Before Zhou Mingrui's Decision to Reenter The Gray Fog.
(... This is a memory...
... a convergence of memories...)
Painful!
The gaudy, shimmering dreamworld... soft murmurs... shattering in a heartbeat.
An abnormal throbbing pain pulsed through him... lingering in his reverie... his will thinning into something ethereal... fog that slips away at a touch.
A crimson moon hung high against a backdrop... against a black velvet curtain of sky... glowing in utter silence.
With a sweep of his gaze, Zhou Mingrui caught his reflection in the mirror—the version of himself that existed now.
'C-could I have transmigrated?' Zhou Mingrui's mouth parted slightly in shock.
"Everyone will die, including me."
A bloody handprint.
A hideous wound ran across his temple.
Grayish-white brain matter squirmed sluggishly within.
"From this moment forth, I am Klein Moretti."
.
.
.
Zhou Mingrui breathed through his nose, lost in reminiscence.
The memories playing in his mind were his own, and yet so different that he could easily be convinced he was witnessing a parallel universe—or perhaps a mirror world.
It's all the same.
From the moment he awoke as Klein Moretti, to the vision of brain matter splattering from a gunshot wound—each fragment of memory blurs the boundary between reality and illusion.
All with one striking difference, the original Klein Moretti neither appeared nor spoke, making Zhou Mingrui conclude that in this version, he may have awakened alone.
"We are Guardians... a bunch of miserable wretches that are constantly fighting against dangers and madness."
Mr. Smith's words echoed in Old Neil's home, resonating through the corroded floor, the worn walls, and the low ceiling.
It strikes just as deeply within Klein's mind and soul.
... Mr. Smith approached Old Neil's 'corpse' and knelt beside it.
He drew a white handkerchief from his windbreaker pocket, and gently draped it over the dark-red, crystalline eyeball, its surface twisted with pain.
'Alchemical Life.'
'The materials include...'
'And a large quantity of fresh blood from living people.'
"I can consider drawing my own blood, accumulating it little by little and preserving it using ritualistic magic."
... Klein closed his eyes and crushed the notes.
.
.
.
... Klein staggered, a hand flying to his forehead.
His eyes trembled as the image of Old Neil's lifeless body and the Captain's grief-stricken gaze surged back into his mind.
The memory hit him without warning—so sharply that he nearly dropped the soup pot.
Why?
Why now?
Ever since the beginning of his Transmigration, those 'recollections of an alternate reality', had been little more than faint nostalgia at best, and muddled confusion at worst.
So why were they surfacing now, demanding his attention?
Klein placed their dinner on the table with deliberate care, ensuring not a single drop of leftover food spilled. Melissa hadn't returned yet.
That was good. She would have worried even more, and Klein couldn't burden her with it. This is his mess, and he barely understood what was happening himself.
He retraced the once-blurry memories in his mind. Zhou Mingrui had supposedly transmigrated once before... and then he, too, became a Nighthawk.
And then... Old Neil died. Gone. Just like that. What happened? Did he lose control? Why? The memory showed only the result—no cause, no reason, just the end.
His thoughts spun, circling the strange emotions he'd been feeling about Old Neil lately. Grief, he realized. Then guilt, quietly trailing behind. And finally, a fragile sense of relief.
Klein—Zhou Mingrui inhaled—and didn't exhale for a long, conflicting moment.
It felt like an eternity before the door to their apartment swung open, revealing Melissa's radiant face, a lemon cake cradled in her hands, as she beamed at Klein's carefully maintained calm.
"I'm home!" she exclaimed, smiling widely.
Still in turmoil, Klein smiled at her.
"... Welcome home," he murmured softly, his voice steadier than he felt. "Sit somewhere if you'd like, I'll be finishing dinner."
... he murmured the divination statement and half-closed his eyes, slipping into meditation.
"Lanevus' bomb will cause me harm."
The amethyst spun clockwise... while the gold chain made his left hand tremble ever so slightly.
"The danger is severe!"
"Miss Megose?"
Megose... Megose!
... Lanevus' abandoned fiancee, already pregnant with his child.
... most eye-catching was her prominently swollen belly... that was what he'd left behind... left behind...
What Lanevus left behind?
... an 'ever-strengthening bomb...'
... 'a womb for an Evil God's birth...'
Inside Miss Megose's belly... was a 'bomb'... the nascent of an Evil God...
The Captain's expression shifted... he drew back his right hand, curled it into a claw, and drove it straight into his own chest—
His left chest.
He yanked his hand out swiftly, fingers clenched around a bloody, still-beating heart.
At that moment, Dunn Smith turned his gaze toward Klein.
"We saved Tingen."
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.
.
"Klein!"
Both brother and sister were finishing their meal when Klein suddenly covered his mouth with his hand, retching as he kicked his chair back and bolted to the public bathroom.
The image of the still beating heart haunted his vision as he emptied their dinner into the toilet.
His hands shook violently, and the relentless thump of his own heart echoed like thunder in his ears.
'We saved Tingen.'
Klein continued to vomit the last remnants of food from his stomach, while Melissa's worried murmurs trailed behind him.
"Klein... oh, Klein," she muttered, rubbing his shoulders soothingly. "Are you sick? Oh no... is it the food? Are you okay?"
Melissa's words tumbled out in a flustered rush, half to Klein and half to herself, as she frantically recalculated their expenses in case a doctor's visit became necessary.
Hearing her, Klein weakly rose to flush the remnants of his 'memory' down the rain—if only it could wash away the haunting words lingering in his mind as well.
Klein trembled, feeling as though he might collapse. That... that felt real. That felt real!
What was happening? A premonition? A warning? A glimpse of the future? Whatever it was, how was he supposed to respond to these memories?
First Old Neil... and now, Mr. Smith?
Two deaths already. How many more would come? How many more would strike him so unexpectedly? The glimpse of Old Neil's corpse and his supposed death had been... barely manageable.
But now... the knowledge of a so-called 'bomb' inside Miss Megose's belly, followed by Mr. Smith's death, was pushing him to the edge.
How terrifying.
How terrifying!
Was this what happened in that alternate timeline? Would it happen here too? What could Klein even do if it came to that?
It was only the second day of his Transmigration, and yet so much was already unfolding. How was he supposed to prevent these deaths before they even happened?
What to do... what to do...
Kenley stopped just before bending over to vomit.
At first it was bile, then a red heart, followed by his lungs and stomach, burning as if consumed by black flames.
.
.
.
'... Kenley? I haven't met him yet... so he died too?'
"... I'm alright," Klein said, leaning on Melissa for support before decisively pulling away.
Melissa frowned, steadying him as they walked back to their apartment, her eyes full of worry.
"It's just a stomach bug, I promise." Klein smiled.
Melissa pursed her lips, then glanced out the passing windows at the darkening streets. "The clinic should be close by now..."
Klein sighed. "I would've vomited it out by now. It's okay... it'll wear off by tomorrow."
Melissa didn't reply, but she leaned her head closer to his chest, discreetly listening to his heartbeat. Klein, in turn, silently patted her head, his smile softening like melted butter.
"... Sleep well, Klein," Melissa whispered as she bade him goodnight.
"Goodnight as well," Klein replied with a smile.
Melissa glanced at him for a brief second before slowly retreating to her room, silent. As Klein listened to her door close, he gently shut his own.
Unconsciously, and with a fluid ease born of years of experience, he set down a wall of spirituality.
He didn't know he was capable of that, but as he gradually embraced the notion of a parallel world, he attributed it to the other version of himself—one who seemed far more knowledgeable.
His intuition flared, and Zhou Mingrui picked up Klein's diary from the desk. He watched the lingering spirituality cling to the cover like glue, gradually dissolving and flowing away like a waterfall.
With no other choice, he allowed his intuition to lead him. He took out some parchment and a pen, reaching over to the spot he usually set aside for candles—
'Ah,' Zhou Mingrui thought with a sudden realization. 'I forgot to buy candles... I needed at least three, right?'
Then he paused, considering.
"... I wish for three candles," he said. And just because he could, he flicked his fingers. In an instant, three candles materialized before Zhou Mingrui's eyes.
...
'So I can do that,' he thought flatly, choosing not to dwell on it. Silently, he held the quill and began drawing on the parchment.
Having drawn the symbol multiple times before, Zhou Mingrui quickly completed the design formed by the combination of the Pupilless Eye and the contorted lines.
'The Symbol of The Fool,' he mused distantly, a faint sense of immense familiarity that shouldn't be there in the first place.
Zhou Mingrui had only ever seen it once—and that was in Klein's memories of The Fool. He was certain he had never encountered it himself, but perhaps the alternate version of him had...
With a sigh, Zhou Mingrui picked up where he had left off in his preparations.
Soon, Zhou Mingrui stood before a makeshift altar, three candles arranged with ritualistic precision, the central one symbolizing the person making the sacrifice.
He carefully placed the symbol between the other two, then lit all three with his spirituality. After a few moments of hesitation, he set Klein's diary atop the altar and began to pray.
"The Fool that doesn't belong to this Era;
The Mysterious Ruler above the Gray Fog;
The King of Yellow and Black who wields Good Luck."
"Your devoted servant prays for your attention.
I pray for you to take his offerings.
I pray for you to open the gates to your kingdom."
The candle's flame flickered violently, casting long eerie shadows across the room.
The world around him blurred. The incantation pulsed against the walls of spirituality, radiating light and a low, almost pleasant hum.
Winds born from nowhere swept across the room, tugging at his clothes and hair, threatening to extinguish the three candles.
Then the altar dimmed in an instant, as though an indescribable divinity was seeping out from the central candle.
The candle representing The Fool flared despite the wind, swelling with light—but instead of illuminating the room, it distorted everything further, turning the world hazy and unreal.
Countless shapes rippled out, each casting faint, impossible shadows.
Within this shimmering illusion, a vague door took form. Its surface bore the same symbol Zhou Mingrui had drawn.
The moment this seemingly ordinary door materialized, both the wind and the buzzing fell away. A few seconds later, the blurred door slowly opened.
Zhou Mingrui saw only darkness beyond—darkness woven from layers upon layers of shifting shadows. High above that abyss hung seven radiant lights, each a different color, each exuding the weight of unfathomable knowledge.
And above even those seven brilliances lay an endless expanse of grayish-white fog, crowned by an ancient palace that loomed over all creation.
The Transmigrator forgot everything else as he stared at the tableau unfolding above the altar. Then, from behind the open door, a powerful suction force surged forth.
Klein's diary, which was resting on the altar lifted into the air and vanished into the darkness and fog. Immediately after, the illusory door began to close, sealing that distant, mysterious world away from reality.
Just before it vanished completely, a deep voice resonated in Zhou Mingrui's ears. His skin tingled, and he frowned, unsure why an urge to shudder crept up his spine.
"Well done."
Creak.
The door shut and dissolved into nothingness. The altar and the room gradually returned to normal, as though nothing extraordinary had occurred.
A jolt of surprise and a flicker of unexpected suspicion made him stare at the still-flickering candles.
What.
His intuition was pinging nonstop, yet he had no idea what it was trying to warn him about.
There was something here. Something he had no context for. The Transmigrator wondered if he should give the equivalent of a 'Praise the Goddess' response, but an inexplicable instinct halted him.
Hm.
Zhou Mingrui simply stood there, frozen and unsure. Before he could plan his next move, his vision was swallowed by The Fog.
It was thick and smothering, and the familiar sensation of a summoning spread through him. In its wake lingered the faint, unsettling trace of crimson.
Just before Zhou Mingrui disappeared into the unknown—
... He stared intently at his unmarked hand, watching it clench.
After all, there was no other explanation.