After confirming his plan, Zhou Mingrui finally felt as though he had something to hold onto—a mental anchor in the chaos. His fear, unease, and confusion all receded into a quiet corner of his mind, replaced by a fragile but comforting sense of control.
Only then did he have the presence of mind to properly examine the fragments of Klein's memories.
He stood and turned off the gas valve, watching the lamp's glow slowly fade until the room was swallowed again by the deep red gloom of the moonlight. Sitting back down, he began absentmindedly turning the revolver's brass cylinder while pressing a hand against his temple. His thoughts drifted—slowly, deliberately—into the dark theater of his mind, replaying the disjointed reels of another man's life.
Klein's memories were fractured, scattered like shards of glass. Some pieces gleamed vividly—faces, voices, flashes of laughter—while others were missing entirely, blank voids where something important had once been. The revolver. The note. The final moments before death. They were all incomplete. The gaps were too clean, too intentional, as if someone had carefully cut them away.
Even the ordinary details were hazy. Dates. Routines. His studies. Klein had graduated just days before his death, yet much of his knowledge seemed to have eroded—names of professors, fragments of language, even historical events he should have known by heart.
Still, some fragments remained sharp enough to sting:
He needed to attend an interview at Tingen University's History Department in two days.
He had been recommended for a position there—and at Backlund University as well.
Zhou Mingrui leaned back, exhaling softly through his nose. Outside, the blood-colored moon was slowly sinking in the west. The crimson light bled away, giving rise to a pale gold that crept across the horizon.
Dawn.
Somewhere in the apartment, faint noises stirred—footsteps, the creak of a door.
"Melissa's awake," Zhou murmured with a small, tired smile. "Punctual as ever."
The memories he'd inherited made her feel like his sister in truth, though another part of him couldn't help but whisper: But I don't have a sister…
Melissa was nothing like Klein's older brother, Benson. Where Benson had been pragmatic and bookish, Melissa had an engineer's heart—steady, curious, and grounded. While most girls her age cared about dresses or church lessons, she loved gears, springs, and the sound of metal clicking into place. Her dream was to become a steam mechanic.
When the Loen Kingdom passed the Basic Education Law, schools had begun sprouting up everywhere—free from church doctrine, neutral, secular, modern. Benson, ever the realist, supported her wholeheartedly. He'd sacrificed sleep and comfort so that Klein could attend university and Melissa could attend the Tingen Technical School's Steam and Machinery Department. It was an expensive dream—nine pence a week—but for her, it was everything.
Benson's company had been struggling recently. The situation in the Southern Continent had choked trade, leaving him overworked and underpaid. He'd taken on longer hours and harder routes to keep the family afloat.
Klein had wanted to help. But what could a history graduate from a poor family do? He'd always felt inadequate—surrounded by noble sons who had studied ancient Feysac since childhood while he stumbled through it at university, sleepless and overworked just to stay average.
The weight of that memory lingered until a sound snapped Zhou back to the present—his hand tightening instinctively around the revolver.
Wait. This is a semi-regulated weapon… And Melissa's about to walk in!
He quickly shoved the gun into a drawer and slammed it shut.
"What was that noise?" came a calm, curious voice.
Zhou turned. There she was—thin, pale, and serious-looking, yet still carrying the soft radiance of youth. Her brown eyes flicked toward the desk. Zhou forced a smile, pretending to busy himself by picking something up from the table. His fingers brushed his temple. The wound—completely healed.
He breathed a quiet sigh of relief.
From the table, he lifted a silver pocket watch—a vine-leaf engraving curling along its surface. The metal was worn but still beautiful. He pressed the latch, and the cover flipped open with a click.
Inside was a small, faded portrait of a man in a military uniform—their father, a sergeant of the Imperial Army. It was the most valuable thing he had left them. The watch was old, prone to breaking, but Melissa had recently claimed to have fixed it herself.
Zhou wound it gently. No sound. The second hand didn't move.
"It's broken again," he said lamely, trying to make conversation.
Melissa approached, her expression unreadable. Without a word, she took the watch, lifted the top button, and gave it a few deft twists.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
The second hand began to move.
Zhou blinked. Isn't that button supposed to adjust the time?
A distant cathedral bell chimed six times, soft and ethereal. Melissa tilted her head, waited for the last note to fade, and then adjusted the time precisely before handing the watch back.
"It's fine now," she said flatly.
"...Thanks." Zhou scratched the back of his neck, embarrassed.
She stared at him for a long moment—a look equal parts exasperation and pity—before taking her toiletries and towel and heading out.
That look… Is that concern? Or just her way of coping with a retarded brother?
He chuckled softly, flicking the pocket watch open and closed, open and closed, letting his thoughts wander.
Klein's suicide had been loud. A revolver. No silencer. So why hadn't Melissa heard anything that night? The walls were thin, the apartment small. She should've noticed. Unless… she hadn't been home. Or the death wasn't as simple as it seemed.
The pocket watch clicked again. And again. The rhythm filled the room.
When Melissa returned, steam trailed after her from the hallway. She noticed him still playing with the watch and sighed quietly.
"Klein," she said gently, "take out the rest of the bread. You need to buy fresh ones later. There's meat and peas too. Your interview's soon—I'll make mutton stew tonight."
Her voice softened just a little as she moved the small stove from the corner and lit the charcoal. She filled a pot with water and, before it boiled, carefully opened a tin of cheap tea leaves—her small treasure—and sprinkled in a few.
They shared the meager breakfast together: two cups of bitter tea and a few slices of rough rye bread.
No sawdust, at least, Zhou thought dryly as he forced himself to chew.
Melissa ate in silence, then began clearing the table. "Buy eight pounds of bread," she repeated, "and not too much mutton or peas. The weather's hot. It'll spoil fast."
Her tone softened further. "Benson might come back Sunday."
Zhou smiled faintly. "Alright. Got it."
When she finished packing her things, Melissa tied her hair, adjusted her worn veil cap, and slung her homemade bag over her shoulder. She looked composed, focused—older than her years.
The walk to Tingen Technical School would take nearly an hour, but she didn't complain. There were public horse carriages that cost a penny a kilometer with a limit of four pence in the city and six pence in the city outskirts. In order to save money, Melissa would leave ahead of time. Every penny mattered.
At the door, she paused. "Don't forget—eight pounds," she said again, looking back.
"Promise," Zhou said with a grin.
She really thinks I'm dull in the head, doesn't she?
As the door clicked shut, the small apartment fell into silence. Zhou sat there for a long moment, his hands resting on the pocket watch, the ticking faint but steady in the air.
Sunday…
This world had the same twelve months, the same 365 days, the same seven-day week. But here, the days were divided not by the sun or moon—but by gods.
Seven of them:
The Eternal Blazing Sun.
The Lord of Storms.
The God of Knowledge and Wisdom.
The Evernight Goddess.
The Earth Mother.
The God of Combat.
The God of Steam and Machinery.
Each day belonged to one of them.
Zhou exhaled softly, his mind circling back to the ritual—the one that might've brought him here.
Sorry, he thought quietly, staring out the window at the rising light. But I really do want to go home.