"Ugh—!"
Klein jolted awake from a deep sleep, startled by a cacophony of layered, illusory cries echoing in his mind. The intangible whispers stirred his spirit into a restless, chaotic state.
It was like trying to sleep while the upstairs neighbors were slamming tables and stomping floors in a heated argument…
Well, more accurately, he was sleeping soundly until this racket.
Springing from bed, Klein fought down his irritation, rubbing his throbbing temples. His expression was one of exasperation—this wasn't the first time. After calming himself with a brief half-meditation, he glanced at his right hand. Sure enough, four black dots had reappeared on his skin, unbidden.
"It's only six o'clock! Who's praying to me at this hour?" Klein shot a glance at the wall's mechanical clock, traces of morning grumpiness lingering on his face. He quickly performed the four-step reverse walk, arriving above the gray fog. His figure materialized in the majestic palace fit for giants, his eyes reflecting a crimson star pulsing and contracting.
Raising his right hand, Klein extended his spirituality to touch the star symbolizing "Devil," the newest Tarot Club member from yesterday. With a boom, his vision blurred and distorted. A man in a white shirt and black vest sat by a window, bathed in morning light, his forehead resting on his clasped hands—
"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.
Thanks to Your grace, I've had a marvelous morning."
…
"Thanks to Your grace, I've had a marvelous morning."
…
"A marvelous morning."
…
Klein endured Devil's prayer in his frazzled state, his expression turning peculiar. "You had a marvelous morning, so you decided to ruin my sleep?"
What could he do? As an ancient, great existence, could he tell his follower, "Mr. Fool needs his rest—please delay your prayers by two hours"?
Besides, Devil needed these prayers to digest his potion.
"Being a hidden existence is no picnic," Klein grumbled inwardly, consoling himself by imagining the gods dealing with millions of devotees. "Do true gods even get to sleep?"
Sighing softly, he channeled a response through the subtle connection to the crimson star.
"I hear you."
…
"I hear you."
"I hear you."
"I hear you."
…
A cascade of gray fog materialized before Snow, a distorted, blurry figure emerging in the depths of his vision, its eyes glowing crimson. The voice echoed relentlessly in his ears.
Feeling the potion's sturdy shell crack further, Snow's face lit up with satisfaction. Taking a deep breath, he stood to begin the day.
Though he said "begin," there wasn't much to do. Holed up in his room, he resorted to typing on an Emperor Roselle-improved typewriter to pass the time.
Yes, writing. Though his predecessor was a veterinarian, since arriving in Tingen, Snow had stayed confined, even outsourcing his killings to Trissy.
With ample free time and boredom creeping in, he'd fallen back on his old Earth hobby—writing to kill time.
Truth be told, for Trissy, a Sequence 7 with abilities like invisibility and cursing, killing two unprepared Secret Supplicants for high-value occult knowledge was a steal.
Why, then, did Snow claim responsibility for the killings, upholding the Aurora Order's tradition?
To make a good impression on Mr. A, of course!
Yes, you read that right—a good impression.
The Aurora Order was a den of lunatics and deeply hidden lunatics. The crazier you seemed, the more they trusted you.
If you could pair that madness with outward rationality and unwavering devotion to the True Creator, you were one of their own—even if you killed your own.
…
Muttering about the Aurora Order's warped culture, Snow tapped away at the typewriter.
Characters sprang to life on the paper as he slipped into the zone.
"JoJo, human potential has its limits."
"I've learned one thing from my brief life…"
"The more you scheme, the more likely you'll trip over something unexpected…"
…
Typing words etched into his very DNA, Snow transcribed vivid scenes onto the page, his fingers flying faster.
After confirming that Huang "The Taste of a Demoness ain't Bad" Tao had claimed manga as his domain and deciding to write to pass the time, Snow settled on adapting JoJo's Bizarre Adventure.
He wasn't worried about Klein noticing. In fact, he hoped Klein would notice—it would serve as an intelligence source.
As per his predecessor's memories, the Panredax family was indeed an ancient noble lineage, but not one that controlled a sequence pathway.
To make his access to esoteric knowledge seem plausible, Snow was hatching a risky plan—
He wanted Klein to believe a Panredax ancestor was a transmigrator, like Emperor Roselle!
Whether this ancestor was a grandfather or great-grandfather, he hadn't decided—it was a detail he could leave vague.
He wouldn't explicitly tell Klein his family's grandeur or claim an ancestor was a transmigrator. Instead, he'd scatter clues in his behavior, letting Klein draw his own conclusions.
It was a subtle move, but crucial.
In Snow's view, a transmigrator's traces were hard to erase. From Huang's flamboyance to the scripture-quoting Russian priest and the Goddess's sisterly vibe, even Klein exuded an out-of-place aura.
To ordinary people, this might just be personal flair, but to fellow transmigrators, it was a beacon.
At his current low sequence, it was fine, but as Klein advanced, gaining experience and sharper insight, Snow's traits would become glaring.
Snow wasn't too worried about Klein uncovering his transmigrator status, but to make his knowledge "legitimate," he chose to conceal it for now.
(End of Chapter)