Distant cathedral bells tolled in the background, but Zhou Mingrui didn't bother counting the chimes. Absentmindedly, he picked up Klein's cherished pocket watch; looking at it with interested eyes.
The hour hand indicated several hours had passed. "So time still flowed at the same pace, it seems," he muttered to his body-mate. "How inconvenient..."
"That gathering sure took a while," Klein remarks. Physically, they were still standing in the same exact spot, in the same exact posture. They hadn't moved at all. Only, their spirit bodies had been tampered with, and it's without their permission.
"... Were we just standing here all this time...?"
"... Explains why my legs are so cramped," Zhou Mingrui complains. "Next time, we should lie down?"
Next time?
"... Speaking of next time," Klein began, trailing off unsurely. Only now did the absolute absurdity of the situation dawn on him, and it sinks in more than it should.
'I am dead. Smote. Struck down. Chased. Cursed. Punished—' he thought, erratic.
For someone who had just died once, being threatened by a fate worse than death felt grossly unfair.
"... Calm down," Zhou Mingrui comforts, unsettled by the numerous thoughts drifting into his mind. This one sure has an imaginative mind... he mused; as the image of the Evernight Goddess in a witch's costume surfaced in his thoughts, unprompted.
... The Evernight-Witch then proceeds to curse imaginary Klein into a lifetime of misfortune, all the while laughing maniacally...
...
"Is your... gathering that stressful?" Zhou Mingrui fought off the urge to smile. It's just that funny, 'for someone who's afraid of Divine Punishment, he sure has blasphemous thoughts...'
"Why would you get, and I quote, 'struck down'?"
'Brother, if you continue thinking like that, you 'might' get struck down... fortunately, Gods can't read minds of ordinary followers...' he says in his mind, careful not to be heard.
"... Of course, you wouldn't understand," Klein says dryly, dejected. "This is a land of the Gods..."
"What do you think will happen to people 'acquainted' with the unknown, 'unorthodox' Gods?"
"... They get struck down?" Zhou Mingrui offers, lips twitching. 'Cursed? Doomed? Unredeemed?'
"... You're not helping at all, do you know that?" Klein says, even more dejected. "Why are you like this?"
Zhou Mingrui chuckled. "I'm sorry... on the bright side," he says with a smile, "if they already knew, you've been smote by now..."
"There's a chance they might not even care," Zhou Mingrui offers, casual.
"You... Transmigrators' sure are blasphemous..." Klein comments, unbiddenly thinking about one of Mr. Gustav's more infamous quotes; 'I don't believe in Gods,' that he once learned in class.
Utterly bewildered, "I fear for my life even more," he mutters.
"It must be the atheist in me," Zhou Mingrui laughs, as if recalling a joke only he could understand.
...
"... If only I could stay away from you," Klein says evenly, "I would've ran away to the other side."
Lost in thought, Zhou Mingrui stared at the four black spots on the back of his hand. All of which, are neatly arranged into a small, even square.
How interesting. The marks faded quickly, vanishing from sight, but he could still sense them lurking beneath his skin, waiting for the right moment to reawaken.
"Four spots forming a square..." Klein peers through his eyes, intrigued. "Does it correspond to the four pieces of 'rye bread' at the corners of the room?"
As the words left his mouth, Klein abruptly fell silent. 'Strange,' he thought. 'That didn't feel like my own thought... it was as if something nudged me.'
Klein's eyes lowered to their hand, troubled.
"Does that mean we won't have to prepare food again?" Zhou wondered aloud. "It has to be, right? Why else would it be there?"
'Yes, why else would it be there?' Klein thought suspiciously. How ominous.
"Does that mean we can just chant and perform the ritual as it is?" Klein asked hypothetically.
"Must be," Zhou Mingrui agrees. "Should we try it out again?"
...
"... No," Klein refused flatly. "Let's not go bothering a God just because 'we're' curious. Besides, the gathering just ended."
"Furthermore," he quips, "you weren't even there."
"Aren't you just targeting me?" Zhou Mingrui mutters to himself. "Alright then," he conceded easily, "that makes sense."
Then his gaze drifted back to their hand. The unknown was always the most unsettling... and this mark couldn't possibly be a good thing, could it?
The Chinese divinations from Earth working here inexplicably... the bizarre transmigration he stumbled into in his sleep... the maddening whispers during the ritual... and that surreal gray world whose purpose escaped him entirely...
All if it made Zhou Mingrui shiver despite the heavy June heat.
"Don't forget about how it somehow contacted a Deity," Klein reminds him. It sounds like an accusation.
Zhou Mingrui hums, not knowing what to say. "Evil God?" he suggests.
Klein grew still, recalling The Fool's unusual benevolence so far. "... Who knows... but 'He' is certainly an unorthodox one," he concluded.
"The Fool?" Zhou Mingrui murmurs absentmindedly; letting the words roll on his tongue as he delved into Klein's memories.
...
How convenient. So they could actually do this; share memories. A happy accident, really.
All Zhou Mingrui wanted to do was gather information about 'Evil Gods' and 'Unorthodox Ones', yet he ended up stumbling directly into Klein's most recent encounter with 'The King of Yellow and Black who wields Good Luck.'
Klein frowned, though he still answers. "Yes... but how did you figure that out?"
Zhou Mingrui shrugged. "The memory just... came up," he murmurs, eyes fixed on the 'gathering' playing over and over like a movie.
"... We can do that?" Klein mutters, "huh." Then he fell silent.
After looking through most of it and witnessing every one of Klein's nervous breakdowns, Zhou Mingrui reaches out sympathetically.
"You were brave, soldier," he says, voice trembling as he fought off the urge to laugh.
...
"...You weren't there, you... don't make fun of me." Klein says, even more dejected. Like a hilariously drenched little kitten in the rain, looking at you with big, big eyes.
Zhou Mingrui chuckles at the mental image. Where did that come from? But he agrees nonetheless.
"Sorry, sorry." He didn't sound apologetic in the slightest, but the effort was... notable. "Still, the information's quite useful," he added, offering a small comfort.
Klein didn't reply, but a soft huff escaped him.
Zhou Mingrui sank into his thoughts, retracing everything that had happened since his Transmigration. No matter how hard he tried to push it away, he could no longer deny it.
Reality itself... felt distant, skewed, almost dreamlike, as if the world around him didn't quite align the way it was meant to.
'Where did I go?' he asked, speaking to no one in particular. Zhou Mingrui was certain he had been there, in the Gray Fog.
Yet somehow, not truly there at all. It felt as if he had slipped into a deep slumber, or perhaps he was still dreaming, even now.
Then came the real question; where did reality end, and dreams begin? Had Zhou Mingrui become trapped somewhere in between, suspended at the intersection, unable to tell which side he truly stood on?
...
Why?
Zhou Mingrui found himself asking. Why was he so sure he was dreaming? Didn't he feel real? He had felt pain before—he knew what it meant to be alive.
So why is he so confused?
Zhou Mingrui stared into nothing, a hollow sense of displacement pressing against his chest. An unprecedented, irresistible urge stirred within him—an urge to reach out, to understand, to venture into the unknown.
Yet at the same time, an opposing instinct pushed back, urging him to turn away, to act as of nothing had ever happened. But that would leave him without answers, wouldn't it? How could he continue living like this, forever trapped in bewilderment?
Besides, he still wanted to go home. Why hesitate? How could he end this dream to wake up? Was he even dreaming at all? Had sleep ever felt this... confusing?
Sunlight streamed through the window, scattering across the desk like fine grains of gold. Zhou Mingrui gazed at the glimmering surface, feeling a fleeting warmth—a subtle spark of hope.
His shoulders sagged, and a wave of exhaustion rolled over him.
"... Sometimes, I feel as if I'm dreaming," he murmurs to no one in particular. Yet the words lingered in the air, silently asking; do you?
To the ghost that dwelled in the depth of his mind, likely listening to every fragment of his grief and doubt...
"... Why?" Klein asked, genuinely puzzled. He couldn't make sense of the Transmigrator's sudden shift in mood.
He could have peered into Zhou Mingrui's mind, but there was a wistfulness in his demeanor that made Klein pause. And so, he hesitated.
"I don't know," Zhou Mimgrui replied honestly. "It just... felt that way."
"... Considering the fact that you've just Transmigrated," Klein began. "I'd be more surprised if you said you didn't feel like you were dreaming."
Klein considers, thoughtful.
"... As a 'ghost' in my own body... talking to another 'ghost' possessing me... I admit it's quite surreal."
"... Yes, it does feel like it, doesn't it?" Zhou Mingrui murmurs softly. "If you are dreaming," he asked hypothetically, "would you want to wake up?"
There was a long pause.
"... I think the question should be, 'could I'?" Klein ponders.
'Could I?' Zhou Mingrui laughs, bitter. "That... sounds ominous."
"... It is, isn't it?"
"... Let's see," Klein wonders out of the blue, a faint smile on his ghostly lips. "Let's assume that you 'are' sleeping... what's your ideal bed?"
Zhou Mingrui's lips twitched. "Certainly not a cocoon," he jokes telepathically. "I'd feel like a caterpillar otherwise."
"I'd say it's fascinating if you were," Klein huffs, "don't you want to be a butterfly?"
Zhou Mingrui ponders this reality seriously, then solemnly asked, "is it worth it to become goo?"
"... If you put your mind into it, possibly..." Klein answers.
"Then I have become goo," Zhou Mingrui declares.
Klein is left with the increasing awareness of a Transmigrator's train of thought.
At some point, Zhou Mingrui found himself resting on his bed. After a while, he rose and picked up the silver vine-leaf pocket watch from Klein's desk.
Pa!
The lid snapped open, and the second hand ticked steadily. "Half-past twelve," he muttered, slipping it into his shirt pocket.
In the Northern Continent, there were 24 hours in a day, 60 minutes in an hour, 60 seconds in a minute. Whether a second passed at the same speed as on Earth was unknown, yet nonetheless irrelevant.
At this moment, both of them were focused on a single thing—Zhou Mingrui even more intensely, since he was inhabiting Klein Moretti's human body.
Food.
With this mind, he picked up the four loaves of bread from the corners, dusting off any tiny specks clinging to its surface.
One load would make lunch. It was a tradition back home to eat the offerings afterward, and besides—nothing unusual had ever happened to the bread.
'Other than being used in a ritual, that is,' Klein mused.
Frugality won out, especially when they only had five pence left. Of course, Klein's leftover habits played a part as well, Zhou Mingrui decided.
"I'm still here," Klein grumbled. "Don't think so loudly."
Zhou Mingrui chuckled. How lively. 'It's honestly quite strange to be transmigrated with a 'supposed' ghost inside your head,' he reflected—but at the very least, he wasn't alone.
Loneliness was a heavy thing, he decided. Zhou Mingrui was introverted by nature—he could say that with relative ease—but even he knew the well-defined difference between choosing to be alone, and being forced to be alone.
Honestly unreasonable. The fact that he knew it so intimately—how unreasonable, yet at the same time, it felt natural.
Zhou Mingrui smiles to himself, thinking; had I become this lonely without even realizing it?
How strange. Where did that come from?
Not wanting to waste expensive gas just for lighting, Zhou Mingrui set up the furnace, added coal, and boiled water. He paced while he waited.
'Anyone would choke on that rye bread without water,' he nodded to himself.
"Don't choke in my body," Klein warned. "It's been through enough lately."
Lips twitching, Zhou Mingrui muttered, "... it's still functional."
"Fortunately," came Klein's dry response.
Zhou Mingrui stared at the bread as if it had offended his entire bloodline. 'Yikes, life with meat only once a day is going to be dreadful.'
"What could you do?" Klein comments.
...
"... Aren't you supposed to be a 'refined and reserved gentleman'?" Zhou Mingrui said telepathically. "You've become sharp-tongued around me."
"Sir," Klein began, "you have my memories... and you can hear my thoughts—you know very well I have many things to say in my head."
"Not all of them," Zhou Mingrui chuckled, "but it's definitely enough to stick."
Klein huffs.
Looking around the room, Zhou Mingrui's eyes landed on the pound of mutton.
"No," Klein immediately scolds, "we should wait for Melissa."
Zhou Mingrui sighed. 'Ah, mutton.'
Thinking about the mutton was making him hungrier than he should be, Zhou Mingrui realized. So he turned away, twisting his body until the sight of it no longer 'seduced' him. Out of sight, out of mind.
"How could mutton even seduce you?" Klein asked, imagining a piece of meat whispering, 'eat me~'
Klein shudders.
"Have you not heard it sing?" Zhou Mingrui mumbles, ignoring the mental image of meat dancing... erotically... inside his mind.
...
"... Klein, please stop."
"... Mhm."
...
"... I think I'll just settle for potatoes," Zhou Mingrui says. Immediately energized, he retrieved two from the cupboard.
He washed them in the public bathroom, then tossed them into the pot to boil. After a while, he added a pinch of coarse yellow salt.
He waited patiently, then poured the salty broth into cups and bowls. He placed the steaming potatoes on the desk.
fff—
He blew on them as he peeled. The warm scent filled the air—comforting, nostalgic. Unable to resist for long, he bit into one as soon as it was half-peeled.
Delicious. Powdery. Sweet. Warm. He devoured both potatoes hungrily, even eating some of the skin. He drank the salty broth, savoring its simplicity/ "This was how I used to eat potatoes when I was young."
Zhou Mingrui dipped the bread into the broth, softening it before eating. He ended up devouring two whole loaves—neatly a pound.
At last, full and refreshed, he cleaned up and basked in the golden sunlight.
As confusing as the situation is, it's not ideal to just sit around and wait, even if something in him whispers that he should cherish whatever peace is left in his life.
"As much as I think about it," Zhou Mingrui says, "the only path forward is waiting for the gathering to arrive... unless something unexpected happens..."
Klein hums.
"That's what I thought as well," he decided. "The only contact we currently have is the Gray Fog... and with me being a member..."
Klein trails off.
"It's advantageous, at the very least," he settled with a heavy heart. "Though I should be careful—who knows what'll happen, right?"
Zhou Mingrui hummed, lightly tapping the table. "Do you have a name?"
"... What?"
"At the gathering," Zhou Mingrui blinked. "You can't exactly go around telling your name to an unknown Deity, and a bunch of strangers, right?"
"Didn't you watch my memories?" Klein asks, confused.
"Not all of them, what do you see me as?" Zhou Mingrui says, "I won't go through them without permission... unless they leak."
"The World," Klein says.
"It's 'The World'."
".. 'The Fool' and 'The World'," Zhou Mingrui murmurs. "How fitting."
"... Please don't speculate about my relationship with a God," Klein muttered. If he had a body, he would have paled. "Meeting one is enough—I don't need to be in a closer relationship than necessary."
Zhou Mingrui laughed, finding it funny for some reason. Thinking back, it must have been Klein's reverence and aversion toward the Divine.
"You know," Klein began, filling the silence as Zhou Mingrui lazed around in bed, "I just realized... do you think elves, mutants, and dragons exist?"
"I once thought they were just myths and fantasies... but since Transmigration, Gods, and Divine Kingdoms exist, they might as well at some point, right?"
Zhou Mingrui took the time to consider it. "They could," he settled, lingering on the word 'elves' for a moment. "But who knows?"
"... This is a fantasy world, after all," he settles.
Klein hummed thoughtfully. '... I once believed such things couldn't exist, but they do.' His thoughts slipped out.
'If Transmigration is something that'll happen to someone... then, doesn't that mean the 'extraordinary' exists there too?'
Zhou Mingrui stilled, considering what he had heard. Klein stayed silent, perhaps still lost in thought. Indeed, if he could Transmigrate...
Then maybe his world wasn't as normal as he had believed.
"Speaking of Roselle Gustav," Klein began again. Zhou Mingrui couldn't tell if it was Klein's leaking thoughts or merely indulgence directed at no one.
"I wonder what people would think if they found out he's an 'alien'."
...
Huh.
Zhou Mingrui considers it seriously. "... Now that I think about it, we could be considered 'aliens'."
"Right?" Klein agreed. "Do you think there are other existence in the cosmos besides us? There must be, right?"
Zhou Mingrui wisely stayed silent, daunted by the prospect of something beyond his comprehension.
'... I wonder how much the extraordinary has affected my body,' Klein murmurs. 'I wonder if Zhou Mingrui is experiencing any side effects...'
Zhou Mingrui sighed, exasperated. Had Klein Moretti's mind ever been this restless? From one topic to the next, there was always something whirring in his thoughts. At the very least, the Transmigrator found them entertaining.
In a world without the internet or cellphones, it seems people could only entertain themselves through their own thoughts and observations of the world.
Is this how people lived back then too? Perhaps that's why so many inventions came to be in Ancient Times.
"I don't feel anything," Zhou Mingrui says, twirling a quill pen. He had intended to learn more about the Notebook, but since it was currently missing... there was no way to find out.
'Besides, trouble seems to find me on its own,' he settles. He had a feeling that if he just waited long enough, something would eventually happen.
'... Some inexplicable feelings again... could this be connected to mysticism, I wonder?'
'... Now that I think about it...'
"Klein," Zhou Mingrui began, "is the word 'mysticism' commonly used around here?" Is it taught?
"I don't think so," Klein frowned. "There's talk, of course, but I don't think people are meant to know that the 'extraordinary' is called 'mysticism'..."
"I just... simply attributed it to you knowing actually," Klein explains, following his train of thought. "There are some things I know that I can't claim as my own... naturally, it must have came from you."
Zhou Mingrui fell silent. There it was again—some things he simply knew instinctively, and he had no idea why.
"You know," Zhou Mingrui began, finally breaking the silence, "I kept getting distracted by so many other things... but I had actually planned to investigate what happened to you."
"For example," ZhoLadies and Gentlemen," Aguesid began. "I believe you have witnessed this history-making ironclad warship. Its dimensions are 101 by 21 meters, with an impressive port and starboard design..."
The crowd murmured in awe.
"This is the real hegemon! It will conquer the seas!"
Aguesid concluded his remarks, saluted the King, and requested, "Your Majesty, please give it a name."
"Since it will sail from Pritz Harbor, it shall be named The Pritz," George III replied, delight evident on his face.
"The Pritz!"
Gun salutes rang out as George III ordered the ship to set sail for a trial run. Thick smoke billowed from its chimneys, and the faint roar of machinery blended with the ship's horn.
The massive vessel departed. Two main cannons at the bow fired at an uninhabited island, shaking the ground and sending dust into the sky. Shockwaves spread across the sea, rippling water in their wake.
Satisfied, Aguesid turned to the crowd. "From this day forth, doomsday shall fall upon the seven pirates who call themselves Admirals and the four who call themselves Kings."
"They will tremble in fear! Their era is over. Only the ironclad warship will dominate the seas—regardless of their Beyonder powers, ghost ships, or cursed vessels."
A secretary cautiously asked, "couldn't they build their own ironclad warships?"
Some nobles and MPs nodded, aware the possibility could not be dismissed.
Aguesid shook his head with a knowing smile. "Impossible! Constructing this ironclad required three massive coal-and-steel amalgamators, over twenty steel factories, sixty scientists and senior engineers from the Backlund Cannon Academy and Pritz Nautical Academy...
"... two royal shipyards, nearly a hundred factories for spare parts, an Admiralty, a shipbuilding committee, a Cabinet, a visionary King, and a nation producing twelve million tonnes of steel annually."
"The pirates could never hope to match it."
He paused, raised his arms, and shouted with fervor; "Ladies and Gentlemen, the era of cannons and warships has dawned!"
In the Sonia Sea.
Whoosh!
A howling wind accompanied the downpour, driving sheets of rain across the deck. The three-masted sailboat pitched and rolled with each towering wave, tossed around like mere plaything.
'Let us look forward to the next one.' The words echoes in Alger Wilson's mind.
If he focused deeply, he might just catch a glimpse of The Fool, shrouded in mist, smiling gently like a benevolent God.
The crimson glow in Alger's eyes dimmed. He remained on the deck, and everything around him seemed the same as before.
Except for him. His soul had been ripped from his body, and returned; carrying with it the knowledge of an Ancient Palace, and the awareness of a Greater Existence, hidden deep within the shrouds of mystery.
Almost instantly, the oddly shaped glass bottle in his palm shattered. And the frost within dissolved into the rain.
In mere seconds, every trace of the wondrous antique had vanished.
A hexagonal, crystal-like snowflake appeared on Alger's palm, only to fade away swiftly; as if absorbed into his flesh, and disappearing entirely.
Alger nods, face unreadable as he contemplates.
Alger turned towards the cabin, only to be met by a man in a lightning-embroidered robe who emerged from within.
With soft blond hair, the man paused, held his fist to his chest, and said. "May the Storm be with you."
Alger returned the gesture and words, his rough, impassive face betraying nothing. After the brief greeting, he continued.
At the corridor's end, the ship was eerily silent; not a Sailor in sight.
Inside, the Captain's cabin was dimly lit by a flickering candlelight. A soft brown carpet covered the floor, a bookshelf and wine rack lined the walls, and a desk held ink, a quill, telescopes, and a brass sextant.
Behind it, a pale, middle-aged Captain with a skull-emblazoned hat glared at him.
"I will not give in!"
"I believe you can do it," Alger replied, calm as if commenting on the weather. The storm surges on, as if to encourage.
The Captain froze, stunned. Alger leaned forward, then dashed across the room, closing the distance in an instant.
With a sharp pa!, he seized the Captain's neck, illusory fish scales appearing on his hand as he squeezed with brutal force.
Crack!
The Captain's body lifted off the ground, his legs twitching before going limp. A foul stench filled the air as he hung helplessly in Alger's grip.
And with a roar of strength, Alger pressed the Captain against his shoulder and slammed forward into the wall, using him as a living battering ram.
Monstrous muscles tensed, every movement a display of terrifying power.
A hole split open in the wooden wall, and rain poured in, carrying the sharp, salty scent of the ocean.
Alger flung the Captain out of the cabin, sending him hurtling into the monstrous waves that rose like mountains. The wind howled in the darkness as nature itself seemed to devour everything.
Calmly, Alger took a white handkerchief and wiped his right hand before tossing it into the sea.
He stepped back, and waits.
In less than ten seconds, the blond man from earlier bursts in. "What happened?" he asked, breathless.
"The 'Captain' escaped," Alger replied, annoyance edging his words as he panted. "I didn't realized he still had some of his Beyonder powers."
The blond man cursed under his breath, and moved to the opening, staring at the storm. But all he could see were waves and rain.
"Forget it," he finally said, waving a hand. "He was just extra loot. We'll still be rewarded for discovering this Tudor-Era Ghost Ship."
Even a Keeper of the Sea wouldn't dive into the churning sea under these conditions.
"The 'Captain' won't survive long if the storm continues," Alger observed, nodding slightly. The wooden wall behind him was slowly repairing itself.
He glanced toward the rudder and sail, perfectly aware of what was happening behind the planks. The Chief Mate, Second Mate, and the rest of the crew were gone. No living soul remained on board.
Yet, the rudder and sail moved with an eerie, almost sentient rhythm.
Alger pictured The Fool and let out a quiet sigh. Then, gazing back at the stormy waves, he spoke softly, almost in reverie, a note of awe and anticipation in his voice.
"A New Era has Begun."
.
.
.
June 28, 1349, on the Dawn of Klein Moretti's 'Suicide'.
Over Tingen, a crimson moon hung heavily in the night, bathing the city in an eerie glow.
The heavens rippled, as if a velvet curtain had been drawn. A faint gray fog seeped through from the unknown...
The vision lasted for only a heartbeat, then vanished as though being erased. The stars reclaimed their quiet brilliance.
The crimson moon stood still, as haunting as ever. The land quiets, as if in a trance. Time still flows. And Fate still follows.
Within the wide reach of existence, the Night settled 'Her' gaze upon the City of Tingen.
A miracle has arrived.
.
.
.
In a plane unknown, a 'Being' opened 'His' eyes. Gold—gold like the first light of sunrise, gold like the halo that crowns an 'Angel' to being.
Pupils glimmering with newborn innocence, yet as ancient as a Great Old One, 'He' gazed at nothing—and all.
In silence, 'His' eyes glowed; a calm, endless composure bending the air. 'He' smiled—gentle. It's an eerie smile. An otherworldly smile.
A smile that was not of this world, not human, thus wholly 'He'.
And in that serene, impossible stillness, 'He' mused; 'what has the Lord of Mysteries wrought this time?'
.
.
.
In a land forsaken by the Lord, a crow guffawed—mischievous as a child. 'He' stared at nothing, yet saw time itself flowing by as it 'shouldn't'.
There is an Error in History. Where is that cheeky little mastermind hiding, 'He' wonders.
'He' grins.
"... Oh?"
Leonard Mitchell, on duty at the Chanis Gate and idly leafing through a collection of poems to pass the time, froze at the faintly startled voice of the 'other occupant' inside his head.
"What is it, Old Man?"
Leonard went back to the poems in his hands, but the 'spirit' in his head whispered quietly, a mix of surprise and confusion lacing its voice.
"Sefirah Castle?"
Sefirah Castle. Leonard repeats.