"We are guardians," Dunn said quietly, "but also a band of miserable wretches, forever locked in a fight against danger and madness."
The corridor beyond the frosted window was sealed shut, the walls radiating a deep, unyielding chill. The room's yellow lamps burned bright against it, throwing soft halos over Dunn's features. His words echoed in the stillness, striking Klein's heart one blow after another, until he was left speechless.
Dunn's gaze softened. He gave a faint, almost weary smile.
"Are you disappointed?" he asked. "Beyonders aren't what you imagined, are they? We walk side by side with peril."
"There's always a price for any gain," Klein managed, his voice trembling slightly.
It was true. He had never considered that the mystique—the brilliance, the inhuman strangeness—of a Beyonder came with such hidden dangers. Perhaps it was because he had only heard about it, not lived it. And perhaps because he had already been dragged into the vortex himself, with that bizarre incident marking him.
He drew a long, slow breath. The fear, unease, and apprehension that had flooded him gradually began to settle.
Still… the thought of retreat won't leave. It lingers like a shadow.
"Not bad," Dunn said with a faint chuckle. "Very mature. Very rational."
He drained the last sip of coffee, set the cup aside, and continued. "Beyonders also aren't as powerful as you might think—especially the low-Sequence ones. Heh. Ever wonder why we number them backward? Why One is the highest and Nine the lowest? It's counterintuitive, isn't it? The lower the Sequence, the weaker the rank—the beginning of the chain."
He leaned back slightly. "As I was saying—low-Sequence Beyonders are no match for firearms. A pistol can kill them, a cannon even more so. Their powers are strange, elusive, and hard to guard against—but not invincible. So if you ever have the chance to become a Beyonder… think carefully. Never decide in haste."
Klein smiled faintly, self-mockingly.
"I don't even know when I'll get that chance."
But deep down, he knew he wouldn't pass it up if it came. The real dangers weren't in taking the potion itself, or even in its rank—it was in what came after. The slow, creeping changes it brought.
As long as I'm cautious, he thought, as long as I study what's been learned before me, I should be fine. Patience and control. Don't rush advancement, and the risk of losing control stays low.
He still had his greater problem to solve—the mystery of his transmigration, the nature of mysticism itself, and a way back home. That, not power, was his true goal. If advancement proved too dangerous, he could stop where he was. He could rely on knowledge and method, not ambition.
The risk was real, yes—but so was the need for power.
He remembered the murmurs that had nearly driven him mad during his first ritual, the voices that had clawed at his mind. They were proof enough: even without becoming a Beyonder, danger already found him.
Better to face it with strength than cower without it.
The balance tipped in his mind. The fear faded.
Dunn relit his pipe, faint smoke curling up between them. His gray eyes gleamed faintly beneath the light.
"I can't give you a definite answer," he said. "To become a Beyonder, you'll need two things: contribution and timing. Maybe tomorrow you'll translate some old document that turns out to be crucial. Maybe you'll give us an idea that cracks a case. Or maybe the higher-ups will decide it's time. No one really knows."
He smiled again. "Alright. I think you've learned enough for one day. Don't rush. Now let's talk about your actual job."
He rose from his chair, his long coat brushing softly against the floor, and gestured toward the corridor opposite the heavy black doors.
"Over there we have our accountant, and someone who handles procurement and supply distribution from both the Church and the police. He doubles as our carriage driver. Those two are professionals—they don't take shifts and rest on weekends."
Dunn's boots clicked against the floor as he moved. "The other three civilians are Rozanne, Bredt, and Old Neil. They handle visitors, keep rooms clean, write case reports and inventory lists. They also guard the armory, storeroom, and archives—everything that requires registration before access. Each gets one day off per week besides Sunday, and they arrange their night shifts among themselves."
"So my work's the same as Rozanne's and the others?" Klein asked, pushing aside thoughts of Beyonders for now.
Dunn shook his head with a faint smirk. "No. You're a professional. Your duties are different. You have two tasks."
He slipped his hands into his coat pockets, voice turning level. "First—take a walk. Every day, morning or afternoon. Focus on the streets between Welch's place and your own."
Klein blinked. "What?"
Take a walk? That's the job?
Dunn's tone remained patient. "Once we confirm your memory loss, we'll close the case on Welch and Naya. The Antigonus family diary vanished along with them. We suspect you had it—and that you hid it somewhere on your way home. That's likely why we found no trace of it, and why you chose to end your life there."
He paused, the smoke from his pipe thickening in the air. "Even though you've forgotten it consciously, the human mind is… peculiar. There may still be fragments left behind—echoes buried deep. Daly couldn't reach them as a medium, but that doesn't mean they're gone. Perhaps, when you walk those streets again, you'll feel something familiar. A spark of déjà vu."
He met Klein's eyes. "That's what we're hoping for."
Klein nodded slowly, the reasoning clicking into place.
Makes sense. I was the only one left alive. The only one who could've hidden the diary.
"If you find it," Dunn added, "that contribution alone might earn you a chance to become a Beyonder."
"I hope so."
Dunn's voice lightened again. "Your second task—you get one day off each week. Pick whichever day suits you. When you're not out, spend your time in the armory. Read the literature, the canon texts. That's your historian's duty. When you've finished them all, you'll start taking shifts with Old Neil and the others."
Klein let out a quiet breath of relief. "Alright. No problem."
That's… actually not bad.
Dunn turned halfway toward the massive black doors, their surface engraved with seven sacred emblems that shimmered faintly under the light.
"This," he said, voice dropping, "is Chanis Gate—named after Archbishop Chanis, the founder of the modern Nighthawks system. Every major city has one beneath its cathedral."
He stepped closer, pipe smoke drifting toward the door. "It's guarded by official Nighthawks on rotation. Inside, two Keepers from the Church stand watch, along with countless traps. You must never approach it without clearance. Misfortune will find you if you do."
Klein's throat tightened. "That sounds… terrifying."
Dunn chuckled softly. "Inside, you'll find potion formulas, rare magical materials, and temporary cells for heretics, cultists, and other dangerous individuals. Eventually, all of them are transferred to the Holy Cathedral."
The Holy Cathedral… Klein thought, recalling its name. The Cathedral of Serenity, in the frozen north of the kingdom.
Dunn continued, "You'll also find classified records and documents there. Once your clearance rises, you might be allowed to read them." He hesitated briefly, then added, "And beneath Chanis Gate… are the Sealed Artifacts."
"Sealed Artifacts?" Klein repeated, tasting the weight of the term.
Dunn nodded. "Some of the items we retrieve are far too powerful—or too strange. In the wrong hands, they'd bring catastrophe. So we lock them away. Even we only use them under special circumstances. And some…" He paused, lowering his voice, "some are alive. They can whisper. Entice their keepers. Try to escape. They must be contained."
Klein couldn't help but whisper, "How fascinating…"
"The headquarters classifies them into four grades," Dunn went on. "Grade 0—Extremely Dangerous. Highest secrecy. They cannot be discussed, described, or even looked upon. Only the Holy Cathedral can contain them.
"Grade 1—Highly Dangerous. Limited use, clearance for bishops or Nighthawk deacons and above. A major cathedral might hold one or two; the rest go to the Holy Cathedral.
"Grade 2—Dangerous. Usable with extreme care. Only captains or bishops may authorize them. Smaller cities can hold three to five.
"Grade 3—Considerably Dangerous. Still risky, but usable by formal Nighthawks for missions requiring at least three members."
He looked back over his shoulder. "You'll see the files later. They're numbered like this: 2-125 means a Dangerous-grade Artifact, number one hundred twenty-five."
As he spoke, he turned, crossed to his desk, and pulled open a drawer. From its bottom, he withdrew a single sheet of paper.
"Oh, one more thing," Dunn said. "Three years ago, an archbishop lost control. For reasons still unknown, he bypassed every level of protection and vanished—taking a Grade 0 Artifact with him. Memorize this photo. If you see him, don't approach, don't speak. Just report it. Otherwise… your death is certain."
Klein's brow furrowed. "What?"
He accepted the paper. It bore no title—only a black-and-white photograph with a few terse lines beneath it.
"Ince Zangwill," Dunn recited. "Male. Forty. Former archbishop. A Gatekeeper who failed his promotion, enticed by the Devil, corrupted. Escaped with Sealed Artifact 0-08. Distinguishing traits…"
The man in the photo wore a black clerical robe with twin button rows and a soft cap. His hair was dark blond, his eyes so blue they were nearly black. His features were finely sculpted, coldly perfect—except for one detail. He was blind in one eye.
Klein frowned. "The description of the man is detailed… but there's almost nothing about the Sealed Artifact itself."
"That's why it's Grade 0," Dunn said grimly. "The search for 0-08 is verbal only—never written. Even so, what little we know…" He sighed. "It appears to be an ordinary quill. One that doesn't need ink."
He didn't elaborate further. Instead, he tugged lightly at the golden chain on his trench coat and drew out a dark, elegant pocket watch. With a click, it opened. He glanced at the time, then closed it again.
"I've told you all you need to know," he said at last, motioning toward the hallway. "Go find Old Neil in the armory. He'll get you the documents to read. He's no ordinary clerk—he used to be a full member. But age caught up with him. Couldn't advance further. His health's failing. Still, he didn't want to retire or become a Keeper. He just wanted to stay surrounded by the only companions he's ever trusted—his books and records."