Even in daylight, the corridor remained dim, with only a sliver of sunlight streaming through the window at its end.
Zhou Mingrui hurried down the stairs, exited the apartment, and paused as the brilliance and warmth of the sun washed over him.
Although it was nearly July—the height of summer—Tingen's northern location in the Loen Kingdom gave it a distinct climate.
Even at its warmest, the temperature rarely reached 30 degrees Celsius, and the mornings remained pleasantly cool.
However, the streets were awash with filthy water and strewn junk. From Klein's memories, such scenes were common in the poorer districts, sewers or not.
After all, there were simply too many people, each struggling to make a living.
"Come and have a taste of our freshly roasted fish!"
"Hot, fresh oyster soup! Have a bowl in the morning and stay energized all day!"
"Fresh fish from the port—only five pence each!"
"Muffins and eel soup, the perfect pairing!"
"Conch! Conch! Fresh conch!"
"Vegetables straight from the farms outside the city—cheap and crisp!"
Street hawkers selling vegetables, fruits, and steaming food called out their wares as they tried to draw in the hurried passerby.
Some pedestrians stopped to compare prices before making a choice, while others waved them off impatiently, still anxious about finding work for the day.
(... A slideshow flickered before Zhou Mingrui's eyes, images blending until they nearly merged.
... The same scene, the same faces, replaying over and over, and over again; like an endless loop on repeat...
... It vanished before he could even make sense of it, soon fading like mist under the morning sun...)
Zhou Mingrui breathed in the air; a mingling of foul odors and mouthwatering scents.
Clutching the revolver tightly in his left hand, and the notes in the same grip, he pressed down his hat with his right and slouched slightly as he made his way through the bustling street.
(... Klein Moretti inhaled Tingen City's tainted air, his expression firm as he pressed forward...
... A gun in hand, mysticism in his veins, and the ever-present fear of pain and suffering...
... Yet, he kept moving...)
In such crowded areas, thieves were inevitable. The street was also filled with impoverished citizens working odd jobs after losing their previous ones, as well as hungry children exploited by adults to do their bidding.
(... Suffering seems like the eternal curse of humanity's existence; constant, and unyielding...
... Across eras, regardless of wealth or progress, pain has always found its way...
... Still, even if its fruitless, why not try?)
Zhou Mingrui continued on until the press of people eased, and the street regained its usual rhythm. Straightening his back, he lifted his head and looked ahead.
(... They are Guardians—wretched, pitiful, yet hopeful—fighting again, and again, and again...
... Failure after failure, after failure, yet still clinging to the same delusion of grandeur...
... What can one do in a world doomed to destruction?)
Not far ahead, a vagrant accordionist was busking, his tune shifting between gentle harmony and passionate rhythm.
Beside him sat several children in tattered clothes, their faces pale and thin from hunger.
(... If Fate can deceive, then why not turn the tables and deceive Fate itself?)
They swayed to the music, improvising their own little dances. Joy lit up their faces, as if, for a fleeting moment, they were princes or angels untouched by the harshness around them.
(... Those who fool Fate can be fooled by Fate in return. Power and cunning may grant a fleeting edge, but the threads of destiny are tangled far beyond mortal comprehension...
... Even the most careful schemes can unravel in an instant, leaving behind only the bitter taste of irony...)
A woman with a deadpan expression passed by, her skirt stained and her skin lackluster.
(... But what if the fool who is fooled is The Fool himself? Would it halt the game, leaving all in a suspended standstill, or can it be...
... Perhaps Fate can still be modified, step by step, yet still remain to be untouched—an unyielding path only a trickster can alter...)
Her eyes seemed lifeless, moving sluggishly—until they fell on the cluster of children. For a brief moment, a faint spark appeared, as if she were glimpsing herself from thirty years past.
(... With endless power comes endless possibilities...
... The circus still goes on, its grand finale looming in the horizon. Yet the performance itself can be shifted, rearranged, even overwritten—each act a choice, each step a subtle defiance...
... All the World's a stage—)
Zhou Mingrui overtook her, turned down another street, and came to a stop in front of Symrin Bakery.
(... "and we... the mere players...")
The owner of the bakery was a seventy-plus year old granny named Wendy Smyrin. Her hair was entirely gray-white, and a warm, constant smile graced her face.
From the earliest of Klein's memories, she had been here, selling bread and pastries.
'Oh, the Tingen biscuits and lemon cakes she baked—truly delicious...' Zhou Mingrui thought, gulping a mouthful of saliva.
"It is," Klein replied, wistful.
Eh?
Immediately, Zhou Mingrui's smile froze.
What?
Before Zhou Mingrui could formulate a thought—"oh!" Mrs. Smyrin gasps. "If it isn't dear Klein, eh?"
Zhou Mingrui forced himself to reply. "Mrs. Smyrin, good day. Eight pounds of rye bread please."
"Of course, good day to you as well, young man," Mrs. Smyrin smiled. "Where's Benson? Still not back?"
"In a few more days," answers Zhou Mingrui vaguely.
As Mrs. Smyrin took the rye bread, she let out a soft sigh. "He's such a hardworking boy... he'll make a good husband someday."
With a playful curl of her lips and a clap, she teased. "All is well now I see. You've graduated! You're officially a history graduate of our Khoy University~"
Zhou Mingrui smiled helplessly as Mrs. Smyrin continues. "Soon, you'll be earning your own money. You shouldn't still be living in that apartment. At the very least, you deserve a bathroom of your own."
"Mrs. Smyrin, you seem unusually lively today," Zhou Mingrui could only offer a dry smile in response.
Indeed, if Klein manage to pass his interview and secure a position as a lecturer at Tingen University, his family's social standing would instantly rise.
...
Zhou Mingrui inwardly frowned. While it's not entirely his fault, he still felt guilty about stealing the real Klein Moretti's body.
"... renting a bungalow in the suburbs... five or six rooms, two bathrooms..."
Klein Moretti's daydreaming voice rang out in Zhou Mingrui's head.
Ah.
"... a huge balcony upstairs, two rooms... a dining room, a living room, a kitchen, a bathroom... an underground storage room on the first floor..."
Zhou Mingrui wisely pretended not to hear. He felt as if all those thoughts had slipped out by accident—or maybe, Klein had simply thought about them too loudly.
Though—Zhou Mingrui considers. Those weren't exactly some wistful fantasy. Even a probationary lecturer at Tingen University earned two gold pounds a week. After the probation, the salary would rise to three pounds and ten soli.
By comparison, Klein's brother; Benson, despite years of work, earned only one pound and ten soli weekly. Ordinary factory workers made less than a pound, or just a little more at best.
Meanwhile, renting a bungalow cost around nineteen soli to one pound and eighteen soli.
'This is the difference between earning three to four thousand yuan and earning fourteen to fifteen thousand yuan a month...' Zhou Mingrui thought.
"That's a lot of thousand," Klein replied curiously.
Zhou Mingrui paused—then he tries to will his thoughts aloud.
"Yuan is my country's base unit of currency," he vaguely explained to Klein, trying out his newfound telepathy. "Modern times call for modern currency, is all."
Klein's voice grew thoughtful as he replied. "Your approach to managing money seems remarkably sophisticated..."
"... I would have liked to know more, but I can understand the history of money on your world is very limited..." Klein mumbles.
Zhou Mingrui smiles, helpless. It seemed Klein Moretti was a true seeker of knowledge through and through.
Unfortunately, Zhou Mingrui hadn't been much of a money-history enthusiast back in his modern-world days.
"No," Mrs. Smyrin says humorously, "I have always been young."
Ah, Zhou Mingrui startles. 'Forgive the youth for not listening properly, Mrs. Smyrin,' he says as he bows in his mind; his forehead touching the ground.
"How strange," Klein responds thoughtfully, "why is he bowing like that...?"
Zhou Mingrui froze. 'Expletive, expletive. American curse, hell.'
"Ehhh?" Klein simply says, dumbfounded.
"... Nine pence?" Zhou Mingrui asked subconsciously. "Wasn't it eleven pence two days ago?"
Conspiracy?
"I think it cost 15 pence two months ago too...?"
"You should thank the people who took to the streets to protest the Grain Act," Mrs. Smyrin says with a shrug.
Zhou Mingrui nodded vaguely in acknowledgement. Though Klein's memories on the matter were incomplete. All he could recall was that the Grain Act aimed to protect the prices of domestic agricultural products. Why would people protest the act?" Klein asks.
Indeed, why?
Zhou Mingrui, careful not to reach for his revolver, quietly took out the banknotes and handed one to Mrs. Smyrin.
She returned three copper pence in change. He tucked them into his pocket, grabbed the paper bag with the bread, and headed towards the 'Lettuce and Meat' market across the street, determined to earn the mutton stew with peas his sister had urged him to get.
At the intersection of Iron Cross Street and Daffodil Street, a municipal square bustled with activity. Tents were pitched across the open space, and clowns in strange, colorful costumes handed out fliers to passerby.
(... "Captain, look..."
"... we've saved Loen once again..."
... Drops of liquid slid silently down, landing on his collar. In that instant, he felt the Clown potion had fully taken effect.
He smiles—bright and genuine, like a jester performing before a king.
Before Zhou Mingrui could grasp the memory, it slipped away, leaving behind only a fleeting impression...)
Zhou Mingrui blinked. What was he thinking again? He stares at the scene in front of him blankly.
"... There's a circus performance tomorrow night?"
"... Melissa would definitely like it," Klein adds, sounding as if deep in thought. "However, how much is the entrance fee?"
With that, Zhou Mingrui went closer. Just as he was about to ask a clown with a red and yellow painted face, a hoarse woman's voice sounded from beside him.
"Would you like to try a divination?"
Zhou Mingrui turned his head almost instinctively. Before him stood a strange-looking woman, framed by a small circus tent.
Her face was streaked with red and yellow paint, and her eyes shone a deep grayish-blue. Gray. For some reason, it reminds him of something—someone.
"No," Zhou Mingrui shook his head. He didn't have any extra cash for a reading.
The woman laughed. "My tarot divinations are very accurate," she said.
Tarot?
Justice. Hanged Man. Sun. Judgement. Magician. Moon. Star. Hermit.
World.
Fool.
Tarot cards from Earth were used for divination, each card bearing a symbol that represented a particular omen.
"Tarot cards," Klein hums. "One hundred-seventy years ago, it was created by Roselle Gustav."
Mr. Gustav. This man invented the steam engine, improved the sailing ship, overthrew the Intis Kingdom's imperial rule, and earned recognition from the God of Craftsmanship.
He went on to become the first Consul of the Intis Republic.
Later, he launched campaigns against other nations, bringing Lenburg and several others under his protection. The Loen Kingdom, Feynapotter, the Feysac Empire, and other major powers of the Northern Continent were forced to submit to the Intis Republic.
Eventually, the Republic transformed into an Empire, and Roselle declared himself 'Emperor Caesar'.
During Roselle's rule, the Church of Craftsmanship received its first public holy revelation since the Fifth Epoch. From that point on, the God of Craftsmanship became known as the God of Steam and Machinery.
Roselle Gustav.
He also invented tarot divination and established the modern system of paper-based cards along with their various playstyles.
Many familiar games, such as Upgrade, Fighting the Landlord, Texas Poker, and Quint, traced their roots back to his innovations.
His naval expeditions discovered a sea route to the Southern Continent through stormy, treacherous waters, marking the dawn of an era of colonialism.
Unfortunately, in his old age, he was betrayed. In the year 1198 of the Fifth Epoch, Roselle was assassinated by the combined forces of the Church of the Eternal Blazing Sun, the former Intis royal family—the Saurons—and other aristocrats.
He met his end in the White Maple Palace.
(... "As for you... I can feel your loneliness, the loneliness that comes from deep within your bones."
...
... "Goodbye, my friend. I hope we can really meet again one day."
...
... Roselle Gustav had returned to his eternal slumber...)
Zhou Mingrui stares at the woman consideringly. "Is it free?"
"Sir," the woman laughed. "You're the first one here today, so it's on the house!"
"Free things cost the most!" Klein mutters indignantly inside his mind.
Zhou Mingrui stays silent, uncharacteristically still.
"Alright," he says to the woman calmly. "If it's free, I'd like a divination."
The tent's interior was almost pitch-black, pierced only by a few stray beams of light. In the dim glow, a table strewn with paper cards could barely be made out.
The woman with the sharp, pointed hat seemed entirely unaffected. Her long, black dress flowed as if skimming over water as she moved to the table. Sitting across from him, she lit a candle.
The dim yellow flame flickered, casting shadows that made the tent seem both bright and dark at once, instantly deepening the air of mystery.
Mystery.
Zhou Mingrui's eyes grew more profound, and yet his mind stayed clear.
"Shuffle the cards first, and cut the deck," the circus' fortune-teller says; strangely muted and low.
"You? Shuffle?" Klein mutters, confused.
"Everyone's destiny can only be unraveled by themselves," Zhou Mingrui instinctively explained.
Silently, he shuffled the cards quickly and effectively; like an expert who knew his own capabilities.
"This reading doesn't require additional fees, right?" Klein asks anxiously.
"Mhm, no."
"How are you sure?" Klein counters.
"Instinct," Zhou Mingrui simply says.
"Here it is," Zhou Mingrui says, placing the already shuffled tarot cards in the middle of the table.
The fortune-teller clasped the cards in both hands, studying them intently for a moment. Then, she suddenly spoke. "I'm sorry, I forgot to ask—what would you like to know?"
"Past."
"Present."
"Future."
Zhou Mingrui says without any expression. The air turned frigid.
"No problem." The fortune-teller reached out, drew a card from the top of the deck, and placed it to Zhou Mingrui's left.
Her voice grew lower and more solemn as she said, "this card represents your Past."
This card represents your Present." The fortune-teller placed the second card directly in front of Zhou Migrui.
She then picked a third card and positioned it to his right.
"This card represents your Future."
"Alright," she said, lifting her head after arranging the cards. Her graying-blue eyes locked into his. "Which one would you like to see first?"
"Future," Zhou Mingrui answers immediately; just as the fortune-teller has finished her piece. No breath were wasted this time.
The card showed a colorfully dressed figure, wearing tattered headgear and carrying a stick over his shoulder with a bindle tied at the end. A small puppy trotted behind him. The card bore the number "0".
"The Fool?" Klein asks.
"The Fool," the fortune-teller says.
One second passed, and for some inexplicable reason, Zhou Mingrui reached out to flip the other two cards symbolizing his 'past' and 'present'.
The Fool. Number 'zero'. All of them.
They're all The Fool.
It felt like a brand. A mark. An inescapable Fate.
"It's all the same?" Klein asks, bewildered.
"It's all the same," Zhou Mingrui says without any surprise. Even though he doesn't know why.
(... Unbiddenly—if Klein Moretti were to divine his Fate... Zhou Mingrui wonders if it'll all be The World...
... Even though he doesn't know why...)
Notes: