Tap. Tap. Tap.
Footsteps echoed down the narrow, dimly lit corridor, resonating in the quiet, without any other sounds interrupting.
Klein walked with his back straight, neither fast nor slow, following the middle-aged priest in silence, like a calm lake untouched by the wind.
After passing through a series of guarded passages, the middle-aged priest unlocked a concealed door, pointing to the stone steps leading downwards:
"At the crossroads, turn left for the Chanis Gate."
"May the Goddess bless you," Klein said, tracing a symbol of the crimson moon on his chest with four gentle taps.
Worldly matters called for worldly manners, while religious rites required their own rituals.
"Praise the Goddess," the middle-aged priest responded, mirroring the gesture.
Without another word, Klein descended the stone steps, guided by the soft light of the gas lamps mounted along the walls, and continued down into the depths of darkness.
Halfway down, he instinctively glanced back. The middle-aged priest was still standing at the entrance, at the top of the stairs, shrouded in the shadows cast by the gaslight, like an unmoving statue.
Turning his gaze back, Klein continued downwards. Before long, he felt the cold stone floor beneath him, reaching the crossroads.
He didn't head toward the Chanis Gate, knowing that Dunn Smith wouldn't be there right after his watch shift.
Following a familiar route to the right, Klein climbed another set of stairs and found himself inside the Blackthorn Security Company.
Seeing the office doors either closed or partially open, he didn't barge in but made his way to the reception hall. There, the sweet-smiling, chestnut-haired girl was engrossed in a magazine.
"Hi, Rozanne." Klein stepped to the side and lightly tapped on the desk.
Clang!
Rozanne jumped up, knocking over her chair and exclaiming, "Hi, nice weather today! You—you, Klein, what are you doing here?"
She placed a hand over her chest, taking a few deep breaths, much like a girl caught off guard by her father while slacking off.
"I need to see the Captain," Klein replied concisely.
"…You almost scared me to death. I thought the Captain was coming," Rozanne shot Klein a glare. "Don't you know to knock? Hmph, you should be grateful I'm a forgiving, kind lady—no, I prefer the term 'young woman'… So, what do you need the Captain for? He's in the office opposite Mrs. Orianna's."
Even in his tense state of mind, Rozanne's antics made Klein smile. After a brief pause, he said:
"It's a secret."
"…" Rozanne's eyes widened in surprise as Klein gave her a slight bow before quickly excusing himself.
He moved past the reception room's partition door and knocked on the first office door to the right.
"Come in," Dunn Smith's low, steady voice called from within.
Klein entered, closing the door behind him, removing his hat, and greeting, "Good morning, Captain."
"Good morning. What brings you here?" Dunn's black coat and hat hung on the nearby rack, leaving him in just a white shirt and black vest. His high hairline and gray, deep-set eyes made him look especially composed.
"Someone's been following me," Klein replied plainly, without unnecessary embellishment.
Leaning back, Dunn laced his fingers together, his gray, profound eyes fixed on Klein's.
Instead of addressing the topic of the stalking, he asked, "Did you come here from the church?"
"Yes," Klein confirmed.
Dunn gave a slight nod, neither approving nor disapproving, then returned to the main issue:
"It's possible that Welch's father didn't believe the cause of death we reported and hired a private detective from Wind City to investigate."
Constant City in Middlesex County, also known as Wind City, is an area extremely prosperous in the coal and steel industries and ranks among the top three cities in the Kingdom of Ruen.
Before Klein could voice his thoughts, Dunn continued:
"It could also be from the origin of that notebook. We're currently investigating where Welch obtained the Antigonus family's notes. Of course, we can't rule out other individuals or organizations pursuing it."
"What should I do?" Klein asked in a steady voice.
Without a doubt, he hoped it was the first reason.
Dunn didn't respond immediately. He took a sip of his coffee, his gray eyes calm and unfazed as he said, "Follow the path you took to get here, and then go about your day however you like."
"Anything?" Klein asked for clarification.
"Anything," Dunn nodded, confirming. "Just don't scare the follower off or break any laws."
"Understood." Klein took a breath, turned to leave, and made his way back to the underground level.
At the crossroad, he turned left, walking calmly along the dim, empty corridor lit by intermittent gas lamps, with the sound of his footsteps echoing around him. The rhythmic taps intensified the sense of solitude and the eeriness of the passage.
Soon, Klein approached the staircase and climbed step by step until he saw the middle-aged priest waiting in the shadows by the door.
Neither of them spoke. The priest simply turned and stepped aside, making way for him.
Without another word, Klein proceeded quietly and returned to the main prayer hall. The light streaming through the round holes above the arched altar was still pure and brilliant. The room remained dim and silent, with a few people still waiting outside the confessional booths, though their numbers had dwindled.
After lingering for a short while, Klein picked up his cane and newspaper, leaving the main hall and St. Selena's Church as if nothing unusual had happened.
Stepping outside under the blazing sun, he instantly felt that familiar gaze on him again, like prey under the scrutiny of a hunting eagle.
Suddenly, a thought struck him:
Why hadn't the watcher followed him into the church? While he could have used the dim setting and the help of the priests to evade detection briefly, would it have been that difficult for the observer to pretend to pray or blend in with the crowd? There was no harm in entering openly, was there?
Unless they had a past that made them wary of the Church, fearing the priests and knowing the potential supernatural capabilities within…
Realizing this, the chance of his follower being a private investigator seemed increasingly slim.
Klein exhaled slowly, allowing himself to relax a bit, and casually strolled around to the rear of Zotland Street.
He paused in front of an old-fashioned, weathered building with a plaque that read "Zotland Shooting Club" and a number "3" on the door.
The police department's underground shooting range was partially open to the "public" as a way to generate extra income.
As soon as he entered, the feeling of being watched vanished, and he seized the opportunity to show his "Special Operations Division" badge to the attendant.
After a quick verification, he was led downstairs to a secluded shooting range.
"10-meter target," Klein told the attendant simply, then drew his revolver from his underarm holster and took out a box of brass-colored bullets from his pocket.
The unnerving experience of being followed had sparked a strong desire to hone his self-defense skills, driving him to overcome any hesitation and head straight to practice.
With a click, he flicked open the cylinder and carefully removed the silver Demon Hunter bullets, one by one, before loading it with brass-colored standard bullets.
This time, he left no empty chamber for misfires and kept his formal attire on, including his half-height hat. After all, he couldn't expect a potential enemy to politely pause and wait while he changed into something more practical.
With a soft snap, Klein closed the cylinder and gave it a quick spin.
Suddenly, he raised the gun, aiming straight at the target 10 meters away.
But he didn't fire immediately. Instead, he took a moment to mentally review his basic training—lining up the sights, accounting for recoil—recalling each detail from his own imperfect shooting history.
The rustling of his clothes echoed softly as he practiced his aim and grip over and over, with the diligence of a student preparing for a critical exam.
After several rounds of dry practice, he moved back to sit on a cushioned bench by the wall, setting the revolver down and massaging his arm to ease the tension.
After a few minutes' reflection, Klein picked up his wooden-handled, brass-cylindrical revolver again, moved back into position, and pulled the trigger.
Bang!
His arm shook, his body shifted slightly backward, and the shot missed the target entirely.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Learning from each attempt, he fired shot after shot, gradually building his feel for the weapon until he'd emptied all six rounds.
At last, he began hitting the target. Klein stepped back, sat down again, and took a couple of deep breaths.
With a flick, he opened the cylinder, letting the six spent shells clatter to the ground. Then, with a calm expression, he reloaded the remaining brass-colored bullets one by one.
After loosening up his arms, Klein returned to the firing position, focusing on his form and adjusting his aim.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
The shots echoed through the range, the target swayed with each hit, and Klein continued practicing, resting between rounds until he'd used up all thirty rounds from his latest supply and the remaining five from before. His shots were now steadily hitting the target, and he was beginning to aim for higher scores.
Shaking out the soreness in his arms, Klein ejected the last five casings, lowered his head, and carefully reloaded his revolver with the intricately patterned silver Demon Hunter bullets, leaving one chamber empty as a safety measure.
Once the revolver was back in his underarm holster, he brushed off the gunpowder residue from his clothes and, feeling lighter, walked out of the private shooting range and returned to the street.
The sensation of being watched returned, yet Klein felt far more composed than before. He strolled toward Champagne Street, spent 4 pence on a tram ride back to Iron Cross Street, and made his way up to the family apartment.
The eerie feeling of being observed faded away as he pulled out his key, opened the door, and saw a man close to thirty, dressed in a linen shirt with a very short haircut, sitting at the desk.
Klein's heart jumped for a second before he relaxed, smiling as he greeted, "Good morning—no, good afternoon, Benson."
The man was indeed his and Melissa's older brother, Benson Moretti, only twenty-five but looking nearly thirty due to his receding hairline. He had black hair and brown eyes, a resemblance to Klein, though he lacked that faint scholarly air.
"Good afternoon, Klein. How did the interview go?" Benson stood up, a small smile at his lips.
His black coat and half-height hat were hanging off the bunk bed's jutting post.
"Awful," Klein replied blankly.
Seeing Benson freeze for a moment, Klein chuckled and added, "Actually, I didn't even attend the interview. I found a job beforehand, with a weekly salary of 3 pounds…"
He repeated what he had told Melissa earlier.
Benson relaxed and shook his head, smiling. "Feels like watching a child grow up… Hmm, it sounds like a good job."
He sighed, "It's nice to come back from running errands to such good news. We should celebrate tonight—shall we get some beef?"
Klein grinned, "Sounds good, though I think Melissa might be dismayed. How about we go buy some ingredients together this afternoon? Maybe bring at least 3 shillings? Honestly, though, 1 pound converting to 20 shillings, 1 shilling to 12 pence, with half-pence and quarter-pence mixed in—the currency system is completely counterintuitive. It must be one of the world's most nonsensical monetary systems."
As he finished, he noticed Benson's face turning serious, and he hesitated, suddenly questioning if he had said something wrong.
Could Benson, in the hazy fragments of the original's memories, actually be a staunch, unwavering loyalist who couldn't tolerate even the smallest criticism of the kingdom?
Benson paced for a few steps, his expression solemn as he countered, "No, not one of the most. It's the most nonsensical system, period."
The most…? Klein blinked before catching on, and he shared a smile with his brother.
It was Benson's characteristic satirical humor.
With a wry grin, Benson added, in all seriousness, "You should realize that establishing a rational and simple currency system requires one basic skill—counting. And mastering the decimal system. Unfortunately, among the bigwigs, such talent seems tragically scarce."