Click!
The pocket watch opened.
Clack!
The pocket watch closed.
It happened twice. Then twice again. Again, and again. It happened twice again.
Klein, merely existing as some kind of Schrodinger's Cat, frowned from within a bottomless, claustrophobic abyss.
'... What is he thinking?' he mused.
The door opens once more. Zhou Mingrui's back straightened, instantly focusing to reality.
That felt like hypnosis. Zhou Mingrui blinked, owlish and dumb. Then he smiles at Melissa's approaching form.
"Already washed up?" he comments good-naturedly—as he had done many times before.
Melissa grins, indulgent as always as she speaks. "Klein, take out all the remaining bread," she orders.
"Remember to buy fresh ones today. Some meat and peas too. Your interview's coming soon. I'll make you mutton stewed with peas."
As she spoke, she grabbed a stove out from the corner and lit some charcoal, soon setting a pot of water to boil.
Zhou Mingrui watched her curiously, observing; as she opened the cupboard's lowest drawer and took out what seemed to be treasure—a can of inferior tea leaves.
Melissa then threw about ten leaves into the pot and pretended it was real tea. Zhou Mingrui's lips twitched imperceptibly.
Fondly and without any reasonable context, what an endearing girl, Zhou Mingrui thinks.
He accepted his fair share of bread alongside a cup of cheap tea with an expressionless face. Inwardly, he grimaced.
'There is no sawdust... or excessive glutten mixed in, but it is... unappetizing,' complains Zhou Mingrui inside his head.
Klein listened to his complaints, a strange look flickering on his face; disbelieving. Yet in the end, chose to say nothing.
'...Foodie,' Klein thought, reminiscing Zhou Mingrui's plentiful memories of Earth and his so-called 'food-loving' country.
It took a while, but after the pair of siblings finished eating their breakfast, Melissa once again reminded him of their groceries.
Zhou Mingrui wonders if he's being treated like an easily forgetful child, and his lips curled upwards; exasperatedly amused.
"Remember," Melissa reminds sternly, "buy fresh bread. All we need is eight pounds. The weather is hot, so the bread will easily spoil."
Melissa adjusted her hair neatly behind her back, continuing, "Also, buy the mutton and peas. Remember to buy them!"
Indeed, Zhou Mingrui nods with a smile. She even had to repeat to emphasize it another time...
Exasperated, "alright," he agrees. Melissa did not say anything further. Zhou Mingrui contents himself with watching her get ready for school.
'Today isn't a Sunday, so she had an entire day of classes to attend...'
Hm.
Just as Melissa was putting on her tattered veil cap—one that their mother left behind—Zhou Mingrui inexplicably focuses on one word.
Sunday, he repeated the word multiple times in his head, contemplating.
In the Northern Continent, a year was likewise divided into twelve months, compromising 365 or sometimes 366 days. A week, too, was split into seven days.
The division of months stemmed from astronomical observations, which made Zhou Mingrui wonder if he had ended up in a parallel world.
As for the division of days, that originated from religion; because the Northern Continent worshipped the seven Orthodox Gods.
The Eternal Blazing Sun, the Lord of Storms, the God of Knowledge and Wisdom, the Evernight Goddess, Earth Mother, the God of Combat, and the God of Steam and Machinery.
Zhou Mingrui shuddered.
Zhou Mingrui bade Melissa Moretti farewell with a gentle smile, though a strange emotion lingered in his chest.
Goodbye, Melissa.
When the distant cathedral bells began to toll, he returned to his chair. The sound echoed seven times before he rose quietly, moving toward the cupboard to retrieve Klein Moretti's clothes.
A black vest paired with a matching suit, slim trousers, and a half-top hat—combined with that faint scholarly air—made Zhou Mingrui feel as if he were watching an English drama from the Victorian era.
Yet, it didn't feel as foreign as he'd imagined. It was almost like slipping into a second skin—one he had already, unknowingly, accepted as his own.
Then, as if struck by a splash of cold water, Zhou Mingrui froze; staring at his reflection in quiet shock.
"I'm not even going for an interview..." he mutters softly with a wry smile. He shook his head, shrugging off the suit and vest before exchanging them for a brownish-yellow coat.
Then, he replaced the half-top hat with a felt one of the same shade, its rounded brim further softening his appearance.
Has Klein Moretti ever looked like this? Zhou Mingrui trailed off, forgetting his words. For some reason, he half-expected to see black and gold instead.
A large cloak draped over a slender frame. A face concealed beneath a hood. A gentle yet inhuman smile that still carried a trace of fleeting humanity.
All veiled in mist that obscured the figure's ominous, mysterious form.
With his outfit done, Zhou Mingrui moved to the side of the bed and lifted a square cushion. Sliding his hand into a small, inconspicuous hole beneath it, he fumbled around until his fingers brushed against a hidden intermediate layer.
When he withdraw his right hand, a small roll of banknotes rested in his palm; eight in total, their faded dark-green color revealing their age and wear.
These were all of Benson's remaining savings, even including the living expenses for the next three days. Among them were two five-soli notes and six one-soli notes.
In the Loen Kingdom's currency system, the soli ranked second in value. It originated from ancient silver coins, with one soli equal equal to twelve copper pence. The notes in denominations of one and five soli.
At the top of the hierarchy was the gold pound; paper money backed by gold and directly pegged to its value. One gold pound equaled twenty soli, with denominations of one, five, and ten.
Zhou Mingrui unfolded one of the notes and caught a faint, distinctive scent of ink.
It was the smell of money.
Perhaps a residue of Klein's memory fragments, or his own growing obsession with wealth, Zhou Mingrui felt an immediate, inexplicable affection for these notes; as if he had fallen in love the moment he touched them.
"Behold, their designs are so beautiful,' Zhou Mingrui praised. 'It makes the stern and old-fashioned George III and his two mustaches appear especially adorable..."
'... Adorable,' Klein Moretti parrots uncertainly.
"Behold, the watermark that can be seen when the note is placed against the sunlight is so alluring."
'Is it?' Klein squints through Zhou Mingrui's eyes. While the recent history graduate did need money, he wasn't so captivated by a handful of banknotes that he would admire their design.
It was more a fleeting curiosity than genuine fascination. Still, he couldn't deny that Zhou Mingrui's thoughts struck him as both amusing and peculiar.
"The exquisite design for the anti-counterfeit label makes it completely different from those fake fancy schlocks!"
Klein Moretti's expression grew even stranger and stranger, listening; as Zhou Mingrui admired the banknotes for nearly a minute.
'I didn't think someone could be this obsessed with money...'
Finally, the Transmigrator pulled out two one-soli notes, rolled up the remaining bills, and tucked them back into the cushion's hidden compartment.
After smoothing the cloth around the hidden compartment, Zhou Mingrui neatly folded the two notes he had taken out and slipped them into the left pocket of his brownish-yellow jacket, keeping them separate from the few pence he carried in his trouser pocket.
With everything in place, he tucked a key into his right pocket, grabbed a dark brown paper bag, and hurried towards the door.
His brisk footsteps gradually slowed, until he came to a stop. Standing there, Zhou Mingrui realized he had begun to frown—though he wasn't quite sure when it had started.
"Klein?" Zhou Mingrui mutters.
"... Yes?" Klein unsurely responds.
'I can't believe I was too distracted to realize the owner of this body is still here!' Zhou Mingrui scolded himself. 'Klein must have seen everything I did...' he trailed off, 'I didn't even ask for permission.'
"I don't think I can switch places with you right now," admits Zhou Mingrui, "and honestly, I don't even know how."
Klein listens quietly, bewildered.
"So," Zhou Mingrui continues, "till we figure it out... let me act as Klein Moretti for the time being."
"Oh," Klein says at last. "Sure, you have my permission," he acquiesced, thinking about Zhou Mingrui's benevolence so far.
'He doesn't seem dangerous... I don't think there's a problem,' Klein settles. My suicide though," he reminds the Transmigrator, "it's fraught with peculiarities."
"That's true," Zhou Mingrui nods, arriving at the same conclusion himself. 'Would I encounter any 'accidents' if I were to leave just like that?'
After a moment of deep thought, Zhou Mingrui returned to his desk and slid open the drawer. From within, he retrieved a gleaming brass revolver; the only defensive weapon he could think of, and the only one with enough stopping power.
Though he had never practiced shooting, simply brandishing the revolver was enough to intimidate anyone.
'Now, I felt like Gehrman Sparrow again,' Zhou Mingrui thought with pride.
Then he stills, 'who's Gehrman?'
Klein Moretti stared at the scene with a sharp sense of deja vu, thinking; 'is carrying such a weapon even legal?'
The answer was obvious; no, not at all. 'Mr. Zhou... you'll get us arrested for this, I won't lie,' the history graduate worries.
Yet, he couldn't argue against the careful, deliberate actions of the other.
Zhou Mingrui stroked the revolver's cold metal before tucking it in into the same pocket as his banknotes. He closed his hand over the money, his fingers resting against the gun's handle—perfectly concealed!
For a moment, a foolish sense of security settles over him. Then almost immediately, an uneasy worry prickled at the edges of his mind.
'What if I end up misfiring?'
Overwhelmed by the sudden thought, Zhou Mingrui hastily sought a solution. He drew the revolver and released its cylinder, aligning the empty chamber—left behind from the 'suicide'—with the gun's hammer before snapping it shut again.
This way, even in the event of a misfire, it would only discharge an 'empty round'!
Klein, observing Zhou Mingrui's actions through his own eyes, couldn't help but wonder why the Transmigrator seemed so familiar with a gun.
He rifled through the other's memories of the other world, but inevitably found nothing substantial—except for a series of extremely violent games.
Once again, Klein Moretti's expression twisted into something strange and unreadable.
After sliding the revolver back into his pocket, Zhou Mingrui let his left hand rest there securely.
Then, with his right hand, he pressed his hat firmly in place, opened the door, and stepped out.