Chapter 4: Divination

Chapter Four
Divination

Zhou Mingrui sat back down in his chair. Only when the bells of the distant cathedral rang again—seven slow, resonant strokes—did he finally rise at an unhurried pace and walk to the cabinet for his clothes.

A black waistcoat. A formal coat of the same color. Trousers slightly tight around the ankles. A half-top hat. Together with the faint scholarly air lingering about him, the reflection in the mirror made him feel as if he had stepped into a British drama set in the Victorian age.

“I am not going to an interview. I am only buying groceries and preparing materials for the luck-changing ritual…”

He muttered the words under his breath, then shook his head and laughed.

Klein had cared so much about the coming interview that the concern seemed to have sunk into the instincts of the body itself. Whenever Zhou Mingrui’s attention wandered, the body habitually dressed in the only respectable outfit it owned.

Letting out a breath, Zhou Mingrui took off the formal coat and waistcoat. He changed into an old brownish-yellow jacket and replaced the hat with a round-brimmed felt hat of a similar color.

Once he had put himself in order, he paced over to the bunk bed, lifted the upper mattress, and reached through an inconspicuous tear in its underside. After feeling around for a while, he found the hidden layer.

When his right hand came out again, it held a roll of banknotes—seven or eight bills, their color a faded greenish white.

These were all of Benson’s present savings, and they even included the household’s living expenses for the next three days. Among them were only two five-soli notes; the rest were all one soli.

In the Loen Kingdom’s monetary system, the soli occupied the middle tier and had originated from ancient silver coins. One soli equaled twelve copper pence. Notes came in denominations of one and five.

At the top of the system was the gold pound, also paper currency, but backed by gold and directly tied to it. One gold pound equaled twenty soli and came in denominations of one, five, and ten.

Zhou Mingrui unfolded the bills and caught a faint, peculiar scent of ink.

The smell of money.

Perhaps it was the influence of Klein’s memory fragments, or perhaps it came from his own unchanging longing for money. In that instant, Zhou Mingrui felt himself fall in love with these little things.

Look at their designs—so exquisite that even stern, old-fashioned George III, with his two neat little mustaches, appeared almost adorable.

Look at the watermark in the sunlight—so enticing. The carefully designed anti-counterfeit marks set these notes cleanly apart from those gaudy, shameless impostors called forgeries.

After admiring them for several dozen seconds, Zhou Mingrui drew out two one-soli notes, rolled the rest up again, and slipped them back into the hidden layer beneath the mattress.

He smoothed the cloth around the tear, folded the two notes he had taken with neat care, and placed them in the left pocket of his brownish-yellow jacket, keeping them separate from the few pennies in his trouser pocket.

Once all that was done, he put the key into his right pocket, picked up a large dark-brown paper bag, and walked briskly toward the door.

Tap, tap. Tap.

His footsteps slowed, then stopped.

Standing beside the door, Zhou Mingrui realized that his brow had furrowed at some point.

There were still many doubts surrounding Klein’s suicide. If he simply went out like this, might he run into some kind of “accident”?

After a moment’s thought, he returned to the desk, opened the drawer, and took out the brass-glinting revolver.

It was the only weapon he could think of to defend himself—and a sufficiently powerful one at that.

Although he had never practiced shooting, simply pulling out a pistol should be enough to frighten most people.

Rubbing the cold metal cylinder, Zhou Mingrui tucked the gun into the same pocket as the banknotes. His palm clutched the money while his fingers pressed tightly around the grip, concealing it perfectly.

A sense of security welled up in him. Then, as someone who knew a little about everything, he abruptly remembered a concern.

“What if it misfires?”

Thoughts came quickly. Zhou Mingrui soon found a solution. He drew the revolver out, flicked the cylinder open to the left, turned the empty chamber left behind by the “suicide” to the firing position, then snapped it shut.

That way, even if it discharged accidentally, it would be an “empty shot.”

He tucked the revolver away again and left his left hand in his pocket, no longer taking it out.

With his right hand, he pressed down on his hat, opened the door, and went out with a clatter.

Even in daytime, the corridor remained dim. The sunlight entering through the window at the far end was quite limited. Zhou Mingrui quickly descended the stairs and left the apartment building. Only then did he feel the brilliance and warmth of the morning.

Although it was close to July and counted as high summer, Tingen lay in the north of the Loen Kingdom and had its own particular climate. Even at its hottest, the year’s highest temperature did not reach thirty degrees Celsius by Earth’s measure, and the mornings were still cool. In places along the street, dirty water ran freely and rubbish lay scattered about. In Klein’s memories, scenes like this were not uncommon in districts where the lower-income classes lived, even where sewers existed. There were too many people, and life pressed too hard.

“Come, come! Delicious pan-fried meat fish!”

“Hot, fresh oyster soup! One bowl in the morning and you’ll have spirit all day!”

“Fresh fish from the harbor, only five pence each!”

“Little muffins! Eel soup with ginger beer!”

“Conches! Conches! Conches!”

“Vegetables just picked from farms outside the city—cheap and fresh!”

Street vendors selling vegetables, fruit, and cooked food shouted at the top of their lungs, calling to the hurried passersby. Some stopped to compare prices and make purchases with care. Others waved them away impatiently, because the day’s work had not yet been found.

Breathing air in which foul smells and tempting aromas rose and fell by turns, Zhou Mingrui kept his left hand locked around the gun grip and the banknotes. His right hand held down the round-brimmed felt hat. He bent forward slightly and lowered his head as he passed through the noisy street.

Where there were crowds, there were thieves—especially in a district with many half-employed poor who lived on temporary work, and hungry children driven by others to steal.

He walked on. Once the density of people around him returned to normal, Zhou Mingrui straightened his back, lifted his head, and looked toward the street corner.

A wandering accordionist stood there, playing music that shifted between mellow and bright.

Around him had gathered a number of ragged children, their faces waxen from malnutrition.

They listened to the music, followed the beat, and moved their bodies by instinct, performing dances of their own invention. Their faces were full of happiness, as if each of them were a little prince, a little angel.

A numb-faced woman walked past, her skirt filthy, her skin dull.

Her eyes were wooden and vacant. Only when she looked toward the children did a faint light seem to pass through them, as if she had caught sight of herself from thirty years ago.

Zhou Mingrui overtook her, turned onto another street, and stopped before Slin’s Bakery.

The shop owner was an old grandmother of about seventy named Wendy Slin. Her hair had gone entirely gray, and a gentle smile always seemed to rest on her face. Since Klein’s earliest memories, she had been selling bread and pastries here.

Mm. Her Tingen cakes and lemon cakes are very good…

Zhou Mingrui swallowed and smiled.

“Mrs. Slin, eight pounds of rye bread.”

“Oh, little Klein. Has Benson still not returned?” Wendy asked with a smiling squint.

“Not for a few more days,” Zhou Mingrui answered vaguely.

As Wendy picked out the rye bread, she sighed with feeling. “He is such a hardworking young man. He will make someone a fine husband.”

At that, the corners of her mouth lifted in a slightly mischievous smile.

“And now things are better. You have graduated—our Khoy University history graduate. Mm. Soon you will be earning money. Your family should not have to live in that apartment anymore. At the very least, you ought to have a washroom of your own.”

“Mrs. Slin, you seem especially young and lively today,” Zhou Mingrui could only reply with an awkward laugh.

If Klein could pass the interview and become a lecturer at Tingen University, the family’s fortunes would indeed rise straight toward modest comfort.

In his memory fragments, Klein had even imagined renting a detached house on the outskirts: five or six rooms upstairs, two washrooms, a large balcony; downstairs, two rooms, a dining room, a living room, a kitchen, a washroom, and a storage cellar.

It was not an absurd fantasy. Even during the probation period, a lecturer at Tingen University earned two gold pounds a week. Once confirmed, the salary would be three pounds and ten soli. By comparison, Klein’s elder brother Benson, after working for several years, earned only one pound and ten soli a week. Ordinary factory workers earned less than one pound, or barely above it. The rent for such a detached house ranged from nineteen soli to one pound eighteen soli.

“So this is the difference between earning three or four thousand a month and fourteen or fifteen thousand…”

Zhou Mingrui muttered inwardly.

However, all of that depended on passing the interview at Tingen University or Backlund University.

As for other paths, people without connections could not obtain recommendations and enter public service. And for a student of history, the range of employment was narrow. There were not many openings as private advisers to nobles, bankers, or industrial magnates.

Considering that Klein’s knowledge had also become “fragmentary,” incomplete and full of gaps, Zhou Mingrui felt only embarrassment and guilt in the face of Mrs. Slin’s expectations.

“No, I have always been this young,” Wendy replied humorously.

As she spoke, she packed the weighed rye bread—sixteen pieces—into the dark-brown paper bag Zhou Mingrui had brought. Then she extended her right hand.

“Nine pence.”

Each piece of rye bread weighed roughly half a pound, though some deviation was unavoidable.

“Nine pence? Was it not eleven pence two days ago?” Zhou Mingrui asked instinctively.

The month before last, it had even been fifteen.

“You should thank the repeal of the Grain Act, and thank the people who marched in the streets,” Wendy said with a laugh, spreading both hands.

Zhou Mingrui nodded without fully understanding. Klein’s memories on the matter were somewhat incomplete. He only remembered that the core of the Grain Act was to protect the price of domestic agricultural products. Until prices rose to a certain level, grain from southern countries such as Feynapotter, Masin, and Lenburg would not be imported.

Why would people march against it?

He did not say anything more. Afraid of accidentally bringing out the revolver, Zhou Mingrui carefully took out one banknote and handed it to Mrs. Slin.

After receiving three copper pence in change and putting them into his trouser pocket, he carried the paper bag full of bread and headed toward the Lettuce and Meat Market one street away, striving dutifully to fulfill his sister’s instructions for lamb stewed with tender peas.

At the intersection of Iron Cross Street and Daffodil Street lay a municipal square. Tents had been set up there, and clowns dressed in odd, comical costumes were handing out flyers.

“A circus performance tomorrow night?”

Zhou Mingrui glanced at a flyer in someone else’s hand and murmured its general contents.

Melissa would definitely like that. I wonder how much the tickets cost?

The thought flickered past, and Zhou Mingrui moved closer.

Just as he was about to ask one of the clowns dressed in red and yellow, a hoarse female voice came from beside him.

“Would you like a divination?”

He turned his head instinctively and saw a woman standing before a low tent. She wore a pointed hat and a black dress.

Red and yellow greasepaint covered her face, and her grayish-blue eyes looked deep.

“No,” Zhou Mingrui answered, shaking his head. He did not have spare money for divination.

The woman smiled.

“My tarot readings are very accurate.”

“Tarot…”

Zhou Mingrui froze.

That pronunciation was almost identical to the tarot cards of Earth!

On Earth, tarot cards were a kind of fortune-telling deck, only with additional picture cards that each possessed symbolic meanings.

Wait…

He abruptly remembered the origin of tarot divination in this world.

It had not come from the seven orthodox deities, nor had it been inherited from ancient times. It had been invented more than 170 years ago by Roselle Gustav, then Consul of the Intis Republic.

This Mr. Roselle had invented the steam engine, improved sailing ships, overthrown the rule of the Intis Kingdom, and received the recognition of the Church of the God of Craftsmanship, becoming the first Consul of the new republic.

Later, he campaigned north and south, bringing Lenburg and other countries under protection, forcing the Loen Kingdom, Feynapotter, the Feysac Empire, and other great powers of the Northern Continent to lower their heads one after another. Then he changed the republic back into an empire and styled himself Caesar.

It was during Roselle’s reign that the Church of the God of Craftsmanship received the first public oracle since the Fifth Epoch, changing the title “God of Craftsmanship” to “God of Steam and Machinery.”

Roselle had also invented tarot divination and laid the foundation for the current composition and rules of playing cards. Among them were several types familiar to Zhou Mingrui, such as Shengji, Dou Dizhu, Texas Hold’em, and Gwent.

In addition, Roselle had sent fleets through storms and chaotic currents to find a route to the Southern Continent, opening the colonial age.

Unfortunately, in his old age, he suffered betrayal. In the year 1198 of the Fifth Epoch, he was jointly assassinated by the Church of the Eternal Blazing Sun, the former Intis royal family—the Sauron family—and other nobles. He fell in the White Maple Palace.

This…

Remembering these bits of common knowledge, Zhou Mingrui suddenly felt his teeth ache.

This fellow could not have been a transmigrating predecessor, could he?

At that thought, Zhou Mingrui felt an urge to see what the tarot cards of this world actually looked like. He nodded to the pointed-hatted woman with painted face.

“If the price is, uh, reasonable, I will give it a try.”

The woman immediately smiled.

“Sir, you are my first customer for divination today. It is free.”