After half an hour of rest, Zhou Mingrui—who now thought of himself only as Klein—finally recovered. During that time, he noticed four black dots had appeared on the back of his hand, forming a tiny square.
The spots faded quickly, vanishing beneath his skin, but Klein knew they hadn't truly disappeared. They were still there, buried deep inside him, waiting to be awakened.
"Four dots forming a square… Does it match the four pieces of bread I placed at the corners of the room? Does this mean that, in the future, I won't need to prepare offerings, that I can perform the ritual and chant immediately?" he wondered.
It sounded convenient, but the sudden appearance of the marks felt ominous. Things one didn't understand were always frightening.
The strange Earth-born divinations that somehow worked here, the inexplicable transmigration in his sleep, the maddening whispers he'd heard during the ritual, and the gray, illusory world he still couldn't comprehend—all of it made Klein shiver despite the sweltering June heat.
"The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear, and the oldest and strongest fear is the fear of the unknown."
He remembered the quote vividly. And right now, he was living it.
Inside him, two opposing urges battled. One—the desire to step closer to the mystery, to study it, to understand it. The other—a desperate wish to flee, to pretend none of this had ever happened.
Sunlight poured through the window and spilled across the desk, dust motes gleaming like specks of gold. Klein's eyes lingered on them, and for a brief moment, he felt warmth and hope.
His body relaxed. Then exhaustion hit him like a wave. His eyelids grew heavy as lead, the toll of a sleepless night and a draining ritual finally catching up.
He forced himself upright with the edge of the desk, staggered toward the bunk bed, and collapsed without a thought for the loaves of rye bread still sitting in the room's corners. The instant his head hit the pillow, he was out cold.
------
Groan… Groan…
Klein woke to the twisting pain of an empty stomach. He blinked himself awake and, surprisingly, felt refreshed.
"There's still a bit of a headache," he muttered, rubbing his temples. But hunger drowned out the discomfort. He could eat a horse.
He straightened his shirt as he walked back to the desk, picked up his silver, vine-leaf pocket watch, and flipped it open.
Click.
The lid snapped up, and the ticking second hand glinted in the light.
Half past twelve. He'd slept for three hours.
He slipped the watch into his linen pocket and swallowed dryly.
There were still twenty-four hours in a day here, sixty minutes in an hour, sixty seconds in a minute. Whether time passed at the same speed as on Earth, he had no idea.
At the moment, he couldn't bring himself to care about mysticism, rituals, or gray worlds. His mind focused on one thing only—food.
He could think later. First, he needed to eat.
Klein gathered the loaves of rye bread from the room's corners, brushed off the thin dust, and decided one would serve as lunch.
He didn't hesitate to eat the offerings. He had only five pence left, and back in his hometown, it was common practice to eat what had been offered. The bread looked perfectly normal. No harm done, and no waste either.
That practicality—and the original Klein's habits—guided his choice.
Lighting the expensive gas lamps just to cook felt extravagant, so Klein set up the small furnace instead, tossed in some coal, and started to boil water.
Bread this rough would choke him without something to drink.
Life without meat until dinner is going to be dreadful… He sighed, pacing as the water heated. Though I suppose I'm lucky. If not for the upcoming interview, Melissa would only let us have meat twice a week.
His gaze drifted toward the cupboard. Inside sat a pound of fresh mutton. His eyes lingered, almost predatory.
No, he told himself firmly. I'll wait for Melissa. We'll eat it together.
He turned away, but his stomach growled in betrayal. Then he remembered—he'd bought peas and potatoes that morning.
Potatoes!
The thought hit like inspiration. He hurried to the cupboard, pulled out two small ones, washed them in the public bathroom, and dropped them into the pot of boiling water.
A few minutes later, he sprinkled in some coarse yellow salt from a small spice container.
He waited. Patiently. Or as patiently as his stomach would allow.
When the potatoes were done, he poured the hot water—the "soup"—into a bowl and a few cups, then fished out the potatoes with a fork and set them on the desk.
Ffffffff!
He blew on one as he peeled it slowly. A simple, earthy aroma filled the air, sharp and warm. His mouth watered uncontrollably.
The heat didn't stop him. He took a bite, skin and all.
It was perfect—soft, a little sweet, comforting. He ate both potatoes in minutes, then lifted the bowl and drank the salty water.
I used to love potatoes like this when I was a kid… he thought, content. He tore off a piece of bread, dipped it in the "soup," and ate.
Perhaps the ritual had taken more out of him than he realized; he ended up finishing two loaves—nearly a full pound of bread.
When he was done, he leaned back, sunlight warm on his face, a deep, simple satisfaction spreading through him.
Then he gathered himself. Time to think.
I can't just run away. I have to understand this world of mysticism—and become a Beyonder, like Justice and The Hanged Man.
He clenched his fists. I have to overcome this fear of the unknown.
The next gathering would be his only chance. If he could learn the formula for the Spectator potion—or anything at all about mysticism—he might finally have a path forward.
But there were four days until Monday. Until then, he needed to deal with something more immediate: the mystery of Klein's suicide.
Why had he done it? What happened to him?
Unable to return to Earth and escape, Klein picked up the notebook on the desk. The original Klein had left many notes—diaries, records, fragments of thought. The cabinet beneath the desk was packed with them.
This one began on May 10th. The early pages were filled with academic notes—lectures, mentors, and small observations.
---------
12th May.
Mr. Azik mentioned that the common tongue of the Balam Empire in the Southern Continent also evolved from Ancient Feysac, itself a branch of Jotun. Why? Does this mean every sentient race once shared a single language? No—that must be wrong. According to "The Revelation of Evernight" and "The Book of Storms," giants weren't the only rulers of the primordial world. There were also elves, mutants, and dragons. But perhaps these are merely myths…
16th May.
Senior Associate Professor Cohen and Mr. Azik debated the inevitability of the Age of Steam. Mr. Azik believed it was pure coincidence—that without Emperor Roselle, the Northern Continent would still wield swords like the South. Mentor disagreed, claiming progress was inevitable. If not Roselle, then someone else would have led the Age of Steam. Their argument bored me. I prefer discovery to theory—perhaps I was meant for archaeology, not history.
29th May.
Welch found me today. He said he'd acquired a notebook from the Fourth Epoch. A notebook from the Fourth Epoch! He didn't want the archaeology students' help, so he asked Naya and me to decipher it. How could I refuse? But I'll wait until after my graduation defense. I can't afford distractions now.
---------
Klein's pulse quickened. Compared to lectures and petty disputes, a mysterious Fourth Epoch notebook felt far more important—and far more dangerous.
The Fourth Epoch was the age before the current Iron Era. Most of its history was lost. Only fragments survived—names of empires, myths of gods, and vague references from the seven Churches. The Solomon Empire. The Tudor Dynasty. The Trunsoest Empire.
Klein's fascination stirred. The original Klein had been drawn to the Fourth Epoch too—the so-called Age of the Gods.
He sighed. He wanted a future, a career, a place in academia… but in the end, it was all for nothing.
Universities were still rare, and most students came from noble or wealthy families. A commoner who earned entry could still rise—through effort, connections, or charm. Even if they weren't truly accepted, the doors were open.
Welch McGovern, for example—generous, well-connected, son of a banker from Constant City. He often relied on Naya and Klein for help, since they were assigned to the same research group.
Klein turned the page.
-----
18th June.
Graduated. Farewell, Khoy University.
19th June.
I've seen the notebook. Comparing the words, it seems to be a variant of Ancient Feysac—changed bit by bit over centuries.
20th June.
We deciphered the first page. The author belonged to a family called Antigonus.
21st June.
He mentioned the Black Emperor. That's inconsistent with the supposed era. Did the professor misdate it? Or was "Black Emperor" a recurring title among Solomon's rulers?
22nd June.
The Antigonus family held great power in the Solomon Empire. The author described a secret transaction with someone named Tudor. Could this relate to the Tudor Dynasty?
23rd June.
Trying to resist the urge to visit Welch. I must focus on my interview—it's important!
24th June.
Naya says they've found something new. I have to see it.
25th June.
The author accepted a mission to the 'Nation of the Evernight,' at the summit of the Hornacis Mountains. A nation at six thousand meters? How could anyone survive there?
26th June.
Are these strange things… real?
----------
The entries ended there.
Zhou Mingrui had transmigrated in the early hours of June 28th.
That meant there was an entry for June 27th—one chilling line.
"Everyone will die, including me."
Klein's skin prickled as he flipped to the page he'd first seen on arrival.
To solve the mystery of Klein's death, he needed to find Welch and see that ancient notebook himself. But every instinct—and every story he'd ever read—warned him how dangerous that could be. Investigating a cursed object? Visiting a haunted place? That was how people died in novels and films.
Still, running wouldn't solve anything. It never did.
Perhaps he could go to the police—but what would he even say? "Hello, officer, I committed suicide last week"?
Knock.
Knock, knock.
Sharp, hurried raps cut through the hallway.
Klein froze, listening.
Knock.
Knock, knock.
The sound echoed again, urgent and clear in the empty flat.