Dunn took out his pipe, inhaling a mix of tobacco and mint leaves.
"Only at home can I enjoy this without a care in the world," Dunn said, satisfied with the aroma. "Tell me, Klein—do you know the Creation Myth?"
'Yeah. From Klein's fragmented memories, hehe.'
"Of course," Klein said. "The Creator awoke from chaos, creating light. He formed all of existence. The bulk of His body became the land and the stars.
"One of His eyes became the sun—the other, the crimson moon. His hair composed the phoenixes, and His ears—the demonic wolves.
"Elves, dragons, and giants were born from some of His organs. His bodily fluids became sea monsters. And the remaining, 'darker parts' of His body formed devils, evil spirits, and other nameless maleficent existences."
"Good," Dunn complimented. "It's the same origin, shared by all doctrines. From the myth, we can see one clear truth: everything stems from the same origin."
'The same origin...' Klein pondered. Dunn's words carried layers of meaning when thought about carefully.
"Humans, protected by the gods, learned to resist powerful creatures. We eventually discovered how to harness Beyonder powers. Using parts of extraordinary creatures, we can brew potions. Drinking one grants power. That's basic mysticism.
"But," Dunn's tone darkened, "we also learned of three outcomes from taking potions that are too strong."
Klein leaned forward. "Which three?"
"First—mental death. The body collapses, and the flesh twists into something monstrous." Dunn's eyes glinted faintly. "Second—the potion distorts personality. Cold, irritable, cruel, indifferent. Third—"
Dunn took a slow sip of coffee before continuing, "Madness—turning more devilish than devils themselves. That's what we call 'losing control.'"
After a brief pause, Dunn continued, "Centuries of trials and tragedy led to the discovery of the Blasphemy Slate. Humans finally perfected the potion system, chaining it into stable progression paths known as sequences.
"The lower the number, the higher the grade. Each church now holds at least one complete pathway and fragments of others."
"Blasphemy Slate?"
'The Hanged Man mentioned that too... he said it was key to creating the entire system.'
"Klein," Dunn called, "there are a few more ways of losing control."
"I'm listening," Klein said, setting aside questions about the Slate.
"Some people are born... sensitive. They hear or see what others shouldn't. They're equivalent to half a Sequence 9—bound to a pathway from birth. Take a potion from another path, and you risk losing control."
Klein nodded silently.
"Generally, taking potions from another pathway is a terrible idea. Once you embark on a path, it's for life. Take a potion from another, and you'll become deranged, bloodthirsty."
"I see. Is that all?" Klein asked.
Dunn chuckled, a sound tinged with dark amusement. "This last one's actually the most common. Potions are alien. Their remnants linger in our minds. Take the next potion in your path before fully grasping the last, and the madness builds inside you.
"That's why new Sequence 9s in the Nighthawks must wait for three years before attempting to advance. But... many still lose control.
"Also, high-sequence Beyonders have sharper spiritual perception. They begin to hear and see things beyond human reach. When they can no longer resist mysterious temptations, that's when they start to lose control."
Klein swallowed hard, the words sinking deep. A long silence followed.
"How... tragic," he finally muttered, his expression sombre, weighed down by understanding.
Dunn regarded him warmly, yet with unmistakable pity.
His voice grew bleak. "Archbishop Chanis, founder of the Nighthawks, once said: We are guardians, but also miserable wretches, forever fighting against threats and madness."
Klein's heart sank. Having read far too many fantasy novels instead of studying for physics exams, he had imagined magic as something wondrous, a force to embrace eagerly.
Dunn's gaze softened. "Beyonders aren't what you imagined? I, too, thought that way when I was younger."
"Every gain has a price," Klein said, managing to speak.
Dunn smiled warmly. "Remember—if you ever have the chance to become a Beyonder, consider your path carefully. Low-Sequence Beyonders are still useless against firearms."
Klein smiled self-deprecatingly. 'Who knows when I'll get the chance. As long as I'm patient, I should be fine. Don't rush advancement, and the risk of losing control stays low.'
He still had far greater problems to solve—the mystery of his transmigration, the nature of mysticism itself, and a way to return home.
Dunn relit his pipe, gray eyes gleaming beneath the light. "For you to become a Beyonder, you simply need to make enough contributions to the Nighthawks. It also depends on the arrangements of the higher-ups."
Dunn rubbed his temples irritably, as if trying to remember something. "You currently have two tasks. Every day, take a walk on the streets around Welch's place and yours. Maybe something will trigger your lost memories—hopefully something about the notebook, where you might have hidden it."
'Makes sense. Klein was the last to die among the three. On his way home, he might have hidden it due to certain influences.'
"Got it," Klein replied after some self-enlightenment.
Dunn continued, "The gate you passed by on your way here—that's Chanis Gate. It's guarded by Nighthawks on rotation—Keepers from the church. Inside, there are potion formulas, magical materials, classified documents... Oh, and beneath the Gate, Sealed Artifacts."
"Sealed Artifacts?" Klein repeated, tasting the term's weight.
"Unique Beyonder items. Some are beyond mysterious, and others can cause catastrophes in the wrong hands. They're strictly controlled and remain sealed beneath Chanis Gate.
"Headquarters classifies them into four grades, ranging from Grade 3—the lowest—to Grade 0. But even Grade 3 means 'considerably dangerous' and can only be used in missions requiring at least three Nighthawk members."
Dunn pulled open a drawer and withdrew a sheet of paper. He stared at it for a moment, expression unreadable, before looking back at Klein.
"One more thing," Dunn said. "Three years ago, an Archbishop lost control. Ince Zangwill. He fled with Sealed Artifact 0-08 and hasn't been seen since."
'0-08? Judging from the naming system, it's a Grade 0 Sealed Artifact, Number 08.'
"The Holy Cathedral's orders are to report immediately if he's found—otherwise... your death is certain."
"What?" Klein's brows furrowed.
He accepted the paper.
The picture depicted a man wearing a black clergyman robe and a soft cap. His hair was dark blond, and his eyes were nearly black-blue. His features were finely sculpted yet unusual. One eye was clearly blind.
Klein frowned. "0-08. What is it?"
Dunn spoke grimly. "All that's known about it is that it looks like an ordinary quill—one that doesn't require ink.
"However..." Dunn paused. "...it's Grade 0 for a reason."
Klein continued studying the picture until he nodded in understanding.
Dunn smiled faintly, unknowingly easing the mood. "I've told you all you need to know. Now, go find Old Neil in the armory. He'll get you some documents you need to read. He's a civilian staff like you. Sadly, age caught up with him."
"Okay." Klein gave a polite little bow.
Before Klein could leave, Dunn called out, "Wait."
'What's up with him? Does he have a concussion or something?'
"Yes, captain." Klein approached the table once more.
"Your weekly salary's three pounds. Here's your first month in advance," Dunn said, handing him a letter.
Klein took it, astonished.
'12 pounds? Klein's brother, Benson, only makes five or six pounds a month. I guess now I can buy a house.'
Dunn chuckled at Klein's expression.
Klein couldn't help but chuckle awkwardly in return.
Before he could exit, Dunn called again.
"Yes... captain?" Klein turned, suppressing his annoyance.
'He must seriously have a concussion.'
"Old Neil will have something for you."
Klein quickly rushed off, resisting the urge to ask, 'Captain, anything else?' before leaving.
He soon found his way to the armory, stepping into a room containing a desk, two chairs, and a locked iron door.
Behind the desk sat an elderly man in a brown robe.
"You must be Klein Moretti, right?" the old man asked warmly.
"Yes. Good afternoon, Mr. Neil."
Klein looked around before asking, "So, uh, what documents should I read, sir?"
"Anything related to history—especially things that are complex or incomplete," Old Neil said with a sigh. "I've studied them for years, but many remain ambiguous and fragmented, especially this one."
Old Neil pointed to the papers in front of him.
"The diary of Roselle Gustav," he said.
'The transmigrator emperor himself—wait! Diary? I thought it was just a notebook?'
Old Neil continued, "He wrote his notebook using strange symbols. I've cracked a few of them."
He smiled proudly. "Some mean numbers. By assuming the numbers are dates, I compare them to historical events. If I'm correct, it's actually his personal journal! Take a look."
He slid the pages to Klein.
Klein received them, then froze instantly.
The symbols weren't symbols to him.
They were words... in Chinese.
'It's actually simplified Chinese! Not only was the emperor a transmigrator, but also a fellow countryman?'
Klein began to read.
....
"November 18th.
Truly a fascinating matter. By chance—during an experiment beneath a clear sky—I've discovered a poor soul lost and trapped in the deep darkness amid the storms. He can only approach the reality of this world on the day of the full moon every month. He is lucky to have met me, the protagonist of this era!"
....
"Four decades have passed in the blink of an eye. My Chinese now reads like a translation. I can't help but feel a little down. My past feels like a dream."
....
"1184, January 1st.
At the New Year's Gala, Lady Florena was as radiant as the cosmos."
....
"January 3rd.
I've told my foolish children so many times! The key to potions is not simply drinking them, but digesting them! It's not about tapping into powers, but acting! The name of a potion is not solely symbolic, but a concrete image, and the key to digestion!"
....
"January 4th.
I've finally realized. I made my decision with such youthful haste. In hindsight, I should've chosen the Apprentice, the Marauder, or the Seer. Those were the better choices."
....
'Hmm... What does he mean there?' Klein thought before continuing.
....
"September 23rd.
I've lost contact with the ship seeking the Forsaken Land of the Gods."
....
'That's a ton of info. Thank you, native tongue!
'Who was that 'poor soul' Roselle mentioned?
'What do 'digesting' and 'acting' mean?
'And where is the Forsaken Land of the Gods?'
Even though the information wouldn't help Klein immediately, it was wise to take advice from predecessors—it might just come in handy.