The next day, Klein went to Khoy University to cancel his interview. There, he ran into Mr. Azik, a history faculty member who had often helped the original Klein.
Mr. Azik was a middle-aged gentleman of medium build with bronze-colored skin. His features were gentle, beardless, and beneath his right ear, there was a tiny mole that could only be noticed upon close inspection.
With his scholarly aura that practically screamed "historian," Klein deliberately dropped terms like "Solomon Empire" and "Antigonus family" in conversation, hoping to gauge the man's knowledge.
At this point, Klein had no idea who Azik really was. He didn't even have a clear concept of what an angel was.
Azik answered all of Klein's questions as best as he could, but his memory was incomplete. To Klein's curiosity, all he could offer were vague replies like "I think I've heard of that" or "sounds familiar."
After a pleasant exchange, Azik and another faculty member excused themselves to attend a meeting. Klein, tipping his hat in farewell, waited until they had gone far before slowly heading home.
Because Klein was a gentleman with a top hat.
Walking home with cane in hand, basking in the sun, Klein unfolded a copy of the Tingen Morning Post. Back in his old world, he had long developed the habit of reading his phone while walking. Reading the paper while strolling felt just as natural.
Fearlessly multitasking, Klein wasn't worried about crashing into a lamppost.
Even though lampposts didn't exist here.
Thud.
He bumped into one.
"Why the hell are there lampposts in this era?!"
Looking up, Klein saw that the pole bore no wires, only two gas lamps.
Rubbing his forehead, he realized. Of course. No electric poles, but gas streetlamps.
Detouring around, Klein continued reading.
Tingen had a wide variety of newspapers: morning editions, evening editions, "Honest People's Papers" — all sorts. Their content, though, was a mix of truth and fabrication, difficult to sort through. Roselle the Great had once invented clickbait and "shock literature," leaving newsprint often filled with nonsense.
Klein skipped the rest and zeroed in on the recent string of break-in murders. The report was stiffly official: in summary, the victims were currently "emotionally stable with no extreme behavior," and the police's judgment had not been "opposed" by the dead crawling out of their graves. The situation was "under control."
The journalist's byline read John Browning. With a name like that, Klein thought, this man was destined to become a gun designer.
Strolling under the trees, paper in hand, Klein suddenly felt a stabbing chill across his back, like needles pricking his skin. His spiritual intuition screamed.
Someone was watching him.
Feigning calm, he boarded a public carriage. After a moment's thought, he directed it toward Champagne Street.
Once there, he got off, cane in hand and paper tucked under his arm, pretending not to notice anything amiss. He strolled down Zotlan Street, turned into Red Moon Street, and walked straight into Saint Selena Church.
The great King of Informing was about to tattle.
If you've got guts, follow me inside. (pointing aggressively)
The moment he entered the church, the unseen gaze vanished. Klein kept his composure and chose a seat outside the wide-open prayer hall.
Scanning the crowd, he locked eyes with a pair of amber irises.
"That's the one from yesterday," Klein mused. "Perhaps she's also a believer in the Goddess of the Night?"
He lowered his gaze, found an empty seat near the aisle, placed his hat and newspaper on his lap, clasped his hands together, and pressed his forehead down.
Congratulations to Hat-bro and Newspaper-bro for unlocking the achievement:
[Mr. Fool's Lap Pillow]
On the other side, Stelle noticed Klein looking away and withdrew her own gaze. She bowed her head slightly, a strange brilliance flashing in her eyes.
Many people thought Xing wasn't smart. The truth was she just didn't like using her brain. But now, without her external "thinking machine" around, her CPU was running at full throttle.
Sairuis had told her that the scholarly-looking man was Klein, the protagonist of this world. Xing had read the novel; she knew what "protagonist" meant. All her bickering with Sairuis earlier was just playful banter — or so she convinced herself… probably.
Since the protagonist had entered this church, it followed without question that… there must be a treasure chest here!
Wasn't that common knowledge? Wherever the protagonist went, treasure chests appeared.
At first, she had only been curious about the tall building and stepped inside to "unlock the map." But fate had handed her a pleasant surprise.
Her burning gaze swept the area quickly, but all she saw were luggage trunks. A little disappointing. Chests with owners couldn't be looted. Himeko had repeatedly warned her about that.
So her eyes shifted to a trash bin in the corner of the church.
Of course. This was the Night Church. Even the garbage cans shimmered faintly with starlight. Overhead, the chandelier's glow draped the bin in a veil of holy radiance.
Stelle was utterly convinced: This is an interactable object.
She resolved to investigate the enticing trash bin once the mass was over.
Why not now?
What a joke.
"Even children know you can't control a character freely during cutscenes," Stelle declared self-righteously.
A flawless answer indeed. Worthy of a shareholder of Penacony.
The sermon ended quickly. The bishop opened the side door to the confessional, and one by one, men and women lined up.
Klein reopened his eyes, donned his hat, picked up his cane and newspaper, and queued up as well. After more than twenty minutes, it was finally his turn.
He stepped inside, shut the door, and before closing it fully, glanced back one last time. The amber-eyed lady was talking to a nun.
That made Klein even more certain she was a believer of the Night. Who else could she be conversing with a nun about?
Surely not… the trash bin?
Klein chuckled at his own thought and pulled the door shut. Darkness surrounded him.
"Miss, please don't be like this."
The middle-aged nun's voice was gentle, her eyes tinged with pity.
So young, and already afflicted with hysteria. Such a good child. What a pity.
Stelle, however, was solemn and earnest as she explained her theory.
"Look, elder sister. It's glowing. That means it's inviting me. As a gentlwoman, I can't just turn down its face."
"That's only the chandelier's reflection, child." The nun's expression softened further, even her address changing without her noticing.
What a good child. She even calls me elder sister, the nun thought warmly.
Seeing that persuasion failed, Stelle sighed and turned away. The nun's inability to appreciate the beauty of a trash bin was her loss, not Stelle's.
She understood: treasure chests always had guardian monsters. Clearly, this nun was one.
Stelle, kindhearted as always, didn't want to fight her. After all, the nun was just another unfortunate soul blinded by the conventions of society.
Why make life harder for another sufferer?
So old, yet still stuck guarding treasure chests. Such a good nun. What a pity.
(End of Chapter)