Half an hour earlier, Mr. Fool had been jolted awake from an uneasy sleep by Mr. Devil's unfailingly punctual wake-up service. Looking out at the scenery beyond the train window, which was gradually becoming less desolate, he knew Backlund should not be far away.
He took a trip to the train's washroom. Relieving the night's accumulated pressure was secondary; his main purpose was to see whether Mr. Devil had been the one praying. At the previous Tarot Club gathering, he had permitted Justice, Sun, and Hanged Man to pray to him in emergencies. It would not be good if one of the Tarot Club members had run into trouble.
When he left the washroom, the train attendant's voice had begun to echo through the corridor.
As the whistle echoed across the platform, the steam train gradually slowed.
More than twenty carriages gently pulled up beside the platform. Wearing a formal tailcoat and a half-height silk top hat, Klein carried an exaggerated suitcase wholly disproportionate to his build as he stepped into the most prosperous city on the Northern Continent, the City of Cities—Backlund.
Pale yellow morning fog filled his vision. Even with the early sunlight and the glow of gas lamps, it was not enough to disperse the station's gloom and darkness.
"So early in the morning, and the fog is already this thick?" Klein shook his head slightly, but a joke he had read in the Tussock Newspaper flashed through his mind. He seemed to understand the mindset of those editors who tirelessly mocked Backlund's air quality.
But speaking of the Tussock Newspaper...
"The author of Phantom Blood, Sno, should be Mr. Devil, right?" Klein had not actually read JoJo before transmigrating, so he did not have the realization that "Mr. Devil had turned the bedtime stories a transmigrator