I can understand the history of money on your world is very limited..." Klein mumbles. 

Zhou Mingrui smiles, helpless. It seemed Klein Moretti was a true seeker of knowledge through and through.

Unfortunately, Zhou Mingrui hadn't been much of a money-history enthusiast back in his modern-world days. 

"No," Mrs. Smyrin says humorously, "I have always been young." 

Ah, Zhou Mingrui startles. 'Forgive the youth for not listening properly, Mrs. Smyrin,' he says as he bows in his mind; his forehead touching the ground. 

"How strange," Klein responds thoughtfully, "why is he bowing like that...?" 

Zhou Mingrui froze. 'Expletive, expletive. American curse, hell.' 

"Ehhh?" Klein simply says, dumbfounded. 

"... Nine pence?" Zhou Mingrui asked subconsciously. "Wasn't it eleven pence two days ago?" 

Conspiracy?

"I think it cost 15 pence two months ago too...?" 

"You should thank the people who took to the streets to protest the Grain Act," Mrs. Smyrin says with a shrug. 

Zhou Mingrui nodded vaguely in acknowledgement. Though Klein's memories on the matter were incomplete. All he could recall was that the Grain Act aimed to protect the prices of domestic agricultural products. 

"Why would people protest the act?" Klein asks. 

Indeed, why?

Zhou Mingrui, careful not to reach for his revolver, quietly took out the banknotes and handed one to Mrs. Smyrin. 

She returned three copper pence in change. He tucked them into his pocket, grabbed the paper bag with the bread, and headed towards the 'Lettuce and Meat' market across the street, determined to earn the mutton stew with peas his sister had urged him to get. 

At the intersection of Iron Cross Street and Daffodil Street, a municipal square bustled with activity. Tents were pitched across the open space, and clowns in strange, colorful costumes handed out fliers to passerby. 

(... "Captain, look..." 

"... we've saved Loen once again..." 

... Drops of liquid slid silently down, landing on his collar. In that instant, he felt the Clown potion had fully taken effect. 

He smiles—bright and genuine, like a jester performing before a king. 

Before Zhou Mingrui could grasp the memory, it slipped away, leaving behind only a fleeting impression...)

Zhou Mingrui blinked. What was he thinking again? He stares at the scene in front of him blankly.

"... There's a circus performance tomorrow night?" 

"... Melissa would definitely like it," Klein adds, sounding as if deep in thought. "However, how much is the entrance fee?" 

With that, Zhou Mingrui went closer. Just as he was about to ask a clown with a red and yellow painted face, a hoarse woman's voice sounded from beside him. 

"Would you like to try a divination?" 

Zhou Mingrui turned his head almost instinctively. Before him stood a strange-looking woman, framed by a small circus tent. 

Her face was streaked with red and yellow paint, and her eyes shone a deep grayish-blue. Gray. For some reason, it reminds him of something—someone. 

"No," Zhou Mingrui shook his head. He didn't have any extra cash for a reading. 

The woman laughed. "My tarot divinations are very accurate," she said. 

Tarot? 

Justice. Hanged Man. Sun. Judgement. Magician. Moon. Star. Hermit. 

World. 

Fool. 

Tarot cards from Earth were used for divination, each card bearing a symbol that represented a particular omen. 

"Tarot cards," Klein hums. "One hundred-seventy years ago, it was created by Roselle Gustav." 

Mr. Gustav. This man invented the steam engine, improved the sailing ship, overthrew the Intis Kingdom's imperial rule, and earned recognition from the God of Craftsmanship. 

He went on to become the first Consul of the Intis Republic. 

Later, he launched campaigns against other nations, bringing Lenburg and several others under his protection. The Loen Kingdom, Feynapotter, the Feysac Empire, and other major powers of the Northern Continent were forced to submit to the Intis Republic. 

Eventually, the Republic transformed into an Empire, and Roselle declared himself 'Emperor Caesar'. 

During Roselle's rule, the Church of Craftsmanship received its first public holy revelation since the Fifth Epoch. From that point on, the God of Craftsmanship became known as the God of Steam and Machinery. 

Roselle Gustav. 

He also invented tarot divination and established the modern system of paper-based cards along with their various playstyles. 

Many familiar games, such as Upgrade, Fighting the Landlord, Texas Poker, and Quint, traced their roots back to his innovations. 

His naval expeditions discovered a sea route to the Southern Continent through stormy, treacherous waters, marking the dawn of an era of colonialism. 

Unfortunately, in his old age, he was betrayed. In the year 1198 of the Fifth Epoch, Roselle was assassinated by the combined forces of the Church of the Eternal Blazing Sun, the former Intis royal family—the Saurons—and other aristocrats. 

He met his end in the White Maple Palace. 

(... "As for you... I can feel your loneliness, the loneliness that comes from deep within your bones." 

... 

... "Goodbye, my friend. I hope we can really meet again one day." 

...

... Roselle Gustav had returned to his eternal slumber...)

Zhou Mingrui stares at the woman consideringly. "Is it free?" 

"Sir," the woman laughed. "You're the first one here today, so it's on the house!" 

"Free things cost the most!" Klein mutters indignantly inside his mind. 

Zhou Mingrui stays silent, uncharacteristically still. 

"Alright," he says to the woman calmly. "If it's free, I'd like a divination." 

The tent's interior was almost pitch-black, pierced only by a few stray beams of light. In the dim glow, a table strewn with paper cards could barely be made out. 

The woman with the sharp, pointed hat seemed entirely unaffected. Her long, black dress flowed as if skimming over water as she moved to the table. Sitting across from him, she lit a candle. 

The dim yellow flame flickered, casting shadows that made the tent seem both bright and dark at once, instantly deepening the air of mystery. 

Mystery. 

Zhou Mingrui's eyes grew more profound, and yet his mind stayed clear. 

"Shuffle the cards first, and cut the deck," the circus' fortune-teller says; strangely muted and low. 

"You? Shuffle?" Klein mutters, confused. 

"Everyone's destiny can only be unraveled by themselves," Zhou Mingrui instinctively explained.

Silently, he shuffled the cards quickly and effectively; like an expert who knew his own capabilities. 

"This reading doesn't require additional fees, right?" Klein asks anxiously. 

"Mhm, no." 

"How are you sure?" Klein counters. 

"Instinct," Zhou Mingrui simply says. 

"Here it is," Zhou Mingrui says, placing the already shuffled tarot cards in the middle of the table. 

The fortune-teller clasped the cards in both hands, studying them intently for a moment. Then, she suddenly spoke. "I'm sorry, I forgot to ask—what would you like to know?" 

"Past." 

"Present." 

"Future." 

Zhou Mingrui says without any expression. The air turned frigid. 

"No problem." The fortune-teller reached out, drew a card from the top of the deck, and placed it to Zhou Mingrui's left. 

Her voice grew lower and more solemn as she said, "this card represents your Past." 

"This card represents your Present." The fortune-teller placed the second card directly in front of Zhou Migrui. 

She then picked a third card and positioned it to his right. 

"This card represents your Future." 

"Alright," she said, lifting her head after arranging the cards. Her graying-blue eyes locked into his. "Which one would you like to see first?" 

"Future," Zhou Mingrui answers immediately; just as the fortune-teller has finished her piece. No breath were wasted this time. 

The card showed a colorfully dressed figure, wearing tattered headgear and carrying a stick over his shoulder with a bindle tied at the end. A small puppy trotted behind him. The card bore the number "0". 

"The Fool?" Klein asks. 

"The Fool," the fortune-teller says. 

One second passed, and for some inexplicable reason, Zhou Mingrui reached out to flip the other two cards symbolizing his 'past' and 'present'. 

The Fool. Number 'zero'. All of them. 

They're all The Fool. 

It felt like a brand. A mark. An inescapable Fate. 

"It's all the same?" Klein asks, bewildered. 

"It's all the same," Zhou Mingrui says without any surprise. Even though he doesn't know why. 

(... Unbiddenly—if Klein Moretti were to divine his Fate... Zhou Mingrui wonders if it'll all be The World...

... Even though he doesn't know why...)

Chapter Text

"Ah," the fortune-teller could only say, utterly bewildered.

"... There seems to have been a mistake, my apologies," she mumbles. 

"Mistake?" Klein asks, voice odd. 

"That's two times now!" 

Zhou Mingrui stayed silent, lips twitching in silent amusement. 

"There shouldn't have been three Fool cards," the fortune-teller explained, quickly gathering up the three cards to examine them closely. 

"I must have mixed up my cards earlier..." Then she looked into Zhou Mingrui's eyes.

"Forgive me, sir. Would you like another—" 

Just as the fortune-teller was about to begin another divination; the tent's cloth curtain was abruptly lifted open, and a blinding light poured in like floodgates, making Zhou Mingrui—and by extension, Klein Moretti—instinctively narrow their eyes. 

"Why are you impersonating me again?!" a woman's voice snapped, angry.

"Divination is my responsibility!" 

"Impersonating...?" Klein's voice trailed off. 

"Get back to your post right now!" the angry woman continues, "don't forget—you're just an animal trainer!" 

"... Animal trainer?" Klein's voice sounded slightly heartbroken.

At his dejected tone, Zhou Mingrui fought off the urge to laugh. This is a reasonable outcome. 

(... Zhou Mingrui hadn't noticed it before, nor had he ever realized it. But looking back—wasn't this a fitting reflection of what his life had become from that moment on? 

... A Fool. A Circus. A Performance... a never-ending opera...

... like a joke...)

An animal trainer? 

Klein Moretti squinted through Zhou Mingrui's eyes, feeling ashamed. Their eyes had grown accustomed to the light now, and there, before him; was another woman, her face painted in the same red and yellow hues. 

They looked quite identical, Klein mused. The only difference was that she was taller and more slender than the other one. 

"Don't mind her," the 'fortune-teller' quickly stood up, her tone laced with irritation. "I just enjoy doing this," she says. 

"But really," she reasoned, "my divinations and interpretations can be quite accurate sometimes, I'm serious..." 

Klein, recalling how she'd forgotten to ask Zhou Mingrui what he'd like to divine... then fumbled her cards like a misorganized child—only to be exposed as a fraud playing a Diviner's role—could only grumble irritably. 

"Accurate, you say?" he sulked. 

For a moment there, Klein Moretti actually almost believed that the tarot cards could truly be used for genuine divination; that they weren't merely a scam, as he'd always been told. 

It wasn't faith so much as the atmosphere—an invisible pressure in the air that felt tangible, grounding, and almost magical. 

After all, if transmigration and Zhou Mingrui could exist, then surely pure divination couldn't be impossible, right? 

But then, the so-called Diviner turned out to be a hoax, and the illusion immediately shattered before his very eyes. Mysticism might as well be real behind the scenes, but this incident did make it far less wondrous than he'd imagined. 

Who knows what's real, and what's not?

After turning down another offer of divination from the real fortune-teller, Zhou Mingrui—as well as Klein Moretti—quickly put the matter at the back of their minds. 

They then spent seven pence at the 'Lettuce and Meat' market for a pound of rather mediocre mutton. 

"Just mediocre?" Klein says, "I'd say it's quite a steal..." 

Zhou Mingrui tsked like a disappointed father. If they weren't in public, he would've wagged his index finger disapprovingly.

"Klein, Klein, Klein—your otherworldly mind might not understand it yet," he almost threatens, "but I 'will' make a great chef out of you." 

...

"Is that supposed to be a threat?" Klein meekly asked. 

"It's a promise," Zhou Mingrui says, ominous. 

'Why?' Klein thought, helpless and amused. 

After that, they picked some tender broad beans, half-sliced green cabbages, a few onions and potatoes, then several other ingredients they'd yet to restock in the house. 

Including the bread they'd brought earlier, their total expenses came to twenty-five copper pennies; equivalent to two soli and one pence. 

Klein Moretti sighs. "There's really not enough to go around for spending, poor Benson..." he laments. 

Not only had Zhou Mingrui spent two whole notes of money he'd brought with him, but he even had to make up the difference with the single penny left in his pocket. 

"We'll find a good job later," Zhou Mingrui comforts. 

Klein's voice turned wistful. 

"Why do you think there's such an abundance of poor people here? Jobs are practically hard to find these days, but still..." 

... 

Zhou Mingrui sighs, and hurried back home. 

"With staple food," he says to the other occupant in his head, "I can now carry out the luck-enhancement ritual." 

"I see," Klein simply says. 

(... Strangely enough, Zhou Mingrui isn't really that excited about going back home... he wonders why... Isn't this his long-term goal?) 

After the tenants on the second-floor had gradually left for the day, Zhou Mingrui still didn't rush to perform the ritual. 

"Are you not in a hurry to get back home?" Klein asks, curious. 

"Well, since we're people from different worlds," Zhou Mingrui began, "wouldn't it be more fitting if I were to translate it first?" 

Enlightened, "I agree," Klein says. 

"... 'The immortal Lord of Heaven and Earth for Blessings'... that sounds like an honorific name of the Gods," he explains thoughtfully. 

"Judging from your memories," he continues, "your generation have no Gods..." 

Zhou Mingrui hums as he continued to translate the following words into ancient Feysac and other widely known Loen languages.

Distracted, he explains, "it's human nature, people tend to make Gods and other idols into being out of necessity." 

"... That sounds blasphemous," Klein says honestly. 

Zhou Mingrui shrugs, lips twitching as he tried to hide his amusement. "What could you do?" he says. 

"... If the incantation failed to take effect..." Zhou Mingrui trails off, "I can always try to do it again tomorrow with the translated languages." 

"Good idea," encouraged Klein. After all, they had to take into account the difference between the two worlds. As Roselle Gustav once says, "when in Rome, do as Romans do!" 

Thinking about the late Emperor 'Julius Caesar', Klein's expression twitched; reminiscing. Zhou Mingrui didn't really brought it up... but according to these memories... 

'Is Mr. Gustav a Transmigrator...?' After all, most of his quotes mysteriously corresponds with what Zhou Mingrui grew up with. And with the existence of the World Wide Web, there are quite many examples... 

... There had never been a city called Rome here—nor had there ever been one in recorded history. 

It could easily be dismissed as part of the Emperor's fictional writings... yet Klein couldn't help but find it uncanny how well it alligned with what he knew of the other world. 

An Empire on the other hand... but is it related? Rome. Roman Empire... 

Too many coincidences. As Mr. Gustav once said, "once is an accident, twice is a coincidence, thrice is a pattern." Even this seemed to hint at the existence of alternate realities. 

Did Emperor Roselle's famed quotations originate from philosophers of that land? Socrates. Plato. Aristotle. Dante. Pascal. 

Klein's eyes quivered slightly. 'Mr. Gustav, you...' 

"... Mr. Zhou," Klein says lowly. 

"Hm?" Zhou Mingrui responds. 

"... Is Roselle Gustav a Transmigrator like you?" 

Zhou Mingrui's hand stopped, ink dripping from his quill. "... You could say that," he answers, wistful. "We came from the same generation... from the very same country... from the very same place." 

"You could say," he says, voice faint like the wind, "you could say we're neighbors." 

Ah. 

Klein's understanding of the world proceeds as normal; by that, he means it's crumbling. 

Zhou Mingrui frowned, eyes conflicted as he reflected on his words. 'I never had any neighbors named Roselle Gustav... I wonder what his name is.' 

(... "Huang Tao...") 

After preparing for everything, Zhou Mingrui finally took out the four loaves of rye bread. 

One was placed in the corner where the coal stove used to be. Another at the bottom inner side of the dressing mirror. A third on top of the cupboard where two walls met. And the last at the right side of the desk cluttered with miscellaneous items. 

Taking a deep breath, Zhou Mingrui moved to the center of the room. He then spent several minutes steadying his thoughts. 

He hesitates. 

"Klein?" he calls out uncertainly, his voice reverberating in the silence. 

Klein, recently awakened from his existential crisis, took a long time to answer.

"... Yes," he blinked, dumb. 

"This ritual..." Zhou Mingrui says, "it's the reason for my transmigration." 

Klein blinked again. 

"Yes, what's the matter?" 

After all, Klein already knew. 

"... I don't know if it'll work," Zhou Mingrui explains, sounding lost, "and I don't know what'll happen either... what if you get dragged in with me?" 

Enlightened, "oh," Klein simply says. 

After a while, he answers. "I mean... truthfully, I'm quite hesitant." 

After all, this was uncharted territory, and these things tended to be terrifying.

"But what can we do?" Klein smiles. 

"We can't exactly know if we don't try it, right?" he tries, "so it's okay, you can proceed as you wished." 

Zhou Mingrui stills, contemplating. 

Then he smiles, relieved.

"... Alright," he says, "let's do this." 

Zhou Mingrui drew in a deep breath... then, with measured solemnity, he began to walk in a counter-clockwise square. 

On the first step—his voice barely above a whisper—he intoned, "The Immortal Lord of Heaven and Earth for Blessings." 

(... "The Fool that doesn't belong to this Era...")

On the second step—with a voice carrying more sincerity—he continues; "The Sky Lord of Heaven and Earth for Blessings." 

(... "The Mysterious Ruler above the Gray Fog...") 

On the third step came a soft exhale, "The Exalted Thearch of Heaven and Earth for Blessings." 

(... "The King of Yellow and Black who wields Good Luck...") 

At the fourth, a harsh breath escaped his lips as he focused deeply, murmuring; "The Celestial Worthy of Heaven and Earth for Blessings." 

(... "Lord of Mysteries... King of Space-Time... Beacon of Destiny... Embodiment of Sefirah Castle... Dominator of the Spirit World...") 

When he returned to his starting point, Zhou Mingrui closed his eyes and stood still; waiting for the outcome. A mix of anticipation, unease, hope, and fear stirred from within him. 

Could he make it back? 

(... could he...?) 

Would there be any effect at all?

(... mist... fog... an ancient castle lost through time...)

Could something unexpected happen?

(... home... in ruins... forgotten...) 

The unknown before him shimmered with the crimson light of hope. Zhou Mingrui's thoughts swirled chaotically, impossible to calm.

Then, as if the world itself held its breath, the air thickened; heavy and mysterious. 

Whispering rose beside his ears. It's everywhere—sometimes real, sometimes sharp, sometimes imagined, sometimes alluring, sometimes maniacal, sometimes utterly insane—

He could not understand the words, yet a strange compulsion forced him to listen, to try and decipher them. 

"What is happening?!" Klein panicked. 

Pain shot through Zhou Mingrui's skull, like steel being driven into his brain consistently. Colors exploded in his eyes, hallucinatory—like a torrent of thoughts in a sea of incomprehension. His head felt ready to burst. 

He tried to open his eyes, yet even the simplest action eluded him. 

"Zhou Mingrui!" Klein calls, ignored. 

His body tightened, each muscle threatening to snap, and a bitter, mocking thought rose in his mind—as it had done before, and before, and before—

"If you didn't seek death, you wouldn't die." 

The agony was unbearable. Just as his mind teetered on the edge of collapse, the whispers faded, leaving behind an eerie silence. 

He tried to open his eyes again. This time, it was effortless.

A gray fog stretched before him; hazy, endless, and obscure. 

'Very strange,' Zhou Mingrui mused. A tame thought, almost absurd against the chaos surrounding them. 

"Goddess," Klein Moretti grunts, suspended in the gray fog.

He has a body now, Zhou Mingrui noticed. Not real at the moment but at the very least, they were seperated by their astral bodies. 

'Klein looks disoriented,' he notes absentmindedly. The Time-traveler didn't blame him. After all, that had been a while ride. 

Though the disorientation seemed to be fleeting, something that could easily be pushed aside. Or perhaps, a thought creeps into Zhou Mingrui's mind; maybe this strange adaptability only works on him? 

Sefirah Castle shifted like a dream, replaying a scene Zhou Mingrui's soul knew all too well.

For an indeterminate amount of time, the Celestial Worthy has taunted him with these very same images.

His home.

It aches still, but the past is merely a coffin left to be buried. 

The world crumbled like sand. Calamity has arrived. The End of an Era. The Start of an Era. 

Buildings ripped from the Earth like weeds. Animals slaughtered like sacrifices. Trees shattered and hacked apart. An ocean of red and black, and decay. Birds falls like droplets of crimson rain. People, collapsing like marionettes, strings cut, forms discarded like dolls. 

This... was extinction. 

"Ah," Zhou Mingrui says, impulsive. His eyes are indifferent, unconcerned with the absolute carnage left behind.

"So that's what happened," he murmurs, as if it's merely a well thought out joke among Gods. 

"What." It seems Klein had finally found his bearings, eyes wide in horror at the scale of destruction, at the end of everything laid bare so casually like this. 

Zhou Mingrui lifted his gaze to the sky. The moon's silver glow was swallowed, corroded by a tide of crimson. The stars remained impassive, though some burned brighter than before. 

For a fleeting heartbeat, Zhou Mingrui felt compelled. Then he looked away, his chest still aching. He blinked, numb. 

'So a heart still beats... how surprising.'

Gray fog pressed in, thick and fast, enveloping him entirely. There was no time to fear, no room for even surprise. 

Zhou Mingrui—formerly Klein Moretti—plunged into darkness. 

Klein stares at the void in silence, absolutely dumbfounded.

Then the panic sinks in fast, like poison in his veins. 

"... Mr. Zhou?" 

He calls out blankly. The void stares at him, just as blank. It seems...

He's alone. 

Uh. 

.

.

.

Klein Moretti opened 'his' eyes to an abyss, almost to 'his' disappointment. A void of inky darkness stretched endlessly, broken only by 'his' own presence... and one other figure. 

The figure wore a black robe that swallowed everything except 'His' bony, pale hands. Long, black hair spilled from the robe's cowl, brushing past 'His' knees. 

'He' muttered words too low for Klein to hear, in a language Klein did not recognize. It had been a long time since 'he'd' encountered a tongue so utterly alien. 

Klein watched as the figure paced, circling 'him' again and again, and again—once, twice, thrice. The utter silence made each step resonate, echoing across a floor indistinguishable from the surrounding void. 

Then the figure stopped. Slowly, 'He' turned towards Klein and spoke, 'His' tone calm, almost indifferent, far different from what Klein has expected. 

"How irritating," 'He' said. "That's what you are... irritating." 

In an instant, ravings screamed in Klein's head.

... 'he' felt as if 'he' would collapse and perish... before the chaos quieted once more. Not even Evernight's voice had stirred 'him' like this before 'he' became a Demigod. 

This was the sheer might of an Outer Deity. The Celestial Worthy of Heaven and Earth. The Almighty Ruler of the Spirit World. The Lord of Mysteries. 

Klein remained silent, watching as the figure turned 'His' head to meet Klein's gaze. Beneath the cowl are yellow, terrifyingly indifferent eyes; glowing like stardust. As though merely observing an ant on a sidewalk. 

'His' pupils were as dark as a starless night—a similarity 'They' both shared. 

"Irritating," 'He' said again. The ravings surged in Klein's mind, but 'he' was prepared. "Are all irritants like this?" 'He' murmurs, "like cockroaches?" 

'Ah,' Klein thought impassively, 'but this cockroach won.'

The Celestial Worthy turned away, staring into the void; at the sheer blankness of non-existence. "Not used to this... these feelings," 'He' spat. 

"They," 'His' eyes glowed as 'He' glowers at nothing, "do not belong to me." Then 'He' swung 'His' gaze back to Klein, 'His' eyes a piercing black. 

The mental onslaught intensified tenfold, a hundredfold, a thousandfold—and Klein thought 'he' might really die then and there. 

"Do they belong to you?' the Celestial Worthy asked, as if curious. 

Klein stares, unable to respond. The ravings slowly waned to a gentle, haunting lullaby. The Being waits, patient. Perhaps to an existence such as 'His', patience is of no value. 

Eventually, it dwindles down to quiet mutterings. 'They' remained locked in each other's gaze. Klein considered the question, the answer forming as naturally as breathing. 

"Perhaps," Klein says... 

"Perhaps 'You' have been influenced by 'me', to some extent... "

"Perhaps 'I' have been influenced by 'You', to some extent..."

"Perhaps 'We' had influenced each other, to some extent..."

... 'he' ends. 

It lingers in 'Their' presence, words taking form as some sort of heavy nothing that serves no value. The void trembled. Gray fog seeps in through fractures in the darkness. 

Slowly, a smile crept across the Celestial Worthy's face, widening maddeningly, 'His' teeth sparkling behind the cowl. 

Mad Gods. Mad Gods. Beware the madness of the Mad Gods. 

"Yes," 'He' says, something like joy in 'His' tone. Pieces of void fell away, revealing a castle shrouded in mist. Unbiddenly, Klein thought of Klein. The real one. Not the stolen identity. 

"That's the answer, isn't it?" murmurs the Lord of Mysteries. 

Then the void shatters, and Klein felt darkness swallow 'him' once more. 

"What's with this situation?" Klein asks in faux calm. He is dying. He is dead. He is panicked to the point he's completely still. 

He's floating at the edge of an endless fog. It flows like water, and was dotted with dozens of crimson 'stars'. There are enormous ones. There are also miniature ones. 

Some are seemingly floating above the mist, while others are drowned within the depths; like faint reflections rippling across water. 

Gazing at the strange, almost holographic sight, Klein Moretti extended his left hand—half in confusion, half in curiosity—towards a crimson 'star' that seemed to hover just above the mist. 

He reached out, hoping that somehow, this touch might reveal a way to leave this Divine Kingdom. Unnoticed, because there's absolutely no way this isn't home to some Divine Being. 

His hand brushed against the surface of the 'star'—a watery mark rippled out from within, stirring the 'star' to burst into an almost crimson blaze. Dreamlike, as if fire were blooming underneath a sea. 

Klein Moretti recoiled in alarm, withdrawing his hand—only for his trembling fingers to graze yet another 'star'. This too, bursts like a blaze, fleeting yet bright. 

Uhhh. 

Hm. 

This is a reasonable response. Klein then proceeds to hyperventilate... in his mind... because he could not move in his terror. 

Aaaaaaaaaa—

This too, is a reasonable response. Everything can be attributed to 'this is a reasonable response'. Because it is. 

There is no other way around it. 

Loen Kingdom's Capital, Backlund. 

Ten minutes passed, and Audrey Hall had finally given up her pursuit for the extraordinary.

She murmurs softly, "so, Father really was lying to me... he kept saying this mirror belonged to the Dark Emperor of the Roman Empire... that it was some kind of extraordinary relic..." 

Her voice trailed off. The bronze mirror upon the dresser suddenly emitted a crimson glow, enveloping her figure entirely. 

In the Sonia Sea. 

A three-masted sailboat that was clearly an ancient relic sailed through the raging storm. Alger Wilson stood upon the deck, yet he maintained his balance with ease. 

In his hand was a strangely shaped glass bottle, and within it; bubbles billowed, frost turned to snow, and faint traces of gusting wind could occasionally be seen. 

Without warning, crimson light bursts forth between his palm and the bottle, surging outward to engulf the deck in a single breath. 

Amid the fog, Audrey Hall regained her eyesight. 

Amid the fog, Alger Wilson regained his eyesight. 

Moments later, their eyes traced the length of the ancient bronze table, and met the figure who was shrouded in impenetrable mist. 

Klein, seated at the end, met their questioning gazes with his own—inside, he was just as confused. 

'Ah,' he thought, numb. 'Is it too late for reimbursement?' 

Klein would like to forfeit his life. Hadn't he already shot himself anyway? Technically, it's within his rights. 

The Seat of Honor remained empty, waiting for the rightful host to arrive. 

Chapter Text

"Gentlemen," the noble girl called out uncertainly, voice faint yet steady. "By chance, do you know what happened...?" 

Her gaze drifted over to the Seat of Honor. There, at the top of the table; imposing and towering above the rest, was an empty chair.

It's craftmanship were exquisite, every curve and detail exuding absolute authority. 

Everything here felt Ancient. Magnificent. Lofty. As if she stepped into the Legendary Palace of the Giants. 

Beneath a dome of hazy gray mist stretched a long, bronze table. On either side stood ten high-backed chairs, arranged with flawless symmetry. 

Each chair shimmered faintly with a crimson glow, its back engraved with constellations; strange, unfamiliar patterns that twisted the logic of reality itself. 

An inexplicable feeling washed over her, and Audrey shivered. Someone—something—immensely powerful should be presiding over this gathering, and yet... 

She turned slightly, her voice a breath between awe and fear. "How fascinating," she mumbles. 

Alger's eyes swept across the vast chamber. A Divine Kingdom? The thought struck him, and immediately, his pulse quickened. But where...

... where is its Divine Being? 

Could it be—? His heart thudded. 

An uninhabited Divine Kingdom? 

Impossible.

If no Deity resided here, how had they been dragged into it? 

A trial, perhaps? He reasoned, grim. He forced himself into an appropriate composure, sweat gathering at his brow.

As low-ranked as he is in the world of Beyonders, even he knew the dangers of falsely offending a God.

Evil or not, otherwise. 

'Do I know what happened?' Klein repeats like a clinically insane person.

'Of course I know what happened—I did something I shouldn't have!' 

...

'Though,' Klein adds dejectedly, 'I don't really know what happened either...'

Unease prickles at the edges of his mind. What now? What's the most logical response to something like this? 

Unbidden, 'Mr. Zhou—where had you gone?' he worries, then he shook his head, focusing at the task at hand. 

Seeing the man seated at the far edge of the table shaking his head, the other two strangers visibly deflated. 

Lips pursed, Audrey Hall clutched the fabric of her skirt tightly, her knuckles turning white under the strain of her nervousness. 

Her eyes darted to and fro, flickering from one figure to the next. 

'You can do it, Audrey!' she urged herself, mustering every ounce of courage to finally ask what she'd been longing for in ages. 

'Who knows when you'll ever encounter something like this again if you let it slip through your fingers!' 

"This," she coughed, "this is such a wonderful experience..." she blurted out nervously.

"Yes, I've always been hoping that something like this would happen." 

"I mean," Audrey withered under the force of two incredulous stares. "I mean," she wets her lips, "I've always like mysteries and supernatural miracles." 

Audrey shook her head, "no, my point is—what I mean is that... gentlemen, what can I do to become a Beyonder?" 

'Is she crazy?' Klein thought, unable to think of anything else. 'Wait—Beyonders?'

'Hopelessly naive,' Alger judged. From her extravagantly ornate attire, it was clear she was of noble birth—the sort of person sheltered from the harsh truth of reality. 

Now, should Alger respond? He stares at the fog in silence, contemplating. Since the Being of this place had not yet struck them down... Alger's heart began to race with anticipation. 

Perhaps... perhaps he should seize this opportunity. If this was truly a test of character, then he should perform his very best; to prove himself worthy before whatever existence watched from above. 

"Are you from Loen, Miss?" 

Audrey nods, smiling all the while, even with her fear and trepidation. 

"If you wish to become a Beyonder," Alger continues. "Then join one of the Churches—the Evernight Goddess, the Lord of Storms, or the God of Steam and Machinery." 

'Excuse me', Klein thought. 'The Evernight, who?'

"The Majority of people will go their entire lives without ever meeting a Beyonder. Because of this, many churches—and even certain clergies within the largest of them—have began to doubt their existence." 

'I see...' Klein thought lifelessly, forcing himself to listen despite his shock. 

'That certainly sounds probable,' he adds dryly. 

'Before Mr. Zhou's transmigration and my own 'accident', I wouldn't have dared to think about the supernatural as well.' 

"Yet," Alger continues, "I can tell you with certainty that Beyonders still walk among us, serving in courts, tribunals, and execution agencies." 

'Execution agencies...?' Klein shuddered, 'what a scary word...' 

"They continue to battle the horrors that stir in the dark..." Alger explains, "though their numbers have dwindled greatly compared to the days before, and even during, the early Iron Age." 

Klein blinked, astonished. Relying on his fragmented knowledge of history, Klein understood that the 'Iron Age' referred to the current epoch. The Fifth Epoch, which had begun 1,349 years ago. 

It's that prevalent? Klein mused, his thoughts drifting back to his childhood. Everything had always seemed so ordinary; never once had he encountered anything remotely supernatural. 

So it really is that well-hidden... Though, Klein did grew up hearing whispers of magical cults, cursed relics, and deadly artifacts. 

Could such things truly be that widespread, simply concealed from the eyes of the public? 

And the Church... is that why they sometimes feel so overbearing?

Could it be that the Evernight Goddess truly, truly exist? And not just some distant, unreachable being gazing down upon 'Her' followers—but as a living, breathing presence within the physical world...? 

Though Klein had always believed in the might of the Gods, he had never felt that belief so vividly—so tangibly—as he did now. 

"Mister," Audrey says, "I already know what you just said." Her voice was firm despite the tremor beneath it. "I even know more—about the Nighthawks, the Mandated Punishers, and the Machinery Hivemind." 

The what? The who? The where? Klein's face turned incredibly  strange. 'I don't actually know what you're talking about!' he cried deep in his heart. 

'Am I the only ordinary person here...?' Klein thought. 'If so, I don't actually want to know any more than this.'

And yet, he's still stuck. What a pity. 

Audrey continues. "But, truthfully... I don't want to lose my freedom." 

Alger let out a low, humorless laugh. "You can't become a Beyonder without making sacrifices," he says vaguely, his eyes narrowing. 

"If you refuse to join the Churches and face the trials they demand, your only options are to seek out the Royal Families or those few Noble Houses whose lineages stretch back over a thousand years." 

Then he paused, his voice dropping lower and lower. "Otherwise, you'll have to depend on your luck... and go looking for the hidden, sinister organizations lurking in the dark." 

'So there are hidden, sinister organizations lurking in the dark,' Klein thought, then stills with the realization. 'Are the people who sold the Antigonus Family's Notebook such organizations, I wonder?' 

Audrey puffed out her cheeks subconsciously. Glancing around in mild fluster, she pressed on after confirming that neither gentlemen noticed her 'tic'.

"Are there truly no other solutions?" 

Alger looked ahead, contemplating his choices... before he answers with an even tone. "... I have two sets of Sequence 9 Potion Formulas." 

Both Klein and Audrey perked up in curiosity, genuinely interested. 

'Potion?' Klein mused. 

'Magical potions? There are such things?'

'Two sets of Sequence 9 Potion Formulas,' Audrey repeats. 'I wonder what they are...'

"Really?" Audrey blurts. "Which two sets?" 

Klein side-eyed her curiously. It seems she knows what the Sequence 9 Potion Formulas are...

'Do they give you 'superpowers'?' the college graduate asks, thinking about Zhou Mingrui's memories, 'like those 'superheroes' and 'supervillains'?' 

'... With Great Power comes Great Responsibility,' the quote unbiddenly resurfaced in Klein's mind, making his face twitch.

Fortunately, no one noticed. 

Alger leaned back slightly; unhurried and steady. "As you know... humanity can only rely on potions to become True Beyonders." 

'I... actually don't know,' Klein thought with an awkward air. 

Alger continues. "... The names of these potions originate from the Blasphemy Slate." 

'What's that?' Klein instinctively asks... fortunately, he hasn't spoken it aloud... 

"... After countless translations... Jotun, Elvish. ancient and modern Hermes, even ancient Feysac... their titles have shifted over time to suit each era," Alger explains. 

'Fascinating...' Klein thought, 'yet confusing.'

"But the essence lies not in the name... rather in whether it conveys the potion's core characteristics."

Alger paused briefly before continuing on as planned. "I possess a Sequence 9 Potion known as Sailor. It grants the drinker exceptional balance—even amidst a raging storm at sea, one can move about as steadily as if walking on solid ground." 

"You'll gain great physical strength, and beneath your skin will form faint, illusory scales that let you glide through the water like a fish." 

"You'll be swift, elusive, and capable of holding your breath underwater for at least ten minutes, even without special equipment." 

Audrey's eyes widened slightly. "That sounds amazing... the Keepers of the Seas from the Lord of Storms?" 

'Keepers of the Seas? The Lord of Storms? Fish? Scales? Sailor?' Klein asks, helplessly confused and overloaded with information. 

'Too much, too much exposition dump!' Klein cries in his heart. 

"It went by that name in the past," Alger replied without missing a beat. "The second... is a Sequence 9 Potion called Spectator." 

"... Though I'm uncertain what it was called in ancient times... this potion sharpens one's mind and grants an extraordinary ability to observe." 

"You can likely imagine the meaning from the word itself—a 'spectator'. Like one watching an opera or a play." 

"Such a person judges the 'actors' of the mundane world, discerning their true thoughts through subtle expressions, gestures, and words." 

At this, Alger's tone grew heavier, and heavier. "But remember this well—no matter where you stand, whether amid splendor or chaos, a Spectator must always remain a spectator." 

'A Spectator must always remain a spectator..." Klein tries to summarize and organize his thoughts. 

"So, no matter what's happening—whether things are amazing or terrible—you must observe without taking part.' 

Audrey's emerald green eyes gleamed. She remained silent for a moment before speaking softly, "why?" 

"... Alright, consider this as a follow-up question. I—I think... I've fallen in love with this feeling... the idea of being a Spectator. How can I obtain the potion's formula?" she asks excitedly, "what can I trade with you for it?" 

Alger seemed prepared for the question. His expression steadied as he replied in a low voice. "The blood of a Ghost Shark, at least one hundred milliliters." 

'Blood of a Ghost Shark...?' Klein parrots. 

Audrey nodded eagerly, but soon hesitated, worry clouding her face. "If I can get it—and I'm saying if—how do I hand it to you?" 

'That's a reasonable question,' Klein hums. 'How, I wonder..." 

Then he stares at the fog consideringly. 'And that's with the premise 'all of us' can get out of here... indeed, 'how'.'

"... And how can I be sure you'll give me the potion formula in return?" Audrey continues. "How do I know of it's authenticity?" 

Calm as ever, Alger replied. "I'll provide you an address. Once I receive the Ghost Shark's blood, I'll either mail the formula to you or—" 

"Or you could tell it here directly," a voice murmurs, dreamlike and distant, as if stirring from a deep slumber. 

All three of them leapt from their seats, hearts hammering wildly in their ribcages. 

At the same moment, they turned towards the Seat of Honor, eyes wide with fear and anticipation. Shrouded in impenetrable gray fog, the Being regarded them impassively, an untouchable smile playing across his lips. 

(... Although they did not know it, this is not the first meeting between The Fool and his would-be Tarot Club...)

Abruptly, they rose to their feet. With Audrey Hall leading the way as she always does with these meetings—the others quickly following her example. 

Together, they bowed deeply towards the Head of the Table, showing their outmost respect, even as they felt faint from the terror seizing their lungs. 

"... Good afternoon... sir," Audrey tries, mouth feeling like lead. "It is an honor to meet you." 

The other two follows after her instinctively, paying their respects. 

"You may sit," the Being commands. They obeyed without issue, silent and in awe. 

Then. 

A soft chuckle ripples through the air, light and mirthful, as if sharing some private joke no one else is privy to. Through the swirling mist, they glimpsed his enigmatic smile. 

"Ah," the Being sighed, as if thoroughly dreadful. "For the host to arrive so late to his own gathering... no matter." 

The Being's smile widened even more, soft with something unnamed. "I assume you found your session quite... informative?" 

"It was truly eye-opening, sir!" Audrey immediately replied, stepping forward like a natural spokesperson.

"I've learned so many fascinating things..." she murmurs lowly. 

The Being nods, as if genuinely interested. "This," he began, "is an attempt." 

An attempt. 

They unknowingly echoed all together. If it was appropriate, Audrey would have liked to pinch herself to check if this is real... 

'How wondrous would it be,' Audrey thought, mind stuck on the word 'gathering' the Being had previously described, 'if such a thing were to happen a second time...' 

The Being studies her with a tilt of his head. As if he knows of the blasphemous wish inside her heart... and he says with ease.

"If you make a formal request, you may return this very moment." 

All three occupants startled, chests beating to the point of a heart attack. 

'He won't try to keep us here?' Alger asks, 'did this attempt... entail only our presence, by chance?' 

'How wonderful!' Audrey exclaims, and if she could, she would've danced in her happiness. 

'... What is happening?' Klein wonders, mind refusing to catch up with reality. 

"Sir," Audrey began slowly, "how should we... how should we address you?"

After all, isn't that basic etiquette? 

The other two gentlemen agreed with her, nodding their heads. 

"Indeed, sir." Alger angled his torso to the Seat of Honor, echoing.

"How should we address you?" 

Klein offered his own response, just as respectful. 

For some reason, Klein felt as if the Being's amused gaze lingered on him far longer than it should. A shiver ran imperceptibly down his spine. 

Then, the Being's eyes drifted away, distant and unfocused as he spoke. 

"You may address me as..."

"The Fool." 

Klein's expression turned even stranger. The Fool. Number 'zero' of the Tarot Cards. Unbidden, his mind flashed to the incident with Zhou Mingrui. 

Did it... somehow come true? 

Another worry gnawed at him; where is Zhou Mingrui? Where could he have gone? 

Klein's gaze naturally drifted to the Being at the High Chair, wondering... does he know? 

Chapter Text

... Above the Gray Fog, inside a Palace that resembled a Giant's Residence...

Tap. 

Tap. 

Tap. 

Silence prevailed in the vast, mysterious space... and with nothing else to do, Klein simply sank into his thoughts. 

'Strange...' Klein mused. The tapping sounds—they're familiar.

They remined him of Zhou Mingrui. As strange as it is... it's the same rhythmic beat as that one time he'd played idly with Klein's pocket watch... 

Mhm. 

In the lingering silence, The Fool hummed softly, gathering their attention. 

"Before we proceed with your business," 'He' says, "know that I am someone who values fair and equal exchange." 

"Your help will not go unwarranted." 'He' smiles. 

They blinked. 

'Fair... and equal exchange?'

The Fool clasps 'His' hands together, nodding to 'Himself' as though in quiet agreement.

"... Since I've already permitted this gathering to continue as it is, we should establish a schedule, don't you think?" 

Their hearts thudded in unison as they listened, spellbound, '... another gathering...'

They couldn't help but wonder. It's as surreal as it felt—and to experience it so vividly... 

The Fool tapped the table in a steady rhythm, 'His' tone calm yet commanding. 

"Every Monday at three in the Afternoon," 'He' said, leaning back in his chair with effortless ease. 

"And if you cannot attend," The Fool trails off, "pray to me for a leave of absence."

Silence fell once more.

... Pray?

The same thought surged through all their minds simultaneously. 

Pray!

The Fool smiled faintly, as if entertained. "My Honorific Name is as follows..."

The Fog churned. The tension thickening—pressing deep into their skin, seeping through flesh and bone, settling into their very veins. 

An Honorific Name. 

Tap. 

Tap. 

Tap. 

The Fool waited for their racing hearts to settle before continuing, 'His' voice resonating like Divine Judgement. 

"The Fool that doesn't belong to this Era; 

The Mysterious Ruler above the Gray Fog; 

The King of Yellow and Black who wields Good Luck."

In response to the echo of The Fool's voice, the surrounding Fog began to stir and surge... 

... rippling as though recoiling from the Divinity woven into 'His' words. 

A three-line Honorific Name... 

Alger felt faint. He swallowed hard, his eyes drawn to the figure veiled in gray mist—only to jerk them away, trembling. 

His thoughts raced. 

'Had I done something offensive?' He replayed every action, every word in a panic, almost desperate to find no fault...

... other than sharing knowledge with that noble girl, there shouldn't be anything... 

... 

To summon three people here with little to no resistance... this place that bends to 'His' will so flawlessly... 

Alger's heart trembles, his throat constricting as though about to burst. 

He reconsiders... 

... could 'He' be lying?

The thought flashed without his permission, only for his blood to run cold. 

'Do not pry,' Alger reminded himself. 'Do not pry into the affairs of the Divine.'

Across the table, Audrey's mouth hung agape before she snapped it shut, mortified by her own reaction. Her lips twitched helplessly. 

She resisted the impulse to leap from her seat in giddy disbelief. Though she'd imagine many possibilities, never had she truly believed she would encounter the Divine itself.

For someone who'd grown up hearing tales of miracles and mysteries... this moment is a dream come true. 

And after witnessing even a fraction of The Fool's power, she harbored not a single doubt about 'His' authenticity. 

Meanwhile, Klein's mind went blank—completely blank. 

'A three-line Honorific Name...' he repeated numbly.

'So there are Gods mortals can reach...' 

Then it hit him—his earlier recklessness, touching those 'stars' without hesitation. Klein's face drained itself of color. 

'I'm going to get smote... smote...' Klein gulped nervously, then immediately reconsiders, '... but maybe The Fool didn't mind my trespasses...?' he tries. 

'If I'm still sitting here—panicking, yes... but fortunately still alive—then... maybe 'He's' forgiven me already...?'

Klein's mind wanders. 

'Good luck.' 

The phrase echoes in Klein's head. 'Is Good Luck the same as Blessings...?'

Then realization struck like lightning. 

'Zhou Mingrui!' Klein screamed inwardly, on the verge of tears. 

'Your ritual has contacted a Deity!'

Klein could curse, but he wouldn't dare in the Kingdom of a God. 

'And you said your world had no Deities!'

"You may continue."

The Fool urged with a wave of his hand, seemingly unconcerned by the bewildered—perhaps even blasphemous—thoughts. 

'He' tapped the bronze table lightly, the sound echoing in the stillness.

Humming, "from what I gathered... you're in a middle of a trade?" 

That simple question pulled them out of their daze. Audrey and Alger exchanged hesitant gazes before cautiously reigniting their conversation. 

"... For the... authenticity of the exchange," Alger began, his voice trembling slightly. He cleared his throat and continued more evenly, "you and I can be assured that it will not be tampered with—under the witness of The Fool." 

Audrey nodded in agreement, finding nothing wrong with his reasoning. "That's right."

After all, The Fool is undoubtedly an authoritative witness. 

'How could I—or even the man in front of me—possibly dare to deceive 'Him'?' she thought, settling the matter into her heart. 

"Honorable Mr. Fool," Audrey says respectfully, rising to her feet and offering a graceful curtsy.

"Would you permit us the liberty of requesting you to be the witness of our trade?" 

The Fool inclined 'His' head slightly, a serene smile curving 'His' lips—as it always did, as it always has.

"It's nothing." 

Go on, is what they read. 

"It's our honor, Mr. Fool," Alger says, standing up quickly. He places his right hand over his chest and bowed deeply. 

Klein, uncertain of what to do, awkwardly followed their lead, bowing with a stiff, nervous motion. 

The Fool lowered 'His' right hand and tapped the table just once. 'His' tone was calm yet final.

"You may proceed." 

"... If you manage to obtain the Ghost Shark's blood, have someone deliver it to the Warrior and Sea Bar on Pelican Street in the White Rose Borough of Pritz Harbor."

Alger paused. 

"... Tell the Boss, Williams, that it's what the 'Captain' ordered." 

'Warrior and Sea Bar... Pelican Street... White Rose Borough... Pritz Harbor,' Klein repeats thoughtfully. 

'A Captain... Piracy, perhaps?' 

Klein paused. 

'... There are such things?' 

Alger continued evenly. "Once I acknowledge receipt, will you give me an address to mail the potion formula to, or do you want me to recite it to you now?" 

Audrey paused, considering, then smiled. "I'll choose the more secure method. Tell me here..." she pursed her lips, "though it will be a test of my memory." 

It's at that moment they heard the rhythmic tapping of Mr. Fool's hand. They instinctively straightened their backs, facing towards the Seat of Honor reverently. 

The Fool smiled. "As witness of this trade," 'He' began, "I shall bestow upon you the means of 'physical transfer'." 

Bestow. 

Physical transfer. 

...

'... Mr. Fool offering aid...?'

Both Audrey and Alger exclaimed inwardly, their thoughts unknowingly overlapping with each other in apparent disbelief. 

"In this regard," The Fool continued calmly, "sacrifice the blood upon me, and I will deliver it to the other party." 

...

Sacrifice...? 

Deliver...? 

Is this considered blasphemous...? 

If she could, Audrey would have covered her mouth in shock. 

Alger sat frozen, the words reverberating in his skull. His hearbeat went thud, thud, thud. 

Klein's mind went blank. 

After a moment, Audrey gathered herself. "That would be..." Her voice trembled before she coughed softly to steady it. "That would be greatly appreciated, Mr. Fool." 

She hesitated, then ventured. "May I ask... how should we sacrifice the blood?" 

Tap. 

Tap. 

Tap. 

"Prepare an altar," The Fool explained, patient and even. "It need not to be elaborate or ornate." 

Through the otherworldly density of the Fog, they could feel 'His' gaze—palpable, immense, pressing. 

"All that is necessary will be my Symbol." 

All three of them froze. Shock after shock, after shock—they feared their hearts might truly burst under the weight of awe and disbelief. 

'Is this what they call a bombshell...' Klein thought. 

'This is no ordinary bombshell... this is a Nuclear Bombshell,' he settles with faux calm. 

...

'I need a shower,' Klein thought absurdly, before mentally slapping himself. 

Before Audrey could muster up the courage to ask what the Symbol looked like, a soft glow bloomed in the air before them. 

A hovering screen of light appeared, Its shifting brilliance reflected in their wide eyes. 

The strokes slowly took form; a strange, pupil-less eye that sank downward into a web of contorted lines. 

It's identical to the constellation-like symbol engraved at the back of Mr. Fool's chair. 

Instinctively, Alger's gaze flicked to the back of the other gentleman's seat—the one who had remained silent all this time. 

'It's exactly the same,' Alger realized. Just what is this fellow's relationship with Mr. Fool? 

(... Klein has the urge to sneeze, but he held it back resolutely...)

The Fool tapped the table again, still with a faint smile on his lips. "As for the matter of memory—" Audrey visibly twitched before she reigned it in, mortified. 

The Fool's smile widened even more, amusement glimmering in his tone. "If you cannot remember, simply pray to me. Then, you will remember." 

'This is too much blessings, isn't it?' Klein thought helplessly.

'Is Mr. Fool the Immortal Lord of Heaven and Earth for Blessings?' 

Then Klein frowned.

'No... the Honorific Names don't quite match. Could Gods also have multiple ones?' 

Blinking in confusion, Audrey scrambled to gather her thoughts, silently reciting Mr. Fool's Honorific Name over and over—not necessarily to understand them, but simply to etch them into memory. 

Even so, she did not hesitate to rise from her seat to curtsy at 'The Fool that does not belong to this Era'. 

"Thank you Mr. Fool," she says softly, leading the two gentlemen to also rise from their seats to offer their gratitude. 

Mr. Fool responds gently, "you are welcome." 

"Honorable Mr. Fool," Audrey calls out hesitantly. "Due to the nature of this gathering... would it be alright to give ourselves our own call signs?" 

'Since after all,' Audrey thought, 'it might be dangerous for these two gentlemen to actually know my real identity...' 

Mr. Fool nods. "Of course," 'He' says with ease. 

After a brief moment of contemplation, Audrey brightened, her eyes alight with inspiration. "You are Mr. Fool, which is derived from the Tarot Cards," she reasoned aloud. 

"Then, I'll also choose one from the Major Arcana." 

A delighted smile spreads across her face as she declared, "I've decided—my designation shall be Justice!" 

Mr. Fool smiles, warm. 

Audrey turned towards the two gentlemen with a certain glint in her eye, curious and thrilled. 'I wonder what they'll choose...' 

Alger was already deep in thought. After a short pause, he lifted his head and said steadily, "then I will be The Hanged Man." 

Mr. Fool nods, imperceptible. 

Eyes bore into Klein, equal parts curiosity and intensity. As a mere History Graduate just a day ago, he was not accustomed to being scrutinized by a group of strangers.

Especially one that is accompanied by a God. 

Still, Klein considers. 'What could it be?' 

"If it's difficult," Mr. Fool says, casually summoning a deck of cards, "you can always choose like this." 

With a flick of 'His' fingers, they flew in front of Klein. 

Mr. Fool grins. "Choose one." 

A deck of cards lay neatly arranged in symmetrical threes upon the table. As Klein gazed at them, a peculiar sense of deja vu stirred within him.

If this were a divination, the spread would surely signify 'Past, Present, and Future.'

Following that thought—and perhaps on a mere impulse—Klein reached for the card on the left. It mirrored Zhou Mingrui's earlier choice on the right. 

Past and Future. A reflection of one another. Utterly unreasonable, and yet, somehow fitting. 

"The World," Klein announced. 

Mr. Fool taps the table once, seemingly on instinct, and Klein is now officially known as 'The World'. 

He honestly doesn't know what to think about it actually. But that's fine. Everything has been quite unpredictable lately, and what could Klein do but merely accept it? 

"Alright!" Ms. Justice clapped her hands happily. "Then we can be considered the Founding Members of the Tarot Club!" 

She announces, her voice bubbling with excitement—only to freeze mid-celebration as realization struck. Shrinking, she looks at 'The Mysterious Ruler above the Gray Fog'. 

"... Will that be alright, Mr. Fool?" 

The Fool's smile deepened, soft and amused. "I quite like the name," he reassures. 

Ms. Justice exhaled in visible relief. "It would be my honor, Mr. Fool." 

Glancing at 'His' newly-made Tarot Club, Mr. Fool opens a hand to the table, and says gently, "beyond the purpose of conducting trade, perhaps these gatherings could also serve as a place to share knowledge." 

Mr. World blinked. For some reason, he feels as if something ominous is coming. '... No matter,' he says lifelessly to himself. 

'My worldview has been shattered the moment I shot myself anyway.' 

"What a wonderful idea!" Ms. Justice exclaims, grinning like a child who has been given free sweets. 

Thump, thump, thump. 

'He didn't specify that the knowledge was to be shared only among us...' Alger thoughts stirred restlessly.

'Could he be implying that he might grant us knowledge himself?' 

He lifted his gaze towards the Seat of Honor, awe flickering in his eyes, before bowing his head deeply. "We thank you for your generosity, Mr. Fool."

Sincerely, Mr. World and Ms. Justice followed after him. 

Humming softly, Ms. Justice's thoughts trailed off to another one of her curiosities before she turned to Mr. Hanged Man. 

"I heard that the Tarot Cards were invented by Emperor Roselle as a sort of game," she says. "But isn't it said that they also hold the power to Divine the Future?" 

Mr. World perks up, interested. 

"No," Mr. Hanged Man replies. "Most of the time, divination comes from within. Everyone carries a spark of spirituality within themselves, something that allows them to attune to the unseen world and connect with knowledge about their own being on a higher level."

"Everyone's destiny can only be unraveled by themselves." Zhou Mingrui had said. Mr. World frowns.

Mr. Hanged Man continues. "But ordinary people rarely notice this—let alone understand the 'signs' they receive. That's where divination tools come in; they make these messages visible." 

He paused, then added, "take dreams, for example—and those who interpret them."

Mr. World hums. "... Tarot Cards are one such tool."

Oh? 

Mr. Hanged Man and Ms. Justice startles at the sound of The World's voice, having not expected him to speak while they conversed. 

(... Mr. Fool stills, then relaxes, listening...)

Mr. Hanged Man inclines his head in agreement. "Yes, they rely on symbols and structured logic to help us interpret those signs more clearly and precisely."

Ms. Justice nods, her expression thoughtful. "I heard that Emperor Roselle once created another set of cards... secret, mysterious ones..." 

"... Paper cards imbued with power unknown to most. There were twenty-two in total. Later in life, he referenced them to create the twenty-two Major Arcana Tarot Cards, which are now used as a gaming tool." 

Ms. Justice stares at The Hanged Man with an inquiring gaze.

"Is that correct?" 

Mr. World carefully considers the freely given information. 'I didn't realize Tarot Cards had such history...' 

'Indeed, if the extraordinary is as carefully concealed as it appears... then surely 'those in the know' will no doubt keep it that way...' 

"It is said," Mr. Hanged Man explains, "that Emperor Roselle glimpsed the Blasphemy Slate. Those paper cards contain the profound mysteries of the twenty-two Paths of the Divine." 

Mr. World's mind races. 'Paths of the Divine? Are Divine Beings like Beyonders?' 

He shakes the thought off. 'Reign it in... reign it in...' 

Mr. Hanged Man glances towards the elusive figure on the Seat of Honor, lips thinning. Should he ask? 

Sensing his stare, Mr. Fool responds, indulgent as a patient teacher. "They are also known as the Cards of Blasphemy." 

Cards of Blasphemy? They echoed uncertainly. 

"Their obscurity is deliberate—each card is imbued with formidable anti-prophecy and anti-divination abilities." Mr. Fool finishes. 

Alger's thoughts seized at the revelation, then surged again as his heart hammers in his chest. 'Through this gathering... I might finally learn what is normally forbidden.' 

'Blasphemy,' mused The World, intrigued. 'An interesting choice of words...' 

"Why Blasphemy?" he murmurs. 

Mr. Fool's gaze brushes over him, fleeting yet lingering long enough to unsettle. 

With a low, knowing chuckle, Mr. Fool says, "is it not blasphemous to seek to replace the Gods?" 

Mr. World blinks, a thought lodging in his mind. 'Not only can Gods be contacted, but they can also be... replaced? Is that what 'He' means?' 

Blasphemous, indeed. 

"Alright," Mr. Fool announces, "that concludes today's gathering." 

"... By your will," Mr. Hanged Man bows. Ms. Justice and Mr. World follows after him absentmindedly. 

"Let us look forward to the next one," Mr. Fool adds as he reassured their uneasiness. 

The 'stars' brightened, a crimson light receding like water. Just as Mr. Hanged Man and Ms. Justice heard the parting words, their figures blurred, phasing away. 

In an instant, the gray fog reclaimed its silence. 

(... Then Klein falls...) 

.

.

.

... "Perhaps 'We' had influenced each other, to some extent..."

... 

... the void shatters, and Zhou Mingrui felt darkness swallow 'him' once more... 

...

... and he falls... and falls... and falls...

Zhou Mingrui's surroundings blurred, melting into a swirl of colors, before gradually fading into the muted glow of the mid-morning sky. 

He was still in the center of the apartment. 

"That felt like a dream..." he murmured. "That misty world... what were those—"

(... images...)

Those—

A weary sigh slipped from Zhou Mingrui's lips. "So, I didn't really make it back home, huh." 

"... No," Klein says softly, "where were you though? I didn't see you at the gathering..." 

Zhou Mingrui perked. "Gathering, you said?" 

Klein quiets. 

Then.

"Your ritual seems to have contacted a Deity," the History Graduate accused. "What are your thoughts about it?" 

Huh? 

Chapter Text

Distant cathedral bells tolled in the background, but Zhou Mingrui didn't bother counting the chimes. Absentmindedly, he picked up Klein's cherished pocket watch; looking at it with interested eyes. 

The hour hand indicated several hours had passed. "So time still flowed at the same pace, it seems," he muttered to his body-mate.

"How inconvenient..." 

"That gathering sure took a while," Klein remarks. Physically, they were still standing in the same exact spot, in the same exact posture. They hadn't moved at all.

Only, their spirit bodies had been tampered with, and it's without their permission. 

"... Were we just standing here all this time...?"

"... Explains why my legs are so cramped," Zhou Mingrui complains. "Next time, we should lie down?" 

Next time?

"... Speaking of next time," Klein began, trailing off unsurely. Only now did the absolute absurdity of the situation dawn on him, and it sinks in more than it should. 

'I am dead. Smote. Struck down. Chased. Cursed. Punished—' he thought, erratic. 

For someone who had just died once, being threatened by a fate worse than death felt grossly unfair. 

"... Calm down," Zhou Mingrui comforts, unsettled by the numerous thoughts drifting into his mind. This one sure has an imaginative mind... he mused; as the image of the Evernight Goddess in a witch's costume surfaced in his thoughts, unprompted. 

... The Evernight-Witch then proceeds to curse imaginary Klein into a lifetime of misfortune, all the while laughing maniacally...

...

"Is your... gathering that stressful?" Zhou Mingrui fought off the urge to smile. It's just that funny, 'for someone who's afraid of Divine Punishment, he sure has blasphemous thoughts...' 

"Why would you get, and I quote, 'struck down'?" 

'Brother, if you continue thinking like that, you 'might' get struck down... fortunately, Gods can't read minds of ordinary followers...' he says in his mind, careful not to be heard. 

"... Of course, you wouldn't understand," Klein says dryly, dejected. "This is a land of the Gods..."

"What do you think will happen to people 'acquainted' with the unknown, 'unorthodox' Gods?" 

"... They get struck down?" Zhou Mingrui offers, lips twitching. 'Cursed? Doomed? Unredeemed?' 

"... You're not helping at all, do you know that?" Klein says, even more dejected. "Why are you like this?" 

Zhou Mingrui chuckled. "I'm sorry... on the bright side," he says with a smile, "if they already knew, you've been smote by now..." 

"There's a chance they might not even care," Zhou Mingrui offers, casual. 

"You... Transmigrators' sure are blasphemous..." Klein comments, unbiddenly thinking about one of Mr. Gustav's more infamous quotes; 'I don't believe in Gods,' that he once learned in class. 

Utterly bewildered, "I fear for my life even more," he mutters. 

"It must be the atheist in me," Zhou Mingrui laughs, as if recalling a joke only he could understand. 

...

"... If only I could stay away from you," Klein says evenly, "I would've ran away to the other side." 

Lost in thought, Zhou Mingrui stared at the four black spots on the back of his hand. All of which, are neatly arranged into a small, even square. 

How interesting. The marks faded quickly, vanishing from sight, but he could still sense them lurking beneath his skin, waiting for the right moment to reawaken. 

"Four spots forming a square..." Klein peers through his eyes, intrigued. "Does it correspond to the four pieces of 'rye bread' at the corners of the room?" 

As the words left his mouth, Klein abruptly fell silent. 'Strange,' he thought. 'That didn't feel like my own thought... it was as if something nudged me.' 

Klein's eyes lowered to their hand, troubled. 

"Does that mean we won't have to prepare food again?" Zhou wondered aloud. "It has to be, right? Why else would it be there?" 

'Yes, why else would it be there?' Klein thought suspiciously. How ominous. 

"Does that mean we can just chant and perform the ritual as it is?" Klein asked hypothetically. 

"Must be," Zhou Mingrui agrees. "Should we try it out again?" 

...

"... No," Klein refused flatly. "Let's not go bothering a God just because 'we're' curious. Besides, the gathering just ended." 

"Furthermore," he quips, "you weren't even there." 

"Aren't you just targeting me?" Zhou Mingrui mutters to himself. "Alright then," he conceded easily, "that makes sense." 

Then his gaze drifted back to their hand. The unknown was always the most unsettling... and this mark couldn't possibly be a good thing, could it? 

The Chinese divinations from Earth working here inexplicably... the bizarre transmigration he stumbled into in his sleep... the maddening whispers during the ritual... and that surreal gray world whose purpose escaped him entirely... 

All if it made Zhou Mingrui shiver despite the heavy June heat. 

"Don't forget about how it somehow contacted a Deity," Klein reminds him. It sounds like an accusation.  

Zhou Mingrui hums, not knowing what to say. "Evil God?" he suggests. 

Klein grew still, recalling The Fool's unusual benevolence so far. "... Who knows... but 'He' is certainly an unorthodox one," he concluded. 

"The Fool?" Zhou Mingrui murmurs absentmindedly; letting the words roll on his tongue as he delved into Klein's memories. 

...

How convenient. So they could actually do this; share memories. A happy accident, really.

All Zhou Mingrui wanted to do was gather information about 'Evil Gods' and 'Unorthodox Ones', yet he ended up stumbling directly into Klein's most recent encounter with 'The King of Yellow and Black who wields Good Luck.' 

Klein frowned, though he still answers. "Yes... but how did you figure that out?" 

Zhou Mingrui shrugged. "The memory just... came up," he murmurs, eyes fixed on the 'gathering' playing over and over like a movie. 

"... We can do that?" Klein mutters, "huh." Then he fell silent. 

After looking through most of it and witnessing every one of Klein's nervous breakdowns, Zhou Mingrui reaches out sympathetically. 

"You were brave, soldier," he says, voice trembling as he fought off the urge to laugh. 

...

"...You weren't there, you... don't make fun of me." Klein says, even more dejected. Like a hilariously drenched little kitten in the rain, looking at you with big, big eyes. 

Zhou Mingrui chuckles at the mental image. Where did that come from? But he agrees nonetheless.

"Sorry, sorry." He didn't sound apologetic in the slightest, but the effort was... notable. "Still, the information's quite useful," he added, offering a small comfort. 

Klein didn't reply, but a soft huff escaped him. 

Zhou Mingrui sank into his thoughts, retracing everything that had happened since his Transmigration. No matter how hard he tried to push it away, he could no longer deny it. 

Reality itself... felt distant, skewed, almost dreamlike, as if the world around him didn't quite align the way it was meant to. 

'Where did I go?' he asked, speaking to no one in particular. Zhou Mingrui was certain he had been there, in the Gray Fog. 

Yet somehow, not truly there at all. It felt as if he had slipped into a deep slumber, or perhaps he was still dreaming, even now. 

Then came the real question; where did reality end, and dreams begin? Had Zhou Mingrui become trapped somewhere in between, suspended at the intersection, unable to tell which side he truly stood on? 

...

Why? 

Zhou Mingrui found himself asking. Why was he so sure he was dreaming? Didn't he feel real? He had felt pain before—he knew what it meant to be alive. 

So why is he so confused?

Zhou Mingrui stared into nothing, a hollow sense of displacement pressing against his chest. An unprecedented, irresistible urge stirred within him—an urge to reach out, to understand, to venture into the unknown. 

Yet at the same time, an opposing instinct pushed back, urging him to turn away, to act as of nothing had ever happened. But that would leave him without answers, wouldn't it? How could he continue living like this, forever trapped in bewilderment? 

Besides, he still wanted to go home. Why hesitate? How could he end this dream to wake up? Was he even dreaming at all? Had sleep ever felt this... confusing? 

Sunlight streamed through the window, scattering across the desk like fine grains of gold. Zhou Mingrui gazed at the glimmering surface, feeling a fleeting warmth—a subtle spark of hope. 

His shoulders sagged, and a wave of exhaustion rolled over him. 

"... Sometimes, I feel as if I'm dreaming," he murmurs to no one in particular. Yet the words lingered in the air, silently asking; do you? 

To the ghost that dwelled in the depth of his mind, likely listening to every fragment of his grief and doubt...

"... Why?" Klein asked, genuinely puzzled. He couldn't make sense of the Transmigrator's sudden shift in mood. 

He could have peered into Zhou Mingrui's mind, but there was a wistfulness in his demeanor that made Klein pause. And so, he hesitated. 

"I don't know," Zhou Mingrui replied honestly. "It just... felt that way." 

"... Considering the fact that you've just Transmigrated," Klein began. "I'd be more surprised if you said you didn't feel like you were dreaming." 

Klein considers, thoughtful. 

"... As a 'ghost' in my own body... talking to another 'ghost' possessing me... I admit it's quite surreal." 

"... Yes, it does feel like it, doesn't it?" Zhou Mingrui murmurs softly. "If you are dreaming," he asked hypothetically, "would you want to wake up?" 

There was a long pause. 

"... I think the question should be, 'could I'?" Klein ponders. 

'Could I?' Zhou Mingrui laughs, bitter. "That... sounds ominous."

"... It is, isn't it?" 

"... Let's see," Klein wonders out of the blue, a faint smile on his ghostly lips. "Let's assume that you 'are' sleeping... what's your ideal bed?" 

Zhou Mingrui's lips twitched. "Certainly not a cocoon," he jokes telepathically. "I'd feel like a caterpillar otherwise." 

"I'd say it's fascinating if you were," Klein huffs, "don't you want to be a butterfly?" 

Zhou Mingrui ponders this reality seriously, then solemnly asked, "is it worth it to become goo?" 

"... If you put your mind into it, possibly..." Klein answers.

"Then I have become goo," Zhou Mingrui declares.

Klein is left with the increasing awareness of a Transmigrator's train of thought. 

At some point, Zhou Mingrui found himself resting on his bed. After a while, he rose and picked up the silver vine-leaf pocket watch from Klein's desk. 

Pa!

The lid snapped open, and the second hand ticked steadily. "Half-past twelve," he muttered, slipping it into his shirt pocket.

In the Northern Continent, there were 24 hours in a day, 60 minutes in an hour, 60 seconds in a minute. Whether a second passed at the same speed as on Earth was unknown, yet nonetheless irrelevant. 

At this moment, both of them were focused on a single thing—Zhou Mingrui even more intensely, since he was inhabiting Klein Moretti's human body. 

Food. 

With this mind, he picked up the four loaves of bread from the corners, dusting off any tiny specks clinging to its surface. 

One load would make lunch. It was a tradition back home to eat the offerings afterward, and besides—nothing unusual had ever happened to the bread. 

'Other than being used in a ritual, that is,' Klein mused. 

Frugality won out, especially when they only had five pence left. Of course, Klein's leftover habits played a part as well, Zhou Mingrui decided. 

"I'm still here," Klein grumbled. "Don't think so loudly." 

Zhou Mingrui chuckled. How lively. 'It's honestly quite strange to be transmigrated with a 'supposed' ghost inside your head,' he reflected—but at the very least, he wasn't alone. 

Loneliness was a heavy thing, he decided. Zhou Mingrui was introverted by nature—he could say that with relative ease—but even he knew the well-defined difference between choosing to be alone, and being forced to be alone. 

Honestly unreasonable. The fact that he knew it so intimately—how unreasonable, yet at the same time, it felt natural. 

Zhou Mingrui smiles to himself, thinking; had I become this lonely without even realizing it? 

How strange. Where did that come from? 

Not wanting to waste expensive gas just for lighting, Zhou Mingrui set up the furnace, added coal, and boiled water. He paced while he waited. 

'Anyone would choke on that rye bread without water,' he nodded to himself. 

"Don't choke in my body," Klein warned. "It's been through enough lately." 

Lips twitching, Zhou Mingrui muttered, "... it's still functional." 

"Fortunately," came Klein's dry response. 

Zhou Mingrui stared at the bread as if it had offended his entire bloodline. 'Yikes, life with meat only once a day is going to be dreadful.' 

"What could you do?" Klein comments. 

...

"... Aren't you supposed to be a 'refined and reserved gentleman'?" Zhou Mingrui said telepathically. "You've become sharp-tongued around me." 

"Sir," Klein began, "you have my memories... and you can hear my thoughts—you know very well I have many things to say in my head." 

"Not all of them," Zhou Mingrui chuckled, "but it's definitely enough to stick." 

Klein huffs. 

Looking around the room, Zhou Mingrui's eyes landed on the pound of mutton. 

"No," Klein immediately scolds, "we should wait for Melissa." 

Zhou Mingrui sighed. 'Ah, mutton.' 

Thinking about the mutton was making him hungrier than he should be, Zhou Mingrui realized. So he turned away, twisting his body until the sight of it no longer 'seduced' him. Out of sight, out of mind. 

"How could mutton even seduce you?" Klein asked, imagining a piece of meat whispering, 'eat me~' 

Klein shudders. 

"Have you not heard it sing?" Zhou Mingrui mumbles, ignoring the mental image of meat dancing... erotically... inside his mind. 

...

"... Klein, please stop." 

"... Mhm." 

...

"... I think I'll just settle for potatoes," Zhou Mingrui says. Immediately energized, he retrieved two from the cupboard. 

He washed them in the public bathroom, then tossed them into the pot to boil. After a while, he added a pinch of coarse yellow salt. 

He waited patiently, then poured the salty broth into cups and bowls. He placed the steaming potatoes on the desk. 

fff—

He blew on them as he peeled. The warm scent filled the air—comforting, nostalgic. Unable to resist for long, he bit into one as soon as it was half-peeled. 

Delicious. Powdery. Sweet. Warm. He devoured both potatoes hungrily, even eating some of the skin. He drank the salty broth, savoring its simplicity.

"This was how I used to eat potatoes when I was young." 

Zhou Mingrui dipped the bread into the broth, softening it before eating. He ended up devouring two whole loaves—nearly a pound. 

At last, full and refreshed, he cleaned up and basked in the golden sunlight. 

(... It's been a while since he'd last enjoyed food...)

As confusing as the situation is, it's not ideal to just sit around and wait, even if something in him whispers that he should cherish whatever peace is left in his life. 

"As much as I think about it," Zhou Mingrui says, "the only path forward is waiting for the gathering to arrive... unless something unexpected happens..." 

Klein hums. 

"That's what I thought as well," he decided. "The only contact we currently have is the Gray Fog... and with me being a member..." 

Klein trails off. 

"It's advantageous, at the very least," he settled with a heavy heart. "Though I should be careful—who knows what'll happen, right?" 

Zhou Mingrui hummed, lightly tapping the table. "Do you have a name?" 

"... What?" 

"At the gathering," Zhou Mingrui blinked. "You can't exactly go around telling your name to an unknown Deity, and a bunch of strangers, right?" 

"Didn't you watch my memories?" Klein asks, confused.

"Not all of them, what do you see me as?" Zhou Mingrui says, "I won't go through them without permission... unless they leak."

"The World," Klein says.

"It's 'The World'." 

".. 'The Fool' and 'The World'," Zhou Mingrui murmurs. "How fitting." 

"... Please don't speculate about my relationship with a God," Klein muttered. If he had a body, he would have paled. "Meeting one is enough—I don't need to be in a closer relationship than necessary." 

Zhou Mingrui laughed, finding it funny for some reason. Thinking back, it must have been Klein's reverence and aversion toward the Divine. 

"You know," Klein began, filling the silence as Zhou Mingrui lazed around in bed, "I just realized... do you think elves, mutants, and dragons exist?" 

"I once thought they were just myths and fantasies... but since Transmigration, Gods, and Divine Kingdoms exist, they might as well at some point, right?"

Zhou Mingrui took the time to consider it. "They could," he settled, lingering on the word 'elves' for a moment. "But who knows?" 

"... This is a fantasy world, after all," he settles. 

Klein hummed thoughtfully. '... I once believed such things couldn't exist, but they do.' His thoughts slipped out. 

'If Transmigration is something that'll happen to someone... then, doesn't that mean the 'extraordinary' exists there too?'

Zhou Mingrui stilled, considering what he had heard. Klein stayed silent, perhaps still lost in thought. Indeed, if he could Transmigrate... 

Then maybe his world wasn't as normal as he had believed. 

"Speaking of Roselle Gustav," Klein began again. Zhou Mingrui couldn't tell if it was Klein's leaking thoughts or merely indulgence directed at no one. 

"I wonder what people would think if they found out he's an 'alien'." 

...

Huh. 

Zhou Mingrui considers it seriously. "... Now that I think about it, we could be considered 'aliens'." 

"Right?" Klein agreed. "Do you think there are other existence in the cosmos besides us? There must be, right?" 

Zhou Mingrui wisely stayed silent, daunted by the prospect of something beyond his comprehension. 

'... I wonder how much the extraordinary has affected my body,' Klein murmurs. 'I wonder if Zhou Mingrui is experiencing any side effects...' 

Zhou Mingrui sighed, exasperated. Had Klein Moretti's mind ever been this restless? From one topic to the next, there was always something whirring in his thoughts. At the very least, the Transmigrator found them entertaining. 

In a world without the internet or cellphones, it seems people could only entertain themselves through their own thoughts and observations of the world. 

Is this how people lived back then too? Perhaps that's why so many inventions came to be in Ancient Times. 

"I don't feel anything," Zhou Mingrui says, twirling a quill pen. He had intended to learn more about the Notebook, but since it was currently missing... there was no way to find out. 

'Besides, trouble seems to find me on its own,' he settles. He had a feeling that if he just waited long enough, something would eventually happen. 

'... Some inexplicable feelings again... could this be connected to mysticism, I wonder?' 

'... Now that I think about it...'

"Klein," Zhou Mingrui began, "is the word 'mysticism' commonly used around here?" Is it taught? 

"I don't think so," Klein frowned. "There's talk, of course, but I don't think people are meant to know that the 'extraordinary' is called 'mysticism'..." 

"I just... simply attributed it to you knowing actually," Klein explains, following his train of thought. "There are some things I know that I can't claim as my own... naturally, it must have came from you." 

Zhou Mingrui fell silent. There it was again—some things he simply knew instinctively, and he had no idea why. 

"You know," Zhou Mingrui began, finally breaking the silence, "I kept getting distracted by so many other things... but I had actually planned to investigate what happened to you." 

"For example," Zhou Mingrui pressed lightly, talking telepathically, "your suicide." 

"And the line, 'Everyone will die, including me'." As insensitive as it sounded, Zhou Mingrui couldn't find a natural way to bring up the topic. Still, a pang of guilt tugged at him. 

"Ah... I seem to have been distracted as well," Klein admitted shakily. "I... I forgot about that," he added guiltily. 

Welch and Naya. 

.

.

.

Empress Borough, Backlund, capital of the Loen Kingdom. 

Audrey Hall pinched her cheeks, still in disbelief over her earlier encounter. On the dressing table before her, the old bronze mirror lay shattered. 

She glanced down at her hand and noticed a swirling 'crimson' mark—a star-like tattoo—slowly fading into her skin. Only then did Audrey allow herself to be certain; it had not been a dream. 

Her eyes sparkled, and a grin spread across her face. She rose, lifted the hem of her dress, and curtseyed to the empty room before beginning a lively dance. 

The 'Ancient Elf Dance', currently the most popular among royalty. Graceful and radiant, she twirled with a bright smile. 

In the Sonia Sea. 

Whoosh! 

A howling wind accompanied the downpour, driving sheets of rain across the deck. The three-masted sailboat pitched and rolled with each towering wave, tossed around like mere plaything. 

'Let us look forward to the next one.' The words echoes in Alger Wilson's mind.

If he focused deeply, he might just catch a glimpse of The Fool, shrouded in mist, smiling gently like a benevolent God. 

The crimson glow in Alger's eyes dimmed. He remained on the deck, and everything around him seemed the same as before. 

Except for him. His soul had been ripped from his body, and returned; carrying with it the knowledge of an Ancient Palace, and the awareness of a Greater Existence, hidden deep within the shrouds of mystery. 

Almost instantly, the oddly shaped glass bottle in his palm shattered. And the frost within dissolved into the rain. 

In mere seconds, every trace of the wondrous antique had vanished. 

A hexagonal, crystal-like snowflake appeared on Alger's palm, only to fade away swiftly; as if absorbed into his flesh, and disappearing entirely. 

Alger nods, face unreadable as he contemplates. 

.

.

.

"A New Era has Begun." 

June 28, 1349, on the Dawn of Klein Moretti's 'Suicide'. 

Over Tingen, a crimson moon hung heavily in the night, bathing the city in an eerie glow. 

The heavens rippled, as if a velvet curtain had been drawn. A faint gray fog seeped through from the unknown... 

The vision lasted for only a heartbeat, then vanished as though being erased. The stars reclaimed their quiet brilliance.

The crimson moon stood still, as haunting as ever. The land quiets, as if in a trance. Time still flows. And Fate still follows. 

Within the wide reach of existence, the Night settled 'Her' gaze upon the City of Tingen.

A miracle has arrived.

.

.

.

In a plane unknown, a 'Being' opened 'His' eyes. Gold—gold like the first light of sunrise, gold like the halo that crowns an 'Angel' to being. 

Pupils glimmering with newborn innocence, yet as ancient as a Great Old One, 'He' gazed at nothing—and all. 

In silence, 'His' eyes glowed; a calm, endless composure bending the air. 'He' smiled—gentle. It's an eerie smile. An otherworldly smile. 

A smile that was not of this world, not human, thus wholly 'He'. 

And in that serene, impossible stillness, 'He' mused; 'what has the Lord of Mysteries wrought this time?'

.

.

.

In a land forsaken by the Lord, a crow guffawed—mischievous as a child. 'He' stared at nothing, yet saw time itself flowing by as it 'shouldn't'. 

There is an Error in History. Where is that cheeky little mastermind hiding, 'He' wonders. 

'He' grins. 

"... Oh?" 

Leonard Mitchell, on duty at the Chanis Gate and idly leafing through a collection of poems to pass the time, froze at the faintly startled voice of the 'other occupant' inside his head. 

"What is it, Old Man?" 

Leonard went back to the poems in his hands, but the 'spirit' in his head whispered quietly, a mix of surprise and confusion lacing its voice. 

"Sefirah Castle?" 

Sefirah Castle. Leonard repeats. 

Chapter Text

Zhou Mingrui rested his chin on his hand, thinking for a moment.

"Before we go on," he says slowly, "I think I've figured out how we can 'switch' control."

Klein let out a thoughtful hum, intrigued. "Oh? How?" 

Zhou Mingrui snapped his fingers lightly, a small smile forming. "Remember that sensation of 'ascending' and 'descending' through the Gray Fog? My idea is to recreate that feeling." 

Comprehension lit in Klein's eyes. "I get it. So I simulate the sensation of 'falling', and you simulate 'rising'?" 

Zhou Mingrui nodded. "Exactly. It won't hurt to try, right? It's your body, after all..."

"I should try to give it back."

His voice dropped to a quiet murmur. 

Klein fell silent for a heartbeat.

"... Alright," he says at last. "It's worth a try." 

Knock! 

Knock, knock! 

Flanked by actual police officers, Leonard Mitchell and Dunn Smith—with uniforms crisp and immaculate—headed towards the apartment Klein Moretti presently occupied. 

Knock! 

Knock, knock!

After a rapid series of firm knocks, silence settled over the apartment hallway once more. 

They waited for a moment, expecting something. 

"No one at home, perhaps?" Bitsch Mountbatten, the officer responsible for this area, frowned. When nothing happened, he raised his hand, ready to knock again. 

They heard a soft click—the hesitant turn of the knob before it halted. The door stayed closed, but a quiet, wary, "... who is it?" drifted through; muffled by the wooden architecture. 

Mountbatten straightened, posture impeccably authoritative. "Bitsch Mountbatten," he declared. "Police." 

It took a few more seconds before the person inside finally responded. 

"Oh." 

A sense of foreboding lingered in the suspiciously empty hallway. Leonard Mitchell and Dunn Smith exchanged a glance, their eyes wary despite their calm. 

From inside the apartment, the voice they could only assume belonged to Klein Moretti continued; "alright," he said—tone even, perfectly normal. Almost too normal. 

If the situation weren't already steeped in the extraordinary, both Beyonders might have believed it without question. 

But the air here felt unnaturally still, sharp in a way that prickled at their instincts. Whatever waited behind that door wasn't malicious, yet it was strange—strange enough, and extraordinary enough, to rouse their suspicion. 

It is a Mystery given form. 

Leonard stares at the door with a smile. There's a certain tilt to his head, as if he's listening to something only he can hear. 

"... Strange," the being in his head remarks thoughtfully, "it's almost the same... proceed with caution," the Old Man warns.

It's uncharacteristic enough to warrant Leonard's utmost vigilance. 

The Midnight Poet's eyes flicked to the Sequence 7 'Nightmare' briefly, before he turned away; returning to the door. 

It was far too common for an entire team to be wiped out when confronting the supernatural—unless you were exceptionally fortunate, or had already been warped into a 'monster' by unseen 'pollution' without realizing it. 

In circumstances like these, even the slightest irregularity could mean that the person before you was no longer truly 'human'. 

The door opens. 

Black hair. Brown eyes. A thin frame. A distinctly bookish air. Klein Moretti stood before them. 

Leonard observes with sharp, green eyes. Nothing about him seemed out of the ordinary... at least on the surface. 

(... "So they've knocked on our door," Zhou Mingrui comments inside Klein Moretti's head. "What a coincidence, right?" 

"... Please, Mr. Zhou," Klein replies as he grips the doorknob tightly, "don't make my anxiety any worse than it already is...")

As a Nighthawk, Leonard immediately noticed Klein Moretti's pale face and anxious expression. The mission's estimated danger level teetered somewhere between one level higher and one level lower. 

Now, what happened here? His eyes sharpened even more, even as a relaxed smile stayed on his lips. 

Klein Moretti smiles at them, helplessly apologetic. "Good day, Officers," he says respectfully. "I wasn't expecting a visit... you've caught me by surprise." 

He gestured lightly. "I was just cleaning, so it's a bit messy. Please, come in, and we can talk." 

'Sweet enough,' Leonard thought. 

"It's nothing," Mountbatten says, waving dismissively as he stepped inside. He lifted a hand, and motioned for Klein to look at the three other people behind him. 

"These inspectors have something to ask you." 

As Dunn and the accompanying inspector stepped forward to begin the routine questioning, Leonard scanned the room cautiously, keeping an eye on every movement Klein Moretti made. 

Then his gaze landed on a notebook lying on the desk, considering. 'My spirituality registers nothing, so that notebook shouldn't be an issue.' 

His eyes returned to the target of suspicion. 'But that doesn't mean it isn't worth investigating.' 

".. What is it?" Klein asks worriedly, a glint in his eye as if he's realizing something. 

"Do you know Welch McGovern?" 

Klein blinked, and a shard of his mask broke. "Yes," he says dazedly, "he's my classmate... my friend." 

He paused, then continued; "have something happened?" he asked, looking as if he's already grieving before they could even announce the unfortunate news. 

The Nighthawks exchanged a glance—barely perceptible to anyone else—then looked away, each silently calculating their next move. 

Deciding to cut to the chase, Dunn Smith answers calmly, "I'm sorry... Welch McGovern has, unfortunately, passed away." 

Something flickered across Klein's eyes. It's grief. It's sorrow. It's the usual expression one wears upon hearing a death so close to them. Strangely though, there was no trace of surprise. 

He might have expected this then, Leonard summarizes. "You don't seem surprised." Why so?

Klein's eyes drifted over towards him. 

"... I'll be completely honest," Klein began, a visible sadness in his expression. "I've had my... suspicions," he says with emphasis. 

Not much of a suspicion then, and more like a confirmation, Leonard noted to himself. 

Klein's eyes flicked over to Dunn Smith. "... Since you've come to me," he said, "it practically confirms everything I suspected." 

The Captain nods, "and that is?" he presses. 

Klein looked deep in thought... perhaps weighing what to say, and what to leave unsaid. "... I presume you must have investigated this beforehand?" 

"I often meet with Welch and... Naya... to interpret and discuss the Fourth Epoch Notebook that belonged to him," he explains. 

"We have," Dunn Smith answers. "Yes, that is true." 

Klein hesitated, his gaze drifting to the desk—specifically, the notebook Leonard was planning to examine. 

Oh? 

Leonard's eyes followed, interest piqued. An interesting turn of events. 

"I must say," Klein says, "there are some things I'm not entirely certain of, but I'm someone who constantly records his thoughts in a journal, and..." he trailed off, reaching for his notebook... 

... and willingly handed it over to Dunn Smith. "I'm not sure if it counts as evidence, but it might help," he offered. 

With the notebook in the Captain's hands, Klein leaned over to flip it to a specific page. "It was late May when Welch approached me about the notebook," he explained calmly. 

Curious, the Midnight Poet leaned over the Nightmare's shoulders to take a look. '29th of May. Welch came to me and told me he'd acquired a notebook from the Fourth Epoch...' 

Klein stepped back, leaving them to pore over the notebook's contents. He looked slightly embarrassed, Leonard noted—understandably so; anyone would feel that way if someone was reading their diary in broad daylight. 

Amused, Leonard's faint smile widened. What an interesting fellow... Suspiciously obedient, and remarkably law-abiding, too. 

"... While we were deciphering its contents," Klein adds, "something strange happened, you see." And then his eyes glazed over, as if recalling a memory. 

"Strange, you say?" Dunn Smith asked cautiously, handing the notebook to Leonard. "Does it have anything to do with that one quote—'everyone will die, including me'?" 

Flipping through the pages absentmindedly, Leonard frowned. "What does that mean?" 

"Actually," Klein said, glancing at his notebook with a hint of disdain. "I don't know what that means." Sincerely, he continues. "I woke up with neither memory nor recollection of what happened... just that one quote haunting me ever since." 

"... I didn't write it," Klein paused, "or at least, the current me didn't write it. My memory stops at June 27th... I only remember taking a carriage to Welch's house, and after that..." 

"... Nothing at all," he admitted. "I don't remember anything at all... it's been," Klein shifts uncomfortably, "it's been bothering me ever since." 

"... Tell me about these strange things," Dunn Smith says, serious. 

Hearing this, Klein regarded him with a complicated expression, as if he could hardly believe they were entertaining his absurd claims. 

Then he sighed, letting it all out honestly. "Honestly—and I mean honestly—it's going to sound absurd, even more absurd..." 

"While I was trying to remember what happened this morning, I realized that something was amiss." 

"At the beginning of the deciphering, our behavior was normal," Klein explains, "but as it went on, I noticed Welch and Naya's movements becoming... stiff... slow; almost like puppets." 

He paused, frowning. "I'm not even sure if I was affected myself. Everything felt hazy, blurry—like I was drifting through a dream." 

"I can't be sure," Klein continued carefully, "but I think I might be experiencing symptoms of auditory and visual hallucinations..." 

Then he lets out a wry smile, grieving. "Why else would I be hearing and seeing things that aren't really there...?" 

Dunn Smith and Leonard Mitchell exchanged a glance, their expressions unreadable. Then they turned away. 

"But you appear to be... perfectly fine now?" the Captain asked, probing. "How did you manage to get rid of this... abnormality?" 

"Yes," Klein readily agreed. "I seem fine now." 

After a long pause, he rummaged through his drawer, a certain look flickering in his eyes as if something had just resurfaced in his memory. 

He pulled out a gun. 

"This is Welch's," Klein explained. "This morning... I found myself slumped over the table, and this gun was lying right beside me—missing a bullet." 

"Are you implying that you committed suicide?" Leonard asked, the first to grasp the implication. 

Klein blinked. "I don't know, sir," he admitted. "I truly don't know." 

Then he gave a wry, helpless smile. "It sounds insane, doesn't it?" 

Imagine how I feel? 

He does not say. 

"In short... that's how it is," Klein said quietly. "If something happened to me... then it's not hard to speculate that something must have happened to my friends as well." 

He spoke with a calmness that didn't match the content of his words, wearing the expression of someone fully prepared to be called insane and sent to a mental hospital. 

"... Please accept our condolences," Dunn Smith says with sincere eyes. 

Klein paused, then he smiles. It's a soft, sorrowful smile.

(... "Honesty is the best policy," Zhou Mingrui can't help but comment. 

... "On some parts," Klein agrees...)

Chapter Text

After Klein's 'admittance', the officer with the stern eyes confiscated his notebook and the revolver for evidence. And after warning him for potential threats and the delicate nature of the case, they warned Klein that if he runs away he will be considered a fugitive and will be hunted down. And after that, they just left.

As he watched their backs with a complicated expression, Klein can't help but comment to his 'companion', "are officers supposed to be this easy to believe?" 

"Who knows?" Zhou Mingrui says, curious as he peered through Klein's eyes to take a better look. Familiar. It's familiar. Like the strange sense of deja vu he keeps on having. 

Instinctively, "maybe they're not just officers?" he offers with a wry smile. 

"What's that supposed to mean?" Klein asks. 

Someone rests a hand on Klein Moretti's shoulders. He startles so bad he almost leap out of his skin. 

"Finally back from your daydream?" a voice teased. It's the green-eyed man; the one with long hair and the aura of a 'poet', as Zhou Mingrui himself had put it. 

"Very lucky," the 'poet' comments, and Klein blinked. 

"Hm?"

Klein wonders if he should ask for a name. After all, if this keeps up, he doesn't want to get stuck calling the other as just 'poet'. 

The 'poet' in question looked like he's about to say something vaguely incriminating but eventually held himself back. Klein stares at him curiously—the man in turn turned slightly unsettled. 

"... Take care," the 'poet' settles with a tense smile instead—even though Klein can tell he wants to say something else. 

Klein blinked, before he smiled as well. Polite and gentlemanly. "Of course, thank you." 

Klein feels as if something is wrong. Isn't this too normal? When the 'officers' had came knocking to this door, he was actually expecting to be taken and jailed or something. 

After everything unexpected happening to him in the subsequent hours of his 'suicide', Klein knew with feeling that something—another extraordinary—would happen. 

"Isn't this too careless?" Klein asks, his question hanging in thin air, but he knew Zhou Mingrui was listening. 

All kinds of thoughts rushed into Klein's mind. He suspected that the police were still secretly 'watching' him, observing his reaction. 

"Put on a show then?" Zhou Mingrui suggests. 

"What show? This isn't a circus," Klein remarks, stressed. 

Zhou Mingrui laughed, "just show something that you're scared or something? After all, aren't you too calm at the moment?"

"Oh." 

Klein felt much calmer and was no longer panicked. He slowly opened the door, shouting with a deliberately hesitant voice at the staircase.

He doesn't know what kind of first impression he'd left the officers but surely it's that of a distressed citizen, right? Or perhaps it could be a mentally disabled person? Klein internally winced. 

"Uhm," he stammers, "officers, you'll protect me, right?" 

Tap. Tap. Tap. There was no response from the police officers, and there was no change in the rhythm of the contact between the leather shoes and the wooden stairs. 

"I know, you'll do that!" he calls with feigned conviction, trying to act like a normal person that was in danger.

"Thank you then!" he adds with gratitude. The sound of footsteps gradually weakened and disappeared into the bottom floor of the apartment. 

Out of nowhere, Zhou Mingrui snorts and laughs. "Isn't that response too fake? Their acting skills are not up to standards at all!" 

"You act as if you're the highest standards of acting," Klein says, lips twitching upwards despite himself. 

"Mhm." Zhou Mingrui smiles. 

Klein meanwhile can't help but worry. What is happening? Even the police are acting strange. Certainly not that out of ordinary, but are officials supposed to be this relaxed? 

In the next few hours, Klein paced around nervously, waiting for something unexpected happening out of the blue.

"Don't worry too much," Zhou Mingrui says helplessly. 

When the sun moved to the west, the clouds on the horizon appeared to be reddish-orange. Tenants in the apartment came home one after another, and Klein shifted his focus elsewhere. 

"Melissa is almost done with school..." Klein murmurs. With nothing else to do—and hoping to ease his worries—he decided he might as well try cooking dinner for the first time in what felt like ages. 

Unlike Benson, who couldn't cook a decent meal to save his life, Klein had no trouble with the basics. What he lacked, however, was practice. Melissa was always adamant that 'ladylike' chores were hers to handle, while the 'gentlemen' ought to focus more on academics to prepare for future financial burdens. 

Thinking of this, Klein shook his head and began gathering the cooking materials. It would be best to start early if he wanted the mutton to turn tender. He couldn't help worrying that too much time had passed already—that the meat might have gone bad by now. 

Unlike Zhou Mingrui's world, where refrigerators had long been invented, this one unfortunately had no such luxury, if only because electricity didn't yet exist. 

Considering the similarities between two worlds, Klein wondered whether this one would eventually catch up. It would certainly take a Divine Miracle. 

Or, perhaps... another Transmigrator? 

'A real culinary expert sure is a hassle,' Klein couldn't help thinking after being forced to obey every one of Zhou Mingrui's instructions—and his many complaints. This one certainly had a lot to say about food. 

"Unfortunately," Klein said dryly, "we're still lacking money, so there won't be anything too fancy." 

Zhou Mingrui groaned, far too dramatic for Klein's liking. But really—what else could he do? 

After more than forty minutes, a set of not-so-brisk yet rhythmic footsteps approached the door. A key slid into the lock, the handle turned, and the door creaked open. 

Before Melissa even stepped inside, she muttered with uncertainty, "smells... good?" 

Still holding her bag, she stepped inside and glanced toward the stove. Removing her veil hat, she looked up at Klein, her expression a mix of curiosity and startled acceptance. 

"You," she said, as though she couldn't quite believe it. "You made this?" 

"Are you afraid I'd waste the mutton?" Klein replied with a smile, deflecting the question with his own. Not waiting for her answer, he continued. "Don't worry. It's not poison." 

Melissa shook her head, her lips twitching in amusement. "I never said that," she countered. "I was just surprised. You never showed any interest in cooking before." 

'That's because you hoard the kitchen like a greedy household-dragon,' Klein mused before his thoughts softened. 'But really... it was mostly my own narrow-sightedness. After everything that's happened, I'd like to do more for my family...' 

"You deserve some rest," Klein settles. "I'd like to take on some of the burdens too." 

Melissa turned away, the tips of her ears turning red in embarrassment, and Klein had to resist the urge to laugh. It wasn't easy to fluster Melissa—hadn't been for years due to Klein's own oversight, really. It had been a long while, he reflected, since he'd seen her react so openly. 

He wondered where the little girl she used to be had gone, now that he could see her more clearly. She really had grown into a fine young woman. 

Their parents would be proud, he thought—wherever they were now, watching from the Goddess' Kingdom. The thought warmed him for a moment before turning faintly awkward as another realization surfaced.

Belatedly, he wondered what they would think if they knew their second son was sharing his subconscious with an otherworldly person. 

Wouldn't that be a tale? 

(... In the recesses of Klein's mind, Zhou Mingrui watched silently, a faint ache settling in his chest—a longing born from the absence of family... 

... The Transmigrator sighs, wondering when he will be able to come home...)

"So.. Old Man, have you noticed anything strange?" 

Leonard followed Dunn a few paces behind, lowering his voice so it wouldn't carry. 

"You mean Klein Moretti?" The old voice sounded almost amused. "The strange part is obvious; he's the only one left alive." 

So, no other oddities? No sign of madness? Leonard let out a short, quiet breath. "Then why the warning back there? That notebook from the Antigonus Family... is it that dangerous?" 

"Antigonus..." The word lingered with a hint of scorn. "Even in the Fourth Epoch, their name carried betrayal like a second skin." 

Leonard sensed the old man was dodging the question, but pressing him would be useless. He shifted instead: "And Klein's amnesia... do you think it's an act?" 

"No." This time, the answer was firm, unwavering. "What he's feeling—grief, pain—they're all real." 

Leonard imagined it; the sudden, grotesque loss of friends, the kind of news that could shatter anyone. He shook his head. "An ordinary man, just recently graduated... yet, he bears all this." 

He tapped his chest, letting the crimson moon bloom beneath his palm. "May the Goddess watch over him." 

May the Night keep watch over this poor soul, and may her gentle gaze bring the child sweet dreams and a restful night. Klein Moretti certainly deserved it after everything that happened. 

Chapter Text

Dreams cradle every kind of truth; nonsensical, comical, or quietly possible. Between reality and deception runs a thin boundary, and upon it rest the truths of being, the unveiling of mysteries. 

...

'He' sees houses and spires; shapes folding and unfolding like meaningless symbols.

'He' sees a barren desert where, beneath the trembling yellow sands, half-forgotten lives writhed in quiet desperation. 

'He' sees people, fleeting sparks trembling against the Fog. 

'He' sees the ocean, the seas, the lakes and rivers—and everything in between—an ancient, breathing mass. 

'He' sees every droplet that rose, shivered, and gathered into watchful clouds. 

Mist parts like curtain—

...

From a height that had no measure, no horizon, 'He' regarded the world and all who crawled upon it. 

A perspective never meant for human eyes. 

A thought never meant for human minds. 

And 'He' felt nothing. 

And 'he' felt everything. 

In the presence of such immensity, apathy was the only truth that endured. 

Measured against such vastness—humanity chooses to persevere. 

Then, cutting through the distant hum of eternity, came a knock at the door. 

Zhou—no—Klein—... no—The Fool—no, no, no—The Celestial Worthy—turns—

The fog churns. 

Klein jolts. 

Zhou Mingrui came into existence. 

They drew several steadying breaths before the last traces of that dream—one that seemed to peel their body away from their soul—finally receded. 

What a thoroughly unpleasant dream... Klein sighs, rubbing his temples—for a moment there, that felt like a bullet piercing through his brain. 

Ironic, he chuckled dryly. 

He turned towards the window and through the gap in the curtains, the night sky pressed closed—as if watching, waiting, observing—and the crimson moon hung suspended like an omen. 

It was still deep into midnight. 

Yet Klein felt completely awake. He hadn't been very sleepy to begin with, and now it felt as though he could stay conscious for days. 

But after a string of absurdities—transmigrating, discovering the Gray Fog, The Fool, The World, witnessing a suicide that defies logic—his mind was worn thin. 

Mentally, he felt like he's about to shatter—

... the original will is surprisingly proactive—resist, resist—'you've done this many times before'—would a Miracle suffice than an Attendant?—

Klein retreated under the blankets, shut his eyes, and whispered, "please... no more strange dreams." Wish? 

(... granted...)

As if answering a plea, a gentle heaviness crept over his eyelids. His thoughts softened, drifting. By the way, did someone enter my dreams? 

A moment later, Klein slipped into a deep, dreamless sleep—exactly as he wished. 

The Night watches on, as it always did—as it always had. 

Sweet dreams. The sky breathes. 

At the same moment, on Iron Cross Street not far from the Moretti's apartment, Dunn Smith suddenly released a low, stifled groan. 

Fog churning endlessly—a figure bathe in mist—a gentle voice lulls; "oh dear, haven't you learned yet?"—fond, fond, fond—as if looking at—"stray your eyes from what you can't fathom"—

Dunn's eyes shut as if struck, and he lurched backward several steps. A thin trickle of crimson slid from his nostrils. 

(... "this is not a place for mere ants like you at the moment, I'm afraid," 'He' laughs...)

What happened? 

"Captain?!" 

The abrupt turn of events shook Leonard. He hurried forward, catching Dunn before he could fall. 

(... "are you interested in Tarots, I wonder?" the figure hums—and suddenly...

... he falls...)

...

"... I'm fine." 

Dunn's fingers pressed against his nose, his gray eyes clenched shut. He took a long steady breath before reopening them—calmer, but undeniably strained. 

(... "Do not look directly at... an 'above the sequence'...")

Dunn Smith—Sequence 7 'Nightmare'—opened his eyes, wiping away the blood stuck to his chin. 

"... Klein Moretti is very likely already tainted by the Antigonus Family's Notebook," he explains. "Entering the dream of an ordinary person shouldn't cause such severe backflash." 

Corrupted... A cold weight settled in Leonard's chest. 'Thankfully, I warned the Captain beforehand... thankfully, I insisted on coming... what a strange kind of corruption...'

Leonard steadied his breathing. "Captain, what do we do now?" 

Dunn straightened, the momentary weakness gone as though folded neatly away. His voice resumed its usual quiet authority. 

"You stay here," he says firmly, "keep watch on Klein Moretti from a distance. Do not engage with him under any circumstances. I'll return to gather Seeka as backup and inform 'His' Excellency Crestet Cesimir." 

Leonard blinked. How strange. "... 'His' Excellency Crestet Cesimir...?" he echoes, like a parrot; dumbfounded. Why would the Captain turn to a High-Ranking Deacon stationed all the way in Backlund? 

Dunn Smith met his eyes, slightly awkward. No way, Captain. Memory problems again? 

"... I didn't have the chance to tell you," Dunn said with a cough, "before tonight's operation, I received a message from headquarters. His Excellency Cesimir happened to be in jurisdiction and may be arriving in Tingen soon." 

Happened to be...? 

Understanding dawned. "He's coming because of the Antigonus Notebook?" 

"I can't say," Dunn shook his head. "Headquarters didn't elaborate."

But both of them shared the same unspoken thoughts: Just how dangerous is the Antigonus Family's Notebook... 

... that it warrants the presence of a High-Ranking Deacon? 

After Dunn hurried away, Leonard slipped into an unobtrusive patch of shadow, settling in for his covert surveillance. Under his breath, he muttered: 

"Hey, Old Man, didn't you say Klein Moretti showed nothing unusual?" 

Had he known things would escalate like this, he wouldn't have merely warned his Captain—he would've done everything he could to stop Dunn from attempting the dream invasion at all. 

"There is indeed no detectable abnormality," the voice inside his mind answered with maddening calm. 

"It may be an imperceptible, deeply buried corruption. Still... it's remarkable that the lingering influence of that notebook could push back a Captain of the Sleepless Pathway. Seems it truly is a higher-level relic." 

Perhaps its original owner was indeed an Antigonus... how troubling... 

"... You must be cautious." 

'I already know that,' Leonard thought grimly. Even a Sequence 7 Captain had suffered a severe backflash—what chance does a Sequence 8 even have? 

He exhaled slowly, and lifted his gaze toward Klein Moretti's room, conflicted emotions twisting in his chest. 

The old voice stirred again. 

"Are you pitying him? It's pointless. Fates like this fall on someone eventually. The only question is who ends up the unlucky one."

Leonard sighs. 

.

.

.

This... is a memory. 

It's easy to ask how matters reached such an end. But Klein had entered the heart of Sefirah Castle with a single certainty; this was a place where one either prevailed... or perished. 

Yet. 

Reaching the place where his predecessor had once stood should have signaled the start of an epic confrontation. Instead, they never truly met. He found himself suspended in an infinite sea of gray fog, unmoving, while a suffocating pressure coiled around him from every side.

Then it ceased, and face to face with—

Zhou Mingrui's eyes went wide. This wasn't what he had anticipated—his mind raced with endless possibilities, none of them preparing him for this. 

"You—"

The stranger, at once familiar and alien, smiled faintly. 

"Thousands of years," he whispered, as if drifting through a dream. "I never imagined you would find me." 

Then he laughs, genuinely joyful yet wholly otherworldly. "Who knew a Pillar could be influenced?" 

Zhou Mingrui's mind is in turmoil. "You've been here all this time." It was a statement. 

"Not entirely... but perhaps," he chuckled. "So, what are you waiting for?" 

.

.

.

"Time itself is converging towards the return of Mysteries." 

(... an unlucky fate... The Witness of All Things' Finality... The Nameless Ruler of Withered Earth... 

... He who endures when all else has crumbled...

...)

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The sun rose early in summer. It is June 29th.

Zhou Mingrui woke up to start a new day—refreshed. 

Chapter Text

The sun rose early in summer. Dawn had barely settled in, yet the sky was already pale with sunlight. Zhou Mingrui woke from a sound, dreamless slumber, most of the weight on his mind eased at last. 

Stretching his arms and yawning away the last remnants of sleep, Zhou Mingrui realizes—belatedly—that he has a body. The memory of being a 'ghost' is still fresh. That was only last night. 

'Did I steal it?' 

The thought blooms with cold horror. 

"... Klein?" he calls out hesitantly. 

Silence answers him. 

Which... is worrying. His mind has never been this quiet. It's absurd—he spent most of his life with nothing but emptiness in his own head, alone in every sense of the word. Not hearing a response shouldn't send panic clawing at his ribs. 

And yet, it does. 

But before he could probe the unnerving silence in his mind, the door creaked open. Melissa stepped in, worry written all over her face. 

"Klein," she said, "you overslept." 

Her expression wavered between fond indulgence and impending scolding. "Did you study all night again? I told you not to stress yourself too much!" 

Without Klein's usual commentary rushing through his thoughts, Zhou Mingrui could only offer her a sheepish smile. 

"I... must have been really tired," he muttered, embarrassed. "I didn't realize." 

Melissa sighed, the kind that came from both habit and genuine care. "Take better care of yourself," she said, eyes scanning his face with almost clinical precision. 

Zhou Mingrui shifted, not used to being on the receiving end of such scrutiny. 

"I'll remind you again," she continued, completely undeterred. "Klein, you don't have to push yourself so hard. Even if... I mean, if—if you fail the interview for Tingen University, there will be other chances. Better ones." 

With a pleased expression on her face, she pointed towards a small contraption on the table—it's... an odd assembly of gears, springs, and metal plates. 

"You can try this puppet," she beamed. "Just tighten the spring. Watching it move makes you feel better. I've been doing it a lot lately—it's really effective!" 

She shot him one last encouraging look before slipping out the door. Her hurried footsteps pattered down the corridor, then faded entirely. 

Klein—no, Zhou Mingrui—stared blankly at the closed door for a moment. 

Then slowly, he approached the table. He glanced at the neatly arranged breakfast Melissa prepared, then reached for the 'puppet' beside it. He held it in his palm, studying its pieces with a seriousness wholly disproportionate to its size. 

A beat passed. 

He smiles faintly, coughed into his fist, and muttered to himself, "a puppet...? I thought it was a tortoise." 

Another beat passed. 

Instinctively—before he could stop himself—he muttered, "... Klein?" 

Silence. It's the kind of silence that pressed against his ears—the kind where his heartbeat sound too loud; too alone. 

Still no response. 

Zhou Mingrui swallowed, fingers tightening around the puppet. Is Klein angry or something? 

After finishing breakfast, Zhou Mingrui sat alone at the table, watching the tortoise—er, the puppet—hop awkwardly across the wooden surface. 

Ka! Ka! Ka! 

Dum! Dum!

The little machine's rhythmic clacks filled the quiet room. He times his breathing to it, letting each sound chip away at the re-growing anxiety in his chest, bit by bit, like a tide receding out of stubbornness alone. 

When the puppet finally wound down and came to a halt, Zhou Mingrui reached out and gave the table a soft tap—a bitter, wry smile tugged at his lips.

"Okay," he sighs, "one step at a time. I can't worry Melissa more than I already have." 

The silence that followed felt heavier than it should be. Why? 

A little while after Melissa left, Zhou Mingrui frowned at the notes spread across Klein's desk. Still no response. Klein didn't react to Melissa leaving, nor to the Transmigrator's subtle pushes about finding work. 

Like a cold draft slipping into the room, the sudden awareness that Klein might be gone was insanely discomforting. 

'Klein, where are you?' 

He chants it three times—for some reason—and Zhou Mingrui sighs. It was in that moment; a vision snapped into focus.

An image; faint but unmistakable. The thread-bound book titled 'Quintessential Divination and Arcane Arts of the Qin and Han Dynasty'. 

He recognized it instantly. That was the very book where he'd found the luck-enhancement ritual... the one that had led to his transmigration. 

Zhou Mingrui frowned, the vision's final traces dissolving into nothingness. What was that trying to show him? What connection could that thread-bound book possibly have with Klein Moretti's disappearance? Did it—

Then another 'image' seized his thoughts.

Down the street, the young police officer with black hair and emerald eyes—the one Klein had spoken with yesterday—stood in the middle of the sidewalk, staring up at the Moretti apartment's window with a tense, vigilant expression. 

He looked pale beneath the glow of the crimson moon. The man lurched forward a heartbeat later, trembling. He looked as though he had seen something he was never meant to witness. 

A strange glimmer passed across his eyes, a reflection that vanished as quickly as it appeared, as if stolen away. 

Zhou Mingrui blinked. He pressed a hand to his forehead, eyes squeezing shut. It didn't hurt—not really—but the sheer rush of sensations left him overwhelmed. 

He drew in a deep breath, filling his lungs as he tried to steady his racing heart. His thoughts spun. Did that mean something happened last night? 

Zhou Mingrui searched his memories, combing through every fragment he could recall... but found nothing. Just a deep, dreamless sleep. 

Then another—

Zhou Mingrui's room came into focus. A laptop on the table. A gaming computer against the wall. He saw himself, lying on the bed, silver moonlight spilling over his sleeping form. 

His fingers twitched. In his hand was the thread-bound book, dangling precariously over the edge of the mattress... until it slipped free and hit the floor with a dull thud. 

Zhou Mingrui opened his eyes. His thoughts spun wildly, circling a single, terrifying possibility. 

Did Klein Moretti... transmigrate, just like him? 

That was these images were pointing to. Something had happened last night—something that left that young police officer pale with terror. Klein must have been torn from his own body and hurled into Zhou Mingrui's. 

That's—

A chill wound through him. An ominous premonition settled in his gut. Will Klein be alright? 

Klein had been right all along. If Zhou Mingrui's world were as ordinary as he thought, events like this simply couldn't occur. That left only one conclusion: his world, too, was extraordinary—just like this one. 

He... doesn't know what to feel about it. Then realization dawns—

Why? Why did he believe it so readily? Not once had Zhou Mingrui doubted the authenticity of what he was seeing. Is this a side-effect of transmigrating? 

If that's true... how convenient, he lampooned to himself. Now, if only it could bring him back, and reverse the transmigration so that both of them could go home. 

Zhou Mingrui had no idea how things had come to this. His head throbbed from the strain of trying to extract more from the 'images' when he opened the door—and came face to face with the police officer with the stern eyes from yesterday, flanked by two unfamiliar faces. 

To his right stood a man with short golden-brown hair and blackish-green eyes. The man's shirt and windbreaker collars were raised, his chin swallowed by shadow. Clutched in his hand was... an actual short bone sword, silently radiating a pure white glow. 

To his left stood a woman with strikingly long white hair, her gazed fixed unwaveringly on him and—what's happening? 

Zhou Mingrui's expression turned strange. He stares at them blankly—specifically, to the short bone sword—then he blinked, absolutely dumbfounded. 

"What—" he began, but before he could finish, he was cut off by... someone chanting poetry? As he strained to listen, the sound came from outside the window. 

Must be that green-eyed poet, Zhou Mingrui realized, recalling the image from the earlier vision. Really, he lampooned, poetry on what might as well be a barricade?

"Oh, the threat of horror, the hope of crimson cries! 

One thing at least is certain—that this life flies; 

One thing is certain, and the rest is lies; 

The flower that once has bloomed forever dies."

"..." 

Okay. 

The poem carried a peculiar, calming power, loosening the tension in his chest and quieting his mind.

... But why? Why was that officer chanting poetry here—in broad daylight? 

Zhou Mingrui's confusion only deepened as more voices joined in. This time, it came from the stern-eyed officer and the white-haired woman. 

Huh? 

"When once the sun sinks in the west, 

And dewdrops pearl the evening's breast; 

Almost as pale as moonbeams are, 

Or its companionable star, 

The evening primrose opens anew its delicate blossoms to the dew; 

And, hermit-like, shunning the light." 

"...?"

Klein stepped back. Is this how police officers in this world do their jobs? Reciting poetry to a suspect before making an arrest? 

Locking eyes with the stern-eyed officer, Zhou Mingrui's face twitched as he forced himself to hold back the words, 'you may have a problem.' 

The blond man let out a long sigh and glanced at the others. "It's not working. Clearly, it's having no effect on him." 

The stern-eyed officer froze for a moment, his face tightening with a newfound seriousness. Zhou Mingrui blinked. What's not working...? 

"Klein Moretti," the blond man says, "please come with us." 

"... Alright?" 

Then Zhou Mingrui froze, suddenly realizing—"will it take long?" After all, he shouldn't worry Melissa when he had already promised he wouldn't. 

"Can I at least leave a note...?" he suggests. 

— Saint Selena Cathedral. 

... Just moments ago—at a polite yet unmistakably unrefusable invitation—and under the watchful eyes of three suspiciously 'competent' officers, and a church deacon, Zhou Mingrui had been ushered into a carriage, taken straight to the cathedral, and promptly led into a secret underground chamber. 

'What is this gloomy, ominous, horror-movie looking place?' he thought, following the blond-haired man deeper inside, unsure where exactly he was being taken. 

The three officers shadowed him from behind, close enough that he could practically feel their eyes drilling into his back. 

Judging from Klein's memories, this had to be Saint Selena Cathedral—the headquarters of the Church of the Evernight Goddess in Tingen City. A sacred sight the faithful dreamed of visiting at least once in their lives. 

'Unfortunately, I never had any reason to visit,' Zhou Mingrui lampooned. 'And yet... here I am anyway, lucky me.' 

Without realizing it, another thought surfaced; were they taking him to the Chanis Gate? If Klein's memories were accurate, this specific underground passageway is connected straight to the Gate—and even to the Blackthorn Security Company on Zouteland Street. 

Zhou Mingrui blinked. The what? The where? He frowned. 'How do I even know that? Is this Klein's knowledge bleeding over? How bizarre...' 

He was certain the Klein Moretti he knew was never a Nighthawk. He never had a chance to, that's for sure. 

"..." 

Zhou Mingrui now stood across from the newly introduced Crestet Cesimir, his gaze dropping to the pure white bone sword resting between them, its pale glow illuminating the tension in the room. 

'Klein... why is this my life?' Zhou Mingrui sighs in his mind. And all of this was just for one weird request. One very weird request. 

"Please place your hand on the holy sword," Crestet Cesimir said evenly. 

"... May I know the purpose of this?" Zhou Mingrui asked, his voice sounding embarrassingly small even to his own ears. 

Crestet Cesimir merely shook his head. 

Alright, as expected... the Transmigrator let out a silent sigh, discreetly sweeping his surroundings with his eyes.

The young police officer with the green eyes caught his gaze. Subsequently, his gaze narrowed with vigilance and unmistakable wariness. 

... 

'What is this... Excalibur?' 

Zhou Mingrui immediately pulled his gaze back, shoulder shrinking almost on instinct. He bit his lip tightly.

Caught between faint fear and utter helplessness, he stopped resisting and slowly extended his right hand, laying it atop the bone sword. 

A cold sensation swept across his skin and pierced straight into his mind. Before he could even take a breath, boundless darkness unfurled before his eyes. 

A soft, drifting fragrance—night vanilla and slumber flowers—seeped into his senses from nowhere and everywhere at once. 

Then his entire body went rigid. Some instinct buried deep within him shrieked a warning. 

(... something otherworldly, radiant, and overwhelmingly majestic turned its gaze upon him, as if the Night itself had paused to look... 

... the unseen eyes shifted imperceptibly, gliding to his shoulders, then to the hidden depths behind him...

... as if they perceived far more than what lay beyond... 

... out of the corner of his eyes, he sees a tentacle—)

The presence descended like an ocean pressing against his skull—and vanished just as abruptly. Zhou Mingrui couldn't even gasp as he buckles forward. 

The dreamlike vision dissolved. His sight cleared. Crestet Cesimir stood before him with a posture subtly slackened, as though he, too, was releasing a breath he'd been holding. 

Then the High-Ranking Deacon of the Church of the Evernight Goddess declared solemnly, voice steady but touched with relief: 

"Congratulations, Klein Moretti. In the name of the Goddess, I formally inform you that you have passed the examination." 

Eh? 

A defeaning silence fell. The officers behind him looked as if they were brimming with questions, ready to erupt at any moment. 

Looks like I'm not the only one confused, Zhou Mingrui thought. What even is happening? 

A faint sensation prickled at his back, sharp and unsettling, as though something was watching him through a veil of fog. 

Before Zhou Mingrui could focus or even comprehend it, the feeling vanished—just as suddenly as the gaze from before. 

The hairs on Zhou Mingrui's neck bristled. Something was wrong. Before he could even utter a warning, a sharp, invisible pang tore at his soul. 

He staggered—violently. The last thing he remembered was falling—