and he staggered forward, collapsing against the bone sword's hilt, knuckles blanching as he gasped.
(... "see to my proxy," a voice murmured with tranquil authority...
... Zhou Mingrui sensed eyes upon him... ancient, fathomless, impossible to escape...
... "set your gaze upon him..."
... "I already have," came the answering voice, smooth as still water...)
The serenity of those voices left an unmistakable aftertaste. Too calm. Too knowing. Too close. Zhou Mingrui groaned, pressing a hand to his temple.
What... was that?
(... up until that very moment, everyone had been caught off guard as they witnessed someone vanish... only to reappear moments later...
... the darkness that had shrouded the room lifted effortlessly, unnoticed by anyone present...)
Then, as though the world itself had smoothed over the rupture, the witnesses' eyes grew vacant, and the event continued precisely from the instant it had been cut short.
Zhou Mingrui breathed through his nose. "... Let me summarize," he said slowly, choosing his words with care.
"Due to unforeseeable circumstances, the Antigonus Family's Notebook not only caused partial memory loss, but also imperceptibly modified my state."
Zhou Mingrui's eyes swept over the room, noting everyone's reactions as he continued, "... granting me the abilities of a particular Sequence... from a very specific Pathway..."
He paused.
"... So you brought me over... ahem, invited me over... to determine if I'm a threat or if I've already lost control, is that it?"
"Correct," Crestet Cesimir nodded gravely. "Any further questions, Mr. Moretti?"
What's a proxy? The question rose at the tip of Zhou Mingrui's tongue. Sharp. Instinctive. Dangerously curious.
But something stopped him.
A pressure—not physical, but old and wordless—pressed against his thoughts. A soft warning unfurled in his mind: 'not yet, not yet.' The timing was wrong. The answer would cost him more than he could pay right now.
So the Transmigrator swallowed the question, straightened in his seat, and lifted his hand instead.
"I have many," he agreed. "Pathways and Sequences. What do you mean by that? What are 'extraordinary abilities'? And why would having one make me lose control?"
At his words, a hush swept through the basement. It was only then that everyone present fully grasped just how little the man before them understood.
Zhou Mingrui quietly surveyed their expressions. The truth was, the knowledge of mysticism was already lodged in the corners of his mind.
He only asked because he couldn't afford to reveal how much he knew, not when he was supposed to be an ordinary young man freshly out of college, and also because he needed to confirm whether those scattered memories were even real.
Dunn Smith, the man who introduced himself earlier, cleared his throat.
"When we return to the company, I'll arrange for someone to explain the fundamentals to you."
Zhou Mingrui felt a flicker of excitement.
This is a great opportunity to get in touch with mysticism! A thigh!
A thigh has come to hold on to!
But the enthusiasm was short-lived.
He frowned. "The company?"
Mr. Smith coughed again—mister, are you having throat problems or something?
"... As a survivor of an extraordinary event, we initially considered inviting you as civilian staff."
Then his eyes shifted, and his gaze met Zhou Mingrui's.
"But since you're already a Beyonder, joining us is no longer optional."
Zhou Mingrui's mouth twitched. So your 'ask me to join' is really 'force me to join'.
"... Do I have any other choices?" he asked, though he already knew the answer.
"There are truths one should not seek," Mr. Smith said with a calm precision. "In this world, knowledge can corrupt as much as any act."
The young officer, black-haired and green-eyed with a poet's romantic charm, let out a chuckle.
"Or, of course," he said with a grin, "there's always the choice of being locked up behind the Chanis Gate."
Zhou Mingrui resisted the urge to roll his eyes and turned to Crestet Cesimir.
"One more question," he said, "you called me 'reformed'... and that the notebook 'modified' my status, yet I sense nothing unusual. Why?"
Naturally, that was a lie. To everyone else, he is Klein Moretti. The real Klein, however, is currently missing. And may as well be living in Zhou Mingrui's stead, in the place that was once his home.
Zhou Mingrui knew exactly how out of place he truly was. He only asked to gauge how much this group and those mysterious gazes knew about him.
Crestet Cesimir's dark green eyes glimmered with insight.
"Generally, a 'reformation' would be obvious. Your unawareness may stem from your amnesia."
"But you should have sensed the difference," Mr. Cesimir said, "at least no matter how vague."
Everyone in the room understood that 'reformation' was nothing more than a polite euphemism for 'corruption'. And in the extraordinary world, corruption was neither gentle nor merciful.
Under Mr. Cesimir's gaze, tension coiled in Zhou Mingrui's chest. He realized immediately he could not hide everything from this man.
After a brief pause, he decided to be slightly more honest, just enough to earn a measure of trust.
"I admit," Zhou Mingrui said, "I've been having... visions of a sort. Though they feel more like deja vu than anything else."
He paused, sifting through the scattered fragments in his mind. "... Actually, I don't remember anything from the moment we deciphered the notebook."
"What I do have are these... 'flashbacks', if that means anything," Zhou Mingrui settled.
It wasn't exactly a lie, but it wasn't the full truth either. One thing he had learned that; by speaking in convoluted half-truths, people often twisted another's words into whatever version of honesty suited them best.
"Isn't it strange," he continued, "to see yourself from the outside when it's supposed to be a memory? It feels like I'm seeing through someone else's eyes, not my own."
Fortunately for him, Crestet Cesimir simply nodded, showing no surprise and offering no further questions.
"A Seer, indeed."
"A Seer?" Zhou Mingrui parroted, puzzled. 'Supposedly, there's another name, one that suits it better.'
"They are Masters of Professional Mysticism and wield considerable spiritual power," the 'poet' explained with a casual, irritating smile. "Seers make excellent support."
Support?
Zhou Mingrui reflected.
So, not exactly the damage-dealer type, then... a pity.
With a casual lilt in his voice, the green-eyed young man interjected, "is that why having us at your home didn't ruffle you? You sensed it before we even arrived?"
'Clearly, that's not what I said, just what I hinted at. Hm, perceptive.'
Though.
'Is he jabbing me?' Zhou Mingrui wondered, raising an eyebrow. He made no effort at pretenses—couldn't, really. There was something about this man that gnawed at his nerves. It wasn't exactly irritation, but it was far from pleasant.
Tsk.
"Who was reciting poetry in front of me earlier?" he sulked.
Then, with a hint of accusation, he added, "I was too preoccupied wondering why a bunch of 'officers' were doing that to notice... and be ruffled, as you said."
Zhou Mingrui turned away from the unnamed poet and fixed his gaze on Dunn Smith. "So?" he asked, almost impatiently, though he masked it with a tone that barely passed for respect.
"What else?" he demanded, "because if that's everything, I want to know the benefits the company provides and the salary." After all, he had been preparing to job hunt with Klein, only for the other to vanish as if into thin air.
A voice at the back of his mind whispered that he was being disrespectful, but he crushed it with a bitter twist. Everything grated on his nerves, and their constant evasiveness did nothing to help.
He was stressed, exhausted, and if he were being honest, he'd happily sleep forever if given the chance. But since that wasn't an option, one source of the problem would have to face his fraying patience.
The basement went quiet once more, and even the young officer seemed caught off guard for a moment.
Hah.
Zhou Mingrui mused.
What's this? Suddenly everyone's speechless?
Mr. Smith cleared his throat. Sir, do you have throat problems? Then smiled and replied. "For newly registered civilian staff, the weekly salary is two pounds and ten soli."
"Plus an extra ten soli for risk and confidentiality, making three pounds in total. Not much less than a confirmed university lecturer's salary."
What is this? Zhou Mingrui thought. A dig? Are you trying to seduce my self-conscious poverty self?
But! Three pounds? Zhou Mingrui's eyes almost sparkled.
Ohhh?
"After that," Mr. Smith continued, "your salary will increase over time according to your experience and contributions, however..."
Yes? Yes?
"Since you're already a genuine Beyonder, you will be appointed an Official Nighthawk directly, with a starting salary higher depending on your Sequence."
Then he paused. "Regarding this issue..." He turned to Crestet Cesimir with a questioning look.
With a thoughtful expression, the Church Deacon said, "consider him as little as Sequence 9 for now," leaving everyone surprised.
(... 'As little as Sequence 9...?
... 'Little...?'
... 'Sequence 9 is little...?'
... 'Wait—for now... ?'
Does this mean Klein Moretti was actually below Sequence 9? Perhaps even Lower? Or perhaps a Mid-Sequence?
... The Tingen Nighthawks finally understood why a Sequence 7 Captain had faced that unexpected backlash last night...
... 'Frightening...'
... 'How frightening this man is, and that notebook that transformed him into this...')
After nodding in gratitude to Crester Cesimir, Mr. Smith returned his attention to Zhou Mingrui. "Six pounds a week, then."
Six pounds!
The temptation hit Zhou Mingrui instantly. Almost immediately, his resistance and any lingering doubts about being dragged into a shady organization faded.
Behold the power of money! Every last ounce of irritation—poof!—vanished, carried away like the wind!
Sighing, Zhou Mingrui felt the burden of the situation settle on his shoulders. "Is there anything else I need to do?" Resisting had become pointless.
At least the compensation is good, he told himself. If everything goes well, Klein's family won't have to endure any more hard days.
Whether it was Klein Moretti's lingering presence or not, Zhou Mingrui already felt a powerful attachment to both Benson and Melissa Moretti—almost to the point of being unreasonable.
Even so, being a Transmigrator didn't give him the right to ignore them simply because he wasn't their real brother. With Klein gone, Zhou Mingrui had to fill that role, at least for the time being.
'From this moment on, I will be Klein Moretti,' he resolved to himself.
Mr. Smith hesitated for a moment before extending a sheet of paper toward him. "We need you to sign this."
Hm?
Klein Moretti's expression tightened as he read the heading. Easy enough to understand, but. "A confidentiality agreement?"
Perhaps rightfully so. Given how dangerous this job is, it demands a high level of secrecy that must be strictly maintained.
Still...
Who is he kidding? He won't get away with it anyway. Could these documents be bound with extraordinary power?
"Yes," Mr. Smith nodded. "This is not information the public should know. It would only create unnecessary confusion and panic."
Seeing no issue, Klein Moretti signed the document without hesitation. Mr. Smith folded it neatly, set it aside, and cast a glance at his colleagues, who responded with silent nods.
For the first time since the conversation started, the white-haired woman spoke. "Come with us, Mr. Moretti. We'll take you to the company."
Klein Moretti nodded, though inwardly he scoffed.
Escort?
'More like another attempt to corner me,' he lampooned.
After Klein Moretti climbed into the carriage with Seeka and Leonard, Dunn, the last to remain, turned to Crestet Cesimir.
"... Your Grace," he began, "I believe Klein Moretti warrants a more detailed investigation."
Remaining silent, the High-Ranking Church Deacon locked his stoic gaze on Dunn, patiently anticipating him to elaborate.
"Klein Moretti is neither the first nor the only person to have encountered the Antigonus Family's Notebook," Dunn explained.
"However, it responded differently to him, which I think warrants a more detailed investigation."
"There's no need," Crestet Cesimir shook his head. "He has already been approved by the Goddess' Holy Relic," he said, his voice calm and almost indifferent.
Dunn's brow furrowed. As a Nighthawk Squad Captain, he was not accustomed to taking conclusions at face value.
Yet, given that it came from a Higher-Level Beyonder and considering his devotion to the Goddess of the Night, he restrained his objections out of both respect and trust.
"... Praise the Lady," he said instead.
"Praise the Lady," Crestet Cesimir replied.
Sensing something, Dunn turned over, but darkness was all that greeted him. Considering how much the Sleepless thrive at night, perhaps what the Deacon said held more weight than he had realized.
Ah, how awkward, Klein Moretti scoffed. Police hospitality. Thrilling, truly.
Leonard Mitchell and Seeka Tron. That's what they claimed their names were. Klein felt a fleeting urge to 'Divine' whether they were telling the truth, but quickly dismissed it.
Who would lie about their name in a setting like this? Especially now, when they were colleagues?
Seemingly unfazed by the awkward atmosphere, The Poet, Leonard Mitchell, leaned back in his chair and hummed softly as he stared out the window.
...
"Will you stop that?" Klein finally asked, hesitating slightly. Even the most reserved individuals could lose their composure in situations like this.
With his smile still intact, the young Nighthawk replied, "stop what?"
"Humming," Klein answered.
Mr. Mitchell paused. "Oh, alright. Someone who prefers silence, then?"
Klein frowned. "Perhaps," he replied, "depends on the situation." Then his eyes narrowed, unsure if this man was deliberately playing with him. "You were doing something."
"I don't like having someone control my emotions without my permission," he said firmly.
Especially from this one.
Klein paused.
Most especially from this one.
Mr. Mitchell seemed momentarily surprised, quickly hiding it behind a raised brow. Almost imperceptibly, he met Miss Tron's eyes—a fleeting glance that silently confirmed their shared unease.
What?
Klein frowned more deeply.
Is it really that much of a problem?
"Sure," Mr. Mitchel agreed, a smile tugging at his lips. Even Klein could tell it was just a performance for an audience that already knew it was fake.
'Frown if you want to, poet. What if smiling when you don't want to causes trouble?'
Before he could dwell any longer on his thoughts, Dunn Smith entered the carriage. Noticing the slightly tense air, the Captain raised a brow but chose not to pursue it.
"So," Mr. Smith said to Klein, "what exactly do you want to know more about? Nothing too confidential, I suppose."
Klein perked up. 'I can ask questions?'
Crestet Cesimir lingered at the Cathedral's doorway, eyes fixed on the Tingen Nighthawks' carriage as it disappeared around the corner, swallowed by the shadows of the winding street.
There was a faint stirring in the darkness, almost imperceptible, yet it felt like a silent beckoning.
Only once the street was empty did he turn back.
Upon entering the empty basement, the deacon's carefully maintained composure faltered. He exhaled in a shuddering breath, a bead of sweat glinting at his temple.
"Good day."
Then, as if drawn from the shadows, a figure appeared.
Someone—a woman in a plain linen robe stood there, her features unremarkable; yet her ghostly black eyes held a calm that seemed almost sacred. It's a serene, otherworldly presence. An unsettling serenity.
Crestet Cesimir bowed instantly, his salute precise and reverent. "... Ma'am Arianna. Good day as well."
'She' tilted 'Her' head slightly, and in a calm, measure voice 'She' asked, "where did you keep those papers?"
Crestet blinked in realization. Ah—those transcripts.
"They're kept over there, Ma'am," he answered, the implication clear: The Chanis Gate.
Ma'am Arianna nodded. "Use 1-29 to erase your memories once you return to Backlund. I will place it there in advance. You may retrieve it later with my authorization."
Then 'She' was gone, 'Her' figure fading as if someone had wiped 'Her' from the canvas of the world.
Crestet Cesimir bowed once more to the empty air. He tapped his chest four times and murmured the words—"Praise the Lady!"
Praise the Goddess.
A hoary elder clad in a traditional black robe. Deep wrinkles etched the corners of his eyes and mouth, and his dark red pupils held a faint, unsettling cloudiness.
Klein stills, letting the flood of emotions surge through him. Sorrow. Hatred. Grief. He had been bottling these feelings ever since seeing Dunn Smith. It felt shameful, almost absurd, to be so affected by strangers he didn't even know.
There was no shared history—at least, none he could recall clearly. Perhaps the real Klein had one, but he had no memories to match. Had the notebook altered his mind so profoundly? They hadn't examined it closely enough, but perhaps they should have.
Everything was blurring together now—as it had been since his Transmigration, and it's... confusing, overwhelming, impossible to untangle.
"So, you're the young lad who not only survived, but also became a Seer by accident?"
The old gentleman, known as Old Neil, tutted in disbelief. He had never heard of anything like it. "A lucky fellow like you is exceedingly rare."
Klein, sitting across from him, gave an awkward yet polite smile.
After departing Saint Selena Cathedral, Mr. Smith and his companions led him at once to the Blackthorn Security Company, the operational base of the Tingen Nighthawks Squad.
He found himself staring at it longer than he expected. It wasn't much in itself, but the memories he had woven into this place made it feel impossibly significant.
He finalized another contract, accepted the advance Mrs. Orianna provided, and, as directed by Mr. Smith, proceeded to Old Neil's office to commence his structured study of mysticism.
Old Neil chuckled. "My old friend, Dunn, asked me to tutor you. So, tell me... how much do you already know?"
Klein answered earnestly, "I know what Sequences are, the Pathways they belong to, the Potions tied to each one..."
"... Why a Beyonder might lose control, what qualifies as a Sealed Artifact... the basic things a Nighthawk needs to understand..."
These were the fundamentals he had learned from Mr. Smith, Mr. Mitchell, and Miss Tron along the road. Lessons that had gradually lifted the haze of confusion that clung to his brain.
Old Neil smiled at him indulgently... it feels as nostalgic as it looks. Klein tamped down the unsettling sense of wrongness.
"Very well," he said, "nothing else to cover. I can now start instructing you in extraordinary abilities and their assMr. Neil."
Klein began, but was stopped when he saw the clear disapproval in Old Neil's eyes.
"..."
The Transmigrator fought off a smile, and coughed lightly.
"Ahem. Old Neil," he corrected.
"Earlier, you mentioned that I'm an exceedingly rare case," he asked with curious eyes.
"What exactly does that mean?"
Old Neil gave a low, contemplative hum, studying Klein with the air of someone patiently anticipating a question he already knew would follow.
Still, ever the diligent student, Klein pressed on.
"How likely is it for someone to become a Beyonder through an ancient artifact?"
Old Neil stroked his chin, deep in thought—before breaking into a warm, hearty laugh.
"Oh, not at all, my boy. I'd say it's quite impossible if it weren't for you," he answered.
"In all my years dabbling in the mystic arts, I've never come across a case even remotely like yours."
'So it's that rare.'
Klein felt a knot of anxiety tighten in his chest.
"I see."
Uneasy, he continued.
"Then, if I may, being such an exception. I'm honestly curious—though I can't deny a bit of worry as well."
If Klein Moretti's case was already unprecedented. What, then, did that make Zhou Mingrui?
To Transmigrate so conveniently—so precisely—felt less like coincidence and more like being nudged onto a stage in someone else's play, forced into a role he didn't understand.
Old Neil's smile softened with sympathy.
"Naturally, young lad."
He paused, humming in a musing sort of way.
"If I didn't know any better, I'd say you fell into an entire cauldron of Seer Potion."
But then his expression hardened, turning solemn.
"Dangerous," he warned.
"Consider yourself fortunate, to survive and transform into an extraordinary being unharmed. For the alternative was equally likely."
"... What kind of alternative?" Klein asked.
Old Neil smiled ruefully.
"You could have easily been blown apart into a tangle of limbs and unidentifiable substances."
"Becoming a Beyonder is no trivial matter. Certainly not as easily as you did," Old Neil finished, his tone resolute.
A cold sweat ran down Klein's back. He could vividly picture himself exploding into a gruesome heap—and even the thought made his stomach churn.
"... Then."
Klein swallowed, his voice tight.
"What explanation makes the most sense for my situation, Old Neil?" he asked.
"There has to be something comparable, right?"
"A comparison, you say, hm." Old Neil stroked his chin, humming as he pondered.
"Keep in mind, this is merely my personal hypothesis."
"But Divine Beings," he emphasized, "whose existences lies far beyond our understanding."
"They are believed to possess the power to bestow blessings upon mortals, granting them the opportunity to become an extraordinary one."
Old Neil paused, releasing a quiet sigh.
"Even so, what little we know is vague at best. Matters of that caliber lie well beyond our reach."
'Bestow blessings...?'
Klein echoed. Not quite right... yet uncomfortably close. Not accurate... but undeniably adjacent.
Benefit.
Favors.
(... not quite, not quite... it's more like—)
"Like a boon?"
Klein ventured.
"Perhaps," Old Neil murmured. He neither confirmed nor denied.
"It could be possible. But I doubt any God would so casually hand power to mere mortals."
'Is that so?'
"Hm."
Old Neil hummed, eyes wandering, as if lost in thought while speaking to himself.
"... That notebook, however, has shaped you this way..."
"Could it be that Sealed Artifacts have the power to alter a person's physique... and become an existence close to it?"
Seeing Old Neil distracted, Klein took the moment to gather his own thoughts.
'What kind of God would bestow blessings?'
And then—almost as if something brushed against his Spirituality—his thoughts drifted, unbidden, to The Fool.
The Being that the real Klein had met.
The one who granted him the name The World.
The mysterious existence who convened mortals above the boundless sea of Gray Fog.
Who else could it be?
Klein—no, Zhou Mingrui—felt a faint tingling in his hand, a subtle tremor crawling through his fingers.
Perhaps.
Perhaps it was time to return to that place once more.
(... The Gray Fog...)