The distant cathedral bells rang again just as Zhou Mingrui returned to his chair.
Seven slow, resonant chimes rolled through the morning haze before fading away.
He rose quietly and crossed to the cupboard, pulling out his clothes.
A black vest. Matching suit. Trousers that clung a little too tight.
He added the halved top hat, studied his reflection in the cracked mirror, and couldn't help but smile wryly.
"I'm not going for an interview," he muttered, shaking his head. "I'm just buying ingredients… for a luck enhancement ritual."
Still, his hands had chosen instinctively. Klein's instincts.
Even when he wasn't thinking clearly, his body reached for his best clothes—preparing for that long-anticipated interview that no longer mattered.
With a sigh, Zhou changed again. He folded the black suit neatly and replaced it with a brownish-yellow coat and a round felt hat of the same color. Simpler. Less conspicuous.
He moved to the bed, lifted a square cushion, and reached into the small, hidden hole beneath. His fingers brushed a thin layer of fabric before finding what he was looking for.
When his hand emerged, it held a small roll of dark green notes. Eight in total. The ink was faded, but the smell—the faint metallic tang of money—was unmistakable.
Benson's savings. All of it. Even the family's living expenses for the next few days.
Two of the notes were five-soli bills; the rest were ones.
In the Loen Kingdom's currency system, soli ranked just beneath the gold pound—an echo of ancient silver coins. One soli equaled twelve copper pence. Above it sat the gold pound: twenty soli per pound, printed on thick paper backed by real gold.
Zhou unfolded one of the notes and inhaled deeply.
The smell of money.
It was ridiculous, but he couldn't help himself. Maybe it was Klein's old habits—or just his own human weakness—but for a full minute, he admired the currency with reverence.
Look at that design.
Even George III, with his stiff uniform and mustache, looks… adorable.
He tilted it toward the light, studying the watermark that shimmered faintly. The craftsmanship was beautiful—elegant, deliberate, impossible to fake.
Finally, he sighed, pulled out two one-soli notes, and tucked the rest back into the cushion's hidden layer.
After smoothing the fabric to erase any sign of tampering, he folded the two notes carefully and slipped them into the left pocket of his coat—separate from the few pence jangling in his trousers.
A key went into his right pocket, a dark paper bag under his arm. He took one last breath, adjusted his hat, and stepped toward the door.
Then he stopped.
His brow furrowed.
Klein's death…
It had been too strange, too sudden. And now he was about to walk out the same door that man had passed through. Would he stumble into the same fate?
After a long, tense pause, Zhou turned back toward the desk, opened the drawer, and pulled out the revolver.
Cold. Heavy. Beautiful.
It gleamed faintly in the morning light—a thing of power and fear all at once.
This was his only real weapon, and though he had never fired a gun in his life, just the sight of it could make anyone hesitate.
He held it for a long moment, running his thumb along the cylinder before tucking it into the same pocket as the notes. His palm closed around both—the money soft, the metal cold beneath. It felt balanced. Safe.
And then came the next thought:
What if I misfire?
That fear arrived so abruptly it made him laugh under his breath. Still, he couldn't ignore it.
So he drew the revolver again, flipped open the cylinder, and rotated it until the empty chamber from Klein's "suicide" aligned with the hammer. He snapped it shut with a click.
"There," he murmured. "Even if I panic, it'll only be an empty round."
He slipped it back into his pocket and kept his left hand resting there.
Hat down. Head low. Deep breath.
He opened the door.
The corridor was dim, a long strip of peeling wallpaper and weak daylight spilling in from a small window at the far end. Zhou descended the narrow staircase quickly and stepped out into the street.
Warm sunlight met his face.
It was mid-summer, nearly July, but the northern climate of Tingen kept the air mild. Mornings were cool, the breeze sharp with sea salt and smoke.
The streets, however, were filthy. Puddles of murky water reflected the sky, and garbage clung to the gutters. Even with sewers, there were too many people. Too much life packed into too small a space.
"Come and try our roasted fish!"
"Hot oyster soup! Five pence a bowl!"
"Fresh bread! Fresh vegetables!"
"Eel soup and muffins—perfect for breakfast!"
"Conch! Conch for sale!"
Voices rose from all directions—hawkers pushing their carts, shouting over one another in a chaotic symphony of survival.
Zhou moved through them, breathing in the stew of smells: grease, salt, and human sweat. His right hand pressed down on his hat; his left clenched around the revolver and notes inside his pocket.
In a place like this, a moment's distraction could mean a missing wallet—or worse.
As he pushed through the crowd, he caught glimpses of everything at once: a mother scolding her child, a sailor laughing with a bottle of rum, a hungry boy darting between legs like a ghost.
Eventually the street thinned. He straightened his back and exhaled. Ahead, an old man sat by the curb, playing an accordion with trembling fingers. The melody was uneven—sometimes sweet, sometimes fierce—but a few children danced to it anyway, twirling in rags with radiant smiles.
A woman passed by, her face blank, her clothes dirty. Yet when her eyes met the children, something flickered within them—faint, fleeting, like a spark inside dying coals.
Zhou turned down the next corner and stopped in front of Smyrin Bakery.
The air smelled faintly of yeast and lemon sugar.
Behind the counter stood Mrs. Wendy Smyrin, white-haired and round, with a perpetual smile. She'd been here for as long as Klein could remember, selling bread and pastries to anyone with a few coins to spare.
"The Tingen biscuits and lemon cakes…" Zhou swallowed, half amused by his own memory. "Still smell amazing."
"Ah, Klein!" Mrs. Smyrin beamed. "Eight pounds of rye bread, is it?"
He nodded. "Yes, please."
"Where's Benson, dear? Not back yet?"
"In a few more days," Zhou answered vaguely.
She sighed as she worked. "Such a hardworking boy. He'll make a fine husband someday."
Then, with a teasing grin, "And you, young man—you're a university graduate now! A scholar of history! You'll be earning gold soon, hmm? Time to move your family into a proper home. Maybe even one with your own bathroom."
Zhou chuckled softly. "You seem especially young today, Mrs. Smyrin."
"Oh, I've always been young," she said with a wink, wrapping up the bread. "That'll be nine pence."
He blinked. "Nine? Wasn't it eleven two days ago?"
"You can thank the protestors who repealed the Grain Act," she said cheerfully.
Grain Act… right. The name tugged at a faint memory—something about tariffs, agriculture, and southern imports—but the details were gone. Too many of Klein's thoughts were still foggy.
He paid her carefully, making sure not to flash the revolver as he reached into his pocket. Three copper pence came back as change. He thanked her, took the bag, and crossed toward the Lettuce and Meat market to buy the rest of Melissa's list.
As he reached the intersection of Iron Cross Street and Daffodil Street, the sound of music and laughter drew his attention.
A crowd had gathered around a small square. Colorful tents lined the edges, and clowns in bright red and yellow makeup handed out fliers.
"A circus?" Zhou murmured.
He leaned closer, squinting at one of the pamphlets.
"Tomorrow night. Admission…"
Melissa would love this, he thought automatically. But how much does it cost?
He stepped forward to ask a clown—only to hear a soft, raspy voice at his side.
"Would you like a divination?"
He turned.
A woman stood in front of a small black tent, wearing a long dress and a pointed hat. Her face was painted in streaks of red and yellow, but her eyes—grayish-blue—were sharp and clear.
Zhou hesitated. "No, thank you. I don't have the spare cash."
The woman smiled. "My tarot readings are very accurate."
"Tarot…" he repeated quietly, startled. The pronunciation was almost identical to tarot cards back on Earth.
He froze, mind racing.
In this world, tarot didn't come from ancient religion—it was a modern invention. Created by none other than Roselle Gustav, the first Consul of the Intis Republic, over a century ago.
Roselle—the man who'd invented the steam engine, revolutionized sailing, toppled a monarchy, founded a republic, and later crowned himself Emperor Caesar. The same man whose empire had reshaped the entire world—and whose assassination had become legend.
And tarot was his invention too.
Zhou pressed a palm to his forehead and let out a small laugh.
Could he have been… another transmigrator?
That thought sent a strange thrill through him.
He looked up again at the fortune teller. "If the price is reasonable," he said carefully, "I'll give it a try."
The woman's smile widened. "You're the first one here today," she said. "It's on the house."