Tap, tap, tap.
Footsteps echoed through the dark, narrow corridor, carrying far in the silence, with no other sounds.
Klein kept his back straight as he followed the middle-aged priest at an unhurried pace. He asked no questions and made no small talk, as calm as a lake without wind.
After passing through the heavily guarded passage, the middle-aged priest unlocked a secret door and pointed at the stone steps leading downward.
"Turn left at the crossroads for Chanis Gate."
"May the Goddess bless you." Klein tapped four points over his chest, tracing the "shape" of the crimson moon.
Secular occasions called for secular etiquette; religious occasions called for religious rituals.
"Praise the Goddess." The middle-aged priest returned the same gesture.
Klein said no more. By the light of the elegant gas lamps set into the walls on either side, he followed the stone steps down into the depths of darkness.
Halfway down, he instinctively looked back. The middle-aged priest was still standing in the doorway, at the top of the steps, in the shadows cast by the gas lamps, like a motionless wax figure.
Klein withdrew his gaze and continued downward. Before long, he reached the cold stone floor and made his way to the crossroads.
He did not turn toward Chanis Gate, since Dunn Smith, who had just finished his shift there, certainly would not be there now.
Following the familiar passage to the right, Klein climbed another staircase and emerged inside the Blackthorn Security Company.
Seeing that the doors were either closed or ajar, he did not rashly start searching. Instead, he entered the reception room, where he saw the sweetly smiling, brown-haired girl engrossed in a magazine.
"Hi, Rozanne." Klein approached from the side and deliberately tapped the desk.
Clatter!
Rozanne shot to her feet, knocking over her chair, and said in a fluster, "Hi, lovely weather today. You, you-Klein, what brings you here?"
She pressed a hand to her chest and took two breaths, like a little girl afraid of being caught slacking off by her father.
"I have something to discuss with the captain," Klein answered briefly.
"...You scared me to death. I thought the captain had come out." Rozanne glared at Klein. "Don't you know how to knock? Hmph, you should be thankful I'm a generous, merciful lady. Hmm, I prefer the word 'girl'... What do you need the captain for? He's in the room opposite Mrs. Orianna's."
Despite his considerable tension, Rozanne brought a smile to Klein's face. After a moment's thought, he said, "It's a secret."
"..." As Rozanne stared wide-eyed in disbelief, Klein bowed slightly and quickly took his leave.
He passed through the partition door in the reception room again and knocked on the first office door to his right.
"Come in." Dunn Smith's deep, gentle voice sounded.
Klein pushed the door open, closed it behind him, and took off his hat in greeting.
"Good morning, Captain."
"Good morning. What is it?" Dunn's black windbreaker and hat hung on the coat rack beside him, leaving him in only a white shirt and black vest. Despite his high hairline and deep gray eyes, he looked considerably more refreshed.
"Someone is following me," Klein answered truthfully, without embellishment.
Dunn leaned back and clasped his hands, his deep gray eyes quietly meeting Klein's.
Instead of addressing the matter of the tail, he asked, "Did you come through the cathedral?"
"Yes," Klein confirmed.
Dunn nodded slightly, offering neither praise nor criticism, and returned to the subject.
"It could be that Welch's father doesn't believe the cause of death we reported and hired a private detective from the City of Wind to investigate."
Constant in Awwa County was also known as the City of Wind. Its coal and steel industries were extremely developed, placing it among the top three cities in the Kingdom of Loen.
Before Klein could offer an opinion, Dunn continued.
"They could also be connected to the source of that notebook. Heh, we're investigating where Welch obtained the Antigonus Family Notebook. Of course, we can't rule out other individuals or organizations searching for it."
"What should I do?" Klein asked in a low voice.
Without a doubt, he hoped it was the first possibility.
Dunn did not answer immediately. He lifted his coffee cup and took a sip, his gray eyes unruffled.
"Go back the way you came, then do whatever you want."
"Whatever?" Klein asked.
"Whatever." Dunn nodded firmly. "Of course, don't scare them off, and don't break the law."
"All right." Klein drew a breath, said goodbye, and turned to leave the room, returning underground.
He turned left at the crossroads and walked quietly through the empty, dim, cold passage, bathed in the light of the gas lamps spaced along either side.
The overlapping echoes of his footsteps made it seem all the lonelier, all the more frightening.
Soon, Klein reached the stairs. Climbing them step by step, he saw the middle-aged priest standing in the shadows at the doorway.
Neither spoke when they met. The middle-aged priest silently turned and stepped aside.
Walking in silence the whole way, Klein returned to the main prayer hall. The light from the round openings behind the arched altar remained pure, the darkness within remained tranquil, and the gentlemen and ladies were still queuing outside the confessionals, though there were far fewer now.
After waiting a while, Klein took his cane and newspaper and strolled out of the main prayer hall and Saint Selena Cathedral as though nothing had happened.
The instant he stepped outside and saw the blazing sun, that familiar sense of being watched returned. He felt like prey beneath an eagle's gaze.
Suddenly, a question arose in his mind.
Why didn't the "watcher" follow me into the cathedral earlier? Even then, I could still have used the darkness and the priest's help to briefly "disappear" without his noticing, but would pretending to pray while following and watching me have been difficult? If he hadn't done anything wrong, what would be the problem with openly going inside?
Unless he has a shady past, fears the Church and its bishops, and knows they might have Beyonder powers...
In that case, the possibility of him being a private detective is very, very low...
Phew! Klein exhaled. No longer as tense as before, he walked leisurely around to Zouteland Street behind the cathedral.
He stopped before an old-fashioned building with weathered walls. Its street number was 3, and its name was the Zouteland Shooting Club.
Part of the police department's underground shooting range was open to the "public" to earn extra funding.
As soon as Klein entered, the feeling of being watched vanished. He seized the opportunity to show his Special Operations Department badge to the attendant at reception.
After a brief verification, he was led underground to a small, enclosed shooting range.
"A ten-meter target," Klein told the attendant simply, then drew the revolver from his shoulder holster and took the box of brass-colored bullets from his pocket.
Suddenly finding himself watched had made his desire to protect himself overcome his procrastination, so he had come to practice shooting without delay.
Click!
Once the attendant had left, he swung out the cylinder and removed the silver Demon Hunting Bullets one by one. Then he picked up the ordinary brass-colored bullets and loaded them into the chambers.
This time, he left no chamber empty to prevent an accidental discharge, nor did he remove his formal coat or take off his half top hat. He intended to practice in his usual attire. After all, when faced with an enemy or danger, he could hardly call out, "Please stop for a moment and let me change into something more comfortable."
Click!
Klein closed the cylinder and rolled it with his thumb.
Suddenly, he gripped the gun with both hands and raised it straight up, aiming at the target ten meters away.
But he did not rush to fire. Instead, he carefully recalled his experience missing the target during military training, along with basic knowledge such as aligning the three aiming points and accounting for recoil.
Rustle! Rustle!
Amid the rustling of his clothes, Klein practiced aiming and holding the gun over and over, as serious as a student taking the college entrance exam.
After many repetitions, he retreated to the wall, sat on the soft bench, set the revolver aside, and massaged his arms, resting for quite some time.
After spending a few minutes reviewing what he had just done, Klein picked up the handgun with its wooden grip and brass cylinder, returned to the firing position, assumed the standard stance, and pulled the trigger.
Bang!
His arms jolted and his body leaned back slightly. The bullet missed the target.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Learning from the experience, he fired shot after shot, feeling his way through practice until all six bullets were gone.
I'm starting to hit the target... Klein retreated to sit down again and took a couple of breaths.
Click! He swung out the cylinder, letting the six spent casings fall to the floor with a clatter, then continued loading the remaining brass-colored bullets one by one, his expression unchanged.
After moving his arms to loosen them, Klein stood again and returned to the firing position while reviewing his experience.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Gunshots echoed and the target swayed. Klein practiced and rested, again and again, until he had fired all thirty ordinary rounds he had received and the five left from before. He gradually began hitting the target consistently and started aiming for higher scores.
Shaking his sore arms, he tipped out the final five casings, lowered his head, and loaded the intricately patterned silver Demon Hunting Bullets one by one, leaving an empty chamber to guard against accidental discharge.
After returning the revolver to his shoulder holster, Klein brushed the gunpowder residue off his clothes and left the private range, returning to the street feeling relaxed all over.
The feeling of being scrutinized returned, but Klein was calmer than before. He strolled to Champagne Street, spent four pence on a rail carriage back to Iron Cross Street, and entered the apartment building where he lived.
The sense of being watched silently vanished. He took out his key, opened the door, and saw a man nearing thirty, with very short hair and a linen shirt, sitting at the desk.
His heart tightened before relaxing, and Klein greeted him with a smile.
"Good morning-no, good afternoon, Benson."
The man was his and Melissa's elder brother, Benson Moretti. He was only twenty-five, but his receding hairline and mature-looking face made him appear almost thirty.
With black hair and brown eyes, he bore some resemblance to Klein, but lacked that faint scholarly air.
"Good afternoon, Klein. How did the interview go?" Benson stood, a smile appearing on his lips.
His black coat and half top hat were hanging from a protruding part of the bunk bed.
"Terribly," Klein answered expressionlessly.
Seeing Benson freeze, Klein added with a chuckle, "Actually, I didn't attend the interview at all. I found a job beforehand, paying three pounds a week..."
He repeated what he had told Melissa earlier.
Benson's expression eased, and he shook his head with a smile.
"It feels like watching a child grow up... Hmm, this job sounds quite good."
He sighed.
"To hear such good news as soon as I get back from all that traveling-how wonderful. We should celebrate tonight. Shall we buy some beef?"
Klein smiled.
"Sure, but I think Melissa will feel the pinch. Shall we buy the ingredients together this afternoon? Bring at least three soli? Uh, honestly, one pound for twenty soli, one soli for twelve pence, plus halfpennies and farthings-this currency system is completely counterintuitive and terribly troublesome. I think it must be one of the stupidest currency systems in the world."
When he finished, he saw Benson's expression suddenly turn serious. He grew a little uneasy, wondering whether he had said something wrong.
Could Benson be a pure, extreme supporter of the kingdom who won't tolerate the slightest criticism, in those missing fragments of the original owner's memories?
Benson paced a few steps and solemnly countered, "No, not one of."
Not one of... Klein froze briefly, then quickly caught on. He and his brother exchanged smiles.
It was indeed the sarcastic humor Benson excelled at.
The corners of Benson's mouth curled upward as he added in all seriousness, "You should understand that designing a reasonable, simple currency system requires one prerequisite: knowing how to count and understanding the decimal system. Unfortunately, among those important people, such talent is far too scarce."