Ah," Old Neil sighed, pulling Klein back to the present. "Let's set aside those weighty questions for now, and turn to something more pressing."
Hm?
Klein followed his gesture to the silver tin can etched with intricate floral patterns.
"Care for a cup of freshly hand-ground coffee?" Old Neil offered with an indulgent smile.
"... You don't seem like the coffee-drinking type."
Klein remarked, noticing that Old Neil's porcelain cup held nothing but clear water.
Old Neil chuckled lightly.
"That's just my habit. I steer clear of coffee after three in the afternoon," he explained.
"Why?" Klein asked, the question slipping out almost automatically, as though he'd asked it once already.
Old Neil restrained a smile as he met Klein's gaze.
"I'm afraid it would disturb my sleep," he said. "Coffee after three makes me hear the murmurings of unknown existences."
Klein blinked.
"And what would you do if an unknown existence appeared?"
Old Neil looked momentarily taken aback, as if the question had caught him off-guard.
'Two can play at this game,' Klein thought, a small twitch curling his lips.
He wasn't used to having his emotions laid bare.
It felt strange—like a banana peeled and left on the ground, only to have him stumble over his own skin when he least expected it.
Old Neil sighed, shaking his head in mock disappointment, though a playful glint softened the blow.
"Looks like it's back to the lesson, then."
He clapped his hands.
"Alright, time for another crucial lesson: The Dangers Posed by Hidden Existences."
Klein remained silent, eyes betraying nothing.
"Firstly, Little Klein—"
Klein blinked.
'Wait, what?'
"—if you ever suspect someone is being tainted by an unknown existence, you must report it to the proper authorities who are qualified to handle such corruption—"
'Noted, sure?'
Klein thought, both bewildered and embarrassed. No one had ever called him 'little' in that kind of context before. Certainly not as Klein Moretti now, and certainly not as... that one other instance either.
"Mr. Neil—" cough.
Klein blanked before he continued.
"... Old Neil, which documents and books should I study?"
Klein asked, his eyes scanning the dozens of books neatly arranged along the sidelines.
His gaze lingered on a few, but to his disappointment, most of the ones that had caught his attention because of their intricate deigns had no titles on their spines.
"Anything related to history, or material that is complicated or incomplete... To be honest, I have always tried to study it, but all I manage is a rudimentary grasp..."
Klein listened quietly, his senior's voice soothing his nerves. It had been a while, that was all.
Hm.
Been a while?
Again? Klein wondered if he had some unresolved parental issues. But ah, Zhou Mingrui did miss his parents.
"... The other sources... people's diaries, contemporary books, epitaphs, and the like... are just too troublesome," Old Neil lamented.
Could it be Klein then?
Losing both parents would undoubtedly leave a deep, lasting mark on any child... even for a Transmigrator who inherited his memories.
"... For example," Old Neil continued, "the things I have here would require far more detailed historical records to determine their exact content."
Distracted, Klein automatically asked—"why?"—as a small gesture to show he is still listening, even though his mind is wandering.
Old Neil pointed to a few yellowed pages in front of him. "These come from Roselle Gustav's lost diary, written before his death."
'Ah, that eccentric man again?'
Klein blinked.
"To keep his records secret, he used a set of strange symbols of his own invention," Old Neil finished.
'Emperor Roselle. That Transmigration Senior, yes.'
Klein was taken aback, yet immediately focused his attention. Probably just a bunch of nonsense—after all, why would an Emperor keep a diary?
But then again, it could be useful. Klein wondered if, by collecting all the pages, he might finally have something to tease that irritating, plagiarizing man.
"Many people believe that he did not truly die, but instead became a hidden God," Old Neil explained.
Klein was secretly amused. A human becoming a God? That was the sort of blasphemy few would dare to imagine. Of course, there must have been countless sacrifices.
At this thought, Klein fell into deep contemplation.
"... Therefore, cults that revere him have always held various rituals in an attempt to gain power," Old Neil continued.
'People.'
Klein thought.
Always so foolish and easily swayed. But what could one do in a world filled with human-made Gods?
There must have been a True God at some point, though perhaps 'He' had long since abandoned 'His' creations.
Why else would the world be so mad, so insane? Perhaps Earth has always been the greatest Forsaken Land of the Gods. It certainly fits, doesn't it?
"... We occasionally encounter such incidents and obtain a few original or duplicated copies of the diary," Old Neil explained, shaking his head.
"To this day, no one has been able to decipher the true meaning of the special symbols... Therefore, the Holy Cathedral has allowed us to keep copies for research, hoping that someday they might yield a pleasant surprise."
For a moment, Klein was tempted to speak. 'It's Chinese,' he thought. 'Would I get compensated if I translated it all for the masses? I'd say you'd all be pleasantly surprised.'
"... I've already figured out that some symbols are numbers," Old Neil said, smug. "Look—this is actually a diary!"
Klein hid a smile.
'A diary, indeed.'
"... I plan to compare its entries with historical records, especially events about the Emperor, to try and decode more symbols."
"That's the mind of a genius, isn't it?" Klein teased, offering praise to the old gentleman with white hair and deep wrinkles, whose bright eyes met his.
Once again, a quiet sorrow settled deep in Klein's bones.
Ugh.
"Yes, indeed." Old Neil laughed. "You can take a look at it too," he offered. "Tomorrow, you'll have to help me with this diary."
And with that, Old Neil pushed a few yellowed pages into Klein's hands. There were more than he remembered from his first encounter.
At the front, the first of many, was the unmistakable scrawl of the Emperor. But among the notes was something he had never seen before.
[ Chinese! Simplified Chinese! ]
Zhou Mingrui read in astonishment.
[ I knew I wasn't the only one! There was someone before me. They must have been long gone. These ancient texts could be hundreds, maybe even a thousand years old. ]
[ Clay... it's clay. Like clay tablets. Cleverly hidden, or thrown haphazardly all around like simple garbage. Rumors say they appeared out nowhere. But how could that be? ]
[ There are no adequate records, and everyone thought I had invented a new language, when clearly! There's already one that existed long before me. ]
[ Why? ]
Zhou Mingrui's eyes trembled.
'... There... was another... another Chinese Transmigrator?'
It is as shocking as it looked. There wasn't supposed to be another.
Why is that?
No matter how confused Zhou Mingrui was—there wasn't supposed to be another.
So why? Klein?" Old Neils's voice carried a note of curiosity.
Ah.
Klein jolted at the sound of Old Neil's voice, suddenly realizing he had been staring at the pages for far longer than he had realized.
"I—" he stammered, caught between embarrassment and the quiet, unnerving shock of discovering another Transmigrator he had never known existed.
Klein couldn't stop staring at the papers.
For preservation and research, the backs of each page had been left blank—but even so, reading the diary stirred a sudden upheaval of emotions within him.
At the very least, he felt a measure of relief, for having discovered a secret that was truly priceless.
'As annoying as he is, Huang Tao is truly the source of discoveries,' Klein thought, begrudgingly grateful to the Emperor for recording them.
... As for how he himself knew these things, Klein had long grown desensitized to the uncanny amount of knowledge he kept acquiring unconsciously, knowledge he had no memory of ever learning.
Was this the side effect of being a Seer? Had he been unknowingly wielding Beyonder powers all along? The thought unsettled him. He felt relieved that, despite his carelessness, he had not accidentally harmed Melissa.
Questions bubbled in Klein's mind, making him eager to gather all of Emperor Roselle's diaries and read them from cover to cover!
"Klein?" Old Neil asked again. "My boy?"
Klein snapped awake, hastily masking his surprise with a laugh. "I'm sorry," he apologized with a wry smile.
"I thought I'd stand out as the most special one... and somehow be able to make sense of it all," he reasoned.
"Oh?" a voice mused. "You thought you could pass as the Protagonist of the Era too?"
Klein's smile vanished immediately. Him, again?
Lamenting his situation, the Transmigrator slowly turned toward the door and was immediately assaulted with the sight of one Leonard Mitchell smirking at him.
Leaning casually against the doorframe, Mr. Mitchell's eyes held a glint that could almost be mistaken for amusement if they weren't so sharp and clinically precise.
Between two self-proclaimed Protagonists of the Era, Klein figured he would have chosen Roselle Gustav over this one.
Simply because Leonard Mitchell looked so flamboyant with that distinctively seductive air that always seemed to follow him everywhere.
The Transmigrator forced a smile so hard it became a grimace. "... Mr. Mitchell," he said, "good day."
Mr. Mitchell's smile widened. "Good day to you as well," he greeted smoothly. "I trust you're settling in nicely?"
Perhaps it was the surprisingly lukewarm welcome from the Nighthawks that made Klein relax without realizing it.
'Must be,' Klein shrugged.
Despite their initial wariness and difficulty, they had been remarkably accommodating to their youngest member.
Klein nodded. "As well settled as one could be," he said, his smooth tone matching the warm smile slipping onto his lips. "Everyone's been very kind, and without their hospitality, I'd have been bewildered for who knows how long."
He wasn't lying. Had they not given him the chance to become an Official Beyonder, he would have been completely lost, and wandering without direction everywhere.
"Good to hear," Mr. Mitchell said with a nod. He then pulled a familiar notebook from under his right armpit, shifting his weight on the doorframe and forcing himself to straighten up to avoid looking foolish.
Klein blinked. "Is that... my diary?" he asked, puzzled.
"Correct," Mr. Mitchell said, grinning boyishly with a certain glint on his eye. "The Captain asked me to return it."
"Just like that?" Klein asked. "I thought there'd be more procedures..."
"Certainly," Mr. Mitchell agreed. "Normally, it would take days for the results to come in, but this one is as ordinary as it looks."
Klein blinked, his expression falling into disbelief, an unconscious grimace tugging at his lips. 'Is he jabbing me again?'
"Of course, we had professionals take care of it personally," he went on, his winning smile only serving to fray Klein's nerves.
Mr. Mitchell let out a small sigh, as if saddened by the outcome. "Unfortunately, it ended in a dead end, and all we can do now is turn our attention elsewhere."
"Ah," Old Neil finally chimed in, a small smile on his face. "I did my best."
The old gentleman shook his head. "But it seems a very sturdy wall blocked my view," he admitted. "Still, it was only basic divination, so I didn't expect much from the start."
"Indeed," Mr. Mitchell agreed wholeheartedly. "It holds no value for the investigation, and since it's someone else's prized possession, we decided it's best to return it to its rightful owner."
'That's someone's diary...' Klein thought, gloom settling over him. 'Please stop describing it as nothing special.'
He let out a sigh, irritation pricking at him. "... Alright then," he said, his voice tinged with helplessness.
"I'd like it back please, thank you."
'Ah, it's really unfortunate that the Nighthawks only have so few pages of Roselle's diary,' Klein lamented as soon as Leonard Mitchell left to resume his duties.
It was rather strange talking to that man. Klein had expected him to be more flamboyant, given his nature, but perhaps Old Neil's presence had compelled him to behave respectfully.
Even an overbearing, insufferable poet could act properly in the watchful eye of a distinguished gentleman, he supposed.
Klein flipped through the four pages in his hand, and after confirming he hadn't missed anything, he handed them back to Old Neil and asked without much thought, "do we only have these few pages?"
'I really, really want to see more of Emperor Roselle's diary...'
"Did you think there would be many?" Old Neil scoffed, his wrinkles deepening as he gently caressed the pages.
"There aren't many incidents each year that involve Beyonders or true mysteries... The main reason," Old Neil sighed, putting away the papers to a nearby table, "... is the gradual extinction of extraordinary species across the Northern Continent."
"Without them, there aren't enough potion materials, and the number of Beyonders has been shrinking over time."
Absentmindedly, Klein let the words go in one ear and out the other.
Old Neil let out another sigh. "Over the past few centuries... dragons, giants, and elves have become nothing more than entries in books. Even the seafolk no longer appear near the coastal waters..."
With a flicker of amusement, Klein couldn't help the private jab. 'There's a low-quality elf standing right in front of you. What would you do if you knew? Probably just stare at me like I've gone mad.'
Klein sighed. "Clearly, the only logical next step is to establish a Dragons and Giants Protection Association."
Old Neil chuckled at his words. "You're quite humorous, young man. Why stop at dragons and giants? Let's call it the Fantastic Beasts Protection Association."
"No, no, no..." Klein disagrees with a smile. "How could we forget those poor plants?"
Old Neil flicked his fingers with a slight glint in his eye, and Klein watched with indulgent amusement.
"Fantastic Organisms Protection Association!" the old gentleman concludes.
They laughed quietly, like old friends reunited at last. In the corner, an eyelash-less eye watched them, like a ghost from the past looming ever closer.
Can one's spirituality be transferred to an object? Klein wondered as he stared thoughtfully at the diary. It shimmered with a faint energy, like the stroke of a pen or the flick of a page.
It wasn't much, but it was distinct enough to be noticed. Perhaps this was how they judged an object's usefulness... or lack thereof.
It must belong to Klein, he concluded. No one else could imprint a part of their spirituality onto an object without long-term influence.
Then, as if guided toward a particular thought, Zhou Mingrui wondered if he could divine Klein's location using the diary...
Perhaps later, he decided with a calm certainty. Something ominous was seeping into his consciousness. He should do it away from prying eyes...
.
.
.
After finishing his mysticism lesson with Old Neil, he headed upstairs and made his way back to the reception hall.
Klein was about to bid Miss Rozanne farewell when he heard the brown-haired girl say briskly:
"The Captain says you can come on Monday. He wants you to settle your household affairs first!"
...
"Alright," he said gratefully. As gratefully as he could. Because he truly does mean it.
"Take care on your way home, Miss Rozanne," Klein says, "see you on Monday."
Miss Rozanne smiled, though she seemed a bit flustered. "Of course," she said, "you as well."
Klein departed with a casual wave of his hand.
Klein strolled from Zouteland Street to a quieter stretch of road on his way home, his thoughts wandering freely as his steps.
First and foremost, he needed to wake early the next morning and take the chance to 'wander around' Tingen University.
He also intended to inform the staff handling the interview that he would not be participating in the follow-ups. After all, his opportunity had come courtesy of his professor's recommendation letter.
Still, it was only proper to provide formal closure. If not for his own sake, then to honor his mentor's efforts.
Zhou Mingrui's mind wandered...
It was also for the real Klein Moretti's peace of mind in case he returned. What would he think, finding all his hard work washed away down the drain like that?
No matter how high the pay was, surely it would feel wrong to see someone else's efforts go to waste.
If Zhou Mingrui had become Klein Moretti solely because of the convergence of their two souls, he wouldn't be burdened with this guilt. But knowing that Klein was displaced somewhere, how could he continue living as Klein Moretti as if nothing had happened?
Klein suddenly halted after a few steps and reached into his inner pocket to pat the notes.
He exhaled.
Okay then.
Moments later, he pulled out twelve gold pound notes, clutching them tightly in his left hand. He slipped his hand back into his pocket, refusing to let go or take them out again.
Without realizing it, a smile crept across his face. According to the customs of the Foodaholic Empire... a treat was in order after earning money.
Tonight, it was time to give Melissa a treat!
... Klein had only three pence in change. He's in quite a dilemma...
Taking a public carriage back to Iron Cross Street would cost him four pence...
As tempting as it was, handing over a one-gold pound note for that fare would be like using a hundred-dollar bill to buy a bottle of cheap mineral water back on Earth!
... There was nothing inherently wrong with it, but it would feel painfully awkward.
And what if people assumed he was rich? What if they tried to rob him? Would he just wish for the culprit to return it back to him?
How counterproductive!
... Should he use his three pence to travel three kilometers by carriage and walk the rest of the way?
... No, that wouldn't do.
Soon, he dismissed the idea entirely.
Walking the rest of the way would take him a while.
Considering he was carrying twelve pounds—a small fortune—it wouldn't be safe!
Not at all!
Oh.
Klein realized.
That's right! Wouldn't the sensible thing be to buy something reasonably priced to get some change?
Klein's eyes sparkled as he scanned his surroundings, looking for a nearby store that sold either men's clothing or a cane... preferably one he could use to swing at burglars and the like... one that is all within his budget.
Hm.
He seemed to be in that part of the street that was a respectable distance away...
Klein sighed, resigned to the fate of sore feet. A private carriage would be nice...
Why not just wish for six pence instead? It would certainly make things easier. Klein grumbled.
Then, suddenly, he felt something jiggling in his pants pocket.
Oh!
He had six pence leftover!
Perhaps he hadn't noticed it before because it didn't make a sound...
How lucky was that? Klein thought joyfully.
He lavishly spent six pence on a short-distance trackless carriage, transferring once before finally reaching home safe and sound.
Best part. He still had twelve pounds! Tap. Tap. Tap.
Footsteps approached, followed by the faint metallic click of a key turning in the lock. Klein perked up, a quiet smile forming as he waited in anticipation.
Melissa stepped inside, her soft black hair framing her face. Her nose twitched as her eyes swept over the unlit stove, and a faint shadow dulled her expression.
"Klein, I'll warm up last night's leftovers," she said, brows furrowed. "Benson will probably be home tomorrow."
Klein slipped his hands into his pockets and leaned against the desk's edge. Smiling, "no, let's eat out, Melissa," he said.
Melissa stared at him as if he'd just told her that her puppet was a tortoise. Her eyes narrowed. "What did you just say?" she asked.
Klein's smile stayed in place, even though he was exasperated. "I said, let's eat out."
Before his sister could protest, Klein stepped in. "What about the Silver Crown Restaurant on Daffodil Street?" he suggested. "I've heard their food is delicious."
Melissa's frown deepened. "Why?" she asked.
Klein fought back a smile. "To celebrate me getting a new job, of course," he explained, the words flowing effortlessly from his mouth.
"You got a new job?" Melissa asked, surprised. "How did that happen? I thought your interview was tomorrow..."
"Yes," Klein said, beaming with pride. "It's a security company that seeks out, collects, and protects ancient artifacts. They needed a professional consultant," he explained. "By chance, I was offered the position..."
'Not really,' Klein scoffed to himself. 'I didn't even get a choice. But oh well.'
"It pays about six pounds a week!" Klein spoke before he could stop himself, caught up in his excitement.
He wondered if he should have held back a little, but he couldn't bring himself to lie to Melissa. It already felt like he'd lied enough. He wanted to be at least a little honest—as honest as he could be, given certain limitations, of course.
"They even gave me an advance of two weeks' pay." Klein smiled faintly as he retrieved the stacked notes from the drawer.
"Two weeks' advance pay?" Melissa echoed, dumbfounded, her eyes widening as they fell on the gold pounds.
"You," Melissa stammered, not knowing what to say. "Goddess... you—that's—I mean." Her voice sounded strained. "I'm glad," she settled, "I'm glad you found a high-paying job, Klein."
"Right?" Klein's smile widened—but then he noticed the worry in Melissa's eyes. "What's wrong?" he asked, concerned. "Is something the matter?"
Melissa hesitated, pursing her lips. "... Are you sure it's safe? Why would they pay an employee such a high salary..."
Ah, Klein realized. Inwardly, he cursed. That's right. Of course... six pounds is too suspicious, isn't it?
Klein sighed, suddenly recalling Dunn Smith's words. In this line of work, strange and twisted events often occur, and one cannot always predict or control them. Just when it seems to be over, the darkness can return in a terrifying manner.
Klein had joined fully aware that he could lose his freedom or even his life if he was not careful. He had learned this from the wary gazes of the Nighthawks and from Old Neil, who reminded him that he could have 'detonated' just as easily as he had become an extraordinary person.
In the end, it was all a matter of luck.
After all—"we are Guardians... a bunch of miserable wretches that are constantly fighting against dangers and madness..."—this is not exactly a safe profession to begin with.
"Klein?" Melissa asked, voice soft.
Ah.
Klein immediately snapped back to his senses. "... sorry," he coughed. He'd been far too airheaded lately...
It was strange. Feeling such intense nostalgia for something he wasn't even sure he had ever truly experienced.
"I'm not sure if you've heard of it, Melissa, but it's a security company," Klein explained. "... They're called Blackthorn."
Melissa nodded, although Klein couldn't tell whether she actually knew about it. "I see... a security company."
"... But why would they hire you?" she asked, genuinely confused.
"... They needed a historian," Klein explained vaguely.
"A historian?" Melissa only looked more bewildered. "A security company needed a historian? Why?"
'Why are you so determined to figure this out, sister...'
Klein thought, inwardly beginning to sweat. He was in no position to dump a pile of horrifying truths on his little sister, least of all the matter concerning Welch and Naya, and their premature deaths.
He did not even know what the official report would say. Considering that they had died in Mr. McGovern's residence, the explanation might be attributed to burglary or theft.
Besides, Klein thought with growing frustration, they were supposed to be going out. Yet here they were, discussing things that could have been saved for much later. All because he had casually mentioned earning six pounds a week in salary!
"... It's simply the nature of these cases," Klein explained. "Cults. Secret organizations. They often hoard relics from the past. That's why they require someone with expertise in archaeology or history..."
He hesitated. "I can't really go into details... confidentiality agreement and all that..." Klein trailed off.
Melissa's expression softened with a faint understanding. "I see," she said. "I don't really grasp it completely, but... just promise me you'll be careful."
There's something in the way Melissa looks at him that Klein finds complicated. It's not like he's walking into a certain death. He'll be careful.
And, as far as he can recall, Tingen City has always been peaceful. What sort of violence could really happen?
"Don't worry," he said, trying to ease her nerves, "I'll be very careful."
Perhaps, it's just the anxiety of a little girl who has already lost her mother and father. Klein could sympathize.
In a way, with the real Klein's memories merging with his own, it wasn't hard to understand—even if, for him, those memories were quite incomplete and insufficient.
"Were you thinking about this all night?" Melissa asked after a moment of silence.
'Truthfully, no.'
Klein nodded, perfectly contradicting his own thoughts. "Yes, being an academic at Tingen University is respectable, but I prefer this job."
"Well, it isn't bad either," Melissa said with an encouraging smile. Half-suspicious, and half-curious, she asked, "why would they give you an advance of two full weeks' pay?"
'Perceptive as ever...'
"... It's because we need to move. We need a place with more rooms and a bathroom of our own," Klein said, grinning and shrugging.
He thought his smile was flawless, hovering just shy of asking, 'surprised?'
Melissa blinked. Flustered, "Klein, we're living comfortably now," she tried. "My grumbling about not having a private bathroom is just a habit..."
"Don't waste your salary on this. Besides, I love Mrs. Smyrin's bakery..." Melissa trailed off.
Klein blinked.
Letting out a small sigh, "oh... alright," he conceded. Then, with a playful glint in his eye, he added, "since you said you love Mrs. Smyrin's bakery so much, how about you go out and get a treat?"
"Ah—that's," Melissa stammered, seemingly realizing her mistake. "That's..."
Without giving her a moment to process, Klein continued, "I'll make some soup with yesterday's leftovers. You just grab some pan-fried fish, a slab of black-pepper beef, a small bottle of butter, and a cup of malt beer for me."
"After all," Klein's eyes crinkled, "there's still reason to celebrate."
Melissa hesitated for a moment, then slumped in an unladylike manner. "Alright," she didn't argue with Klein's plan.
Settling down her backpack of stationery, she picked up the notes.
.
.
.
Melissa was in the process of closing the door when Klein called out. "Don't forget to stop by Mrs. Smyrin's! Treat yourself to a little lemon cake, alright?"
Melissa paused, then rolled her eyes at him, tossing aside all pretenses of ladylike decorum. "Alright," she agreed, leaving with a genuine smile on her lips.
.
.
.
Melissa had long been asleep when Zhou Mingrui decided it was finally time to reenter the Gray Fog. He stared intently at his unmarked hand, watching it clench.
Today was June 29th.
Whatever truths awaited him, he knew they would be worth it—even if it meant facing an Evil God who had somehow been orchestrating everything since his Transmigration.
After all, there was no other explanation.