Chapter 16: Dogs Catching Rats

Chapter Sixteen
Dogs Catching Rats

Whew. At last, he had passed the Spirit Medium’s hurdle…

Klein breathed out a mouthful of stale air and turned slowly around. While enjoying the quiet of the night and the cool, refreshing breeze, he strolled toward the entrance of the apartment building.

He took out his key, inserted it, and turned it gently. With a creak, darkness threaded with crimson widened before him.

Walking up the empty stairs, breathing the cold air, Klein felt, for no reason at all, a strange sensation that he possessed several more hours of life than other people. His steps even became lighter.

Click.

Still in that peculiar mood, he opened the door to his own home. Before he could step inside, he saw a figure sitting quietly in the darkness before the desk. Black hair bathed in red, bright brown eyes, delicate features—it was unmistakably Melissa Moretti.

“Klein, where did you go?” Melissa asked, her frown loosening into confusion.

Without waiting for him to answer, she added another sentence, as though determined to explain the cause, effect, and logic of the matter perfectly clearly. “I got up just now to go to the washroom and found that you were not at home.”

Klein had abundant experience deceiving parents. His mind turned once, and without panic or haste he answered with a bitter smile.

“After waking up once, I found I could not sleep. I thought that wasting time like that was pointless, so I went out and ran a few laps. See? I am covered in sweat.”

He took off his coat, half-turned, and pointed toward his back.

Melissa stood, glanced without much concern, then considered for several seconds before saying, “Klein, actually, you do not need to put so much pressure on yourself. You will certainly pass Tingen University’s interview. Even if you do not—mm, I mean if—you will still find something better.”

I haven’t even been thinking about the interview…

Klein nodded.

“I understand.”

He did not say that he had already received an “offer,” because he still had not decided whether to accept it.

Melissa looked deeply at him. Suddenly she turned, trotted into the inner room, and brought out an object shaped like a turtle, pieced together from gears, rusted iron, springs, clockwork, and other odds and ends.

After winding the spring quickly, Melissa placed the object on the desk.

Click-click-click. Tap-tap-tap.

The “turtle” hopped and walked in a steady rhythm, drawing one’s attention to it almost involuntarily.

“When you feel troubled, watching it move like this makes you feel much better. I have been doing that often lately. It works very well! Klein, try it,” Melissa invited, her eyes bright.

Klein did not refuse his sister’s goodwill. He leaned closer and watched the “turtle” until it stopped. Then he smiled.

“Simplicity and regularity can indeed bring relaxation.”

Before Melissa could say anything more, he pointed at the “turtle” and asked casually, “You made it yourself? When? How did I not know?”

“I made it with materials the school threw away and things I picked up on the road. I only finished it a few days ago.” Melissa’s expression remained normal, though the corners of her mouth lifted slightly.

“That is impressive.” Klein praised her sincerely.

As a boy with poor practical ability in machinery, even assembling a four-wheel-drive toy car when he was young had nearly killed him.

Melissa raised her chin a little. Her eyes curved faintly, but her tone remained flat.

“It is all right. Just all right.”

“Excessive modesty is a bad quality,” Klein said with a light laugh. “It is a turtle, right?”

The atmosphere in the room suddenly grew heavy.

Melissa’s voice drifted in, faint and soft as a crimson gauze.

“It is a doll.”

A doll…

…Klein gave an awkward smile and forced an explanation.

“It is the materials’ fault. They are still too crude.”

Immediately after, he changed the subject.

“Why did you go to the washroom in the middle of the night? There is a chamber pot inside. And aren’t you usually good at sleeping until dawn?”

Melissa froze. After several seconds, she opened her mouth, about to explain.

At that very moment, a loud, intense gurgling sounded from somewhere between her chest and stomach.

“I—I am going back to sleep for a bit!”

Bang!

She grabbed the turtle-shaped “doll” and trotted back into the inner room, shutting the door behind her.

…Dinner yesterday was too good. She ate too much, and her stomach was not used to it…

Klein shook his head and laughed. He walked slowly to the desk and sat soundlessly in the chair. By the light of the crimson moon that had slipped out from behind the dark clouds, he quietly pondered Dunn Smith’s invitation.

The drawbacks of becoming civilian staff for the Nighthawks were very clear.

As a transmigrator and the initiator of the mysterious gathering—the Fool—he held many secrets. To loiter long-term beneath the very eyes of the Church of the Evernight Goddess’s team for handling supernatural incidents would carry no small risk.

Once he joined Dunn Smith and the others, his goal would surely become that of becoming a Beyonder himself, so as to conceal the benefits obtained from the “gathering.” But if he became an official member, his freedom would inevitably be restricted. Even civilian staff needed to report before leaving Tingen. He would not be able to go wherever he wanted or do whatever he wished. He might miss many opportunities.

The Nighthawks were a tightly organized group. Once there was a mission, he could only wait for arrangements, accept orders, and not refuse.

Beyonders had the risk of losing control.

…

After listing the disadvantages one by one in his mind, Klein turned to the necessity and the advantages.

Judging from the “luck-changing ritual” and other experiences, he was probably not among the eighty percent of fortunate survivors Dunn had mentioned. Strange events would inevitably fall upon him again, filled with danger. Only by becoming a Beyonder or joining the Nighthawks would he possess the ability to resist.

If he wanted to become a Beyonder, relying only on the “gathering” would not work. The issue of potion formulas was not too difficult, but where should the corresponding ingredients be found? How should they be obtained? How should the potion be concocted? What were the common principles of daily training for Beyonders? In all of these areas, he had serious obstacles. He could not ask Justice and the Hanged Man about every little thing, nor trade with them for every object. Not only would that damage the Fool’s image and make them suspicious, there would not be enough time in the gatherings to communicate so many trivial details. Likewise, he had nothing of interest to offer them.

In addition, more material exchanges would leave traces of his real identity. If an “online dispute” turned into an “offline conflict,” things would become troublesome.

Joining the Nighthawks, however, would inevitably give him access to basic knowledge of the mysterious world and related channels. He could build up enough corresponding connections and use them as leverage for the “gathering,” extracting the greatest benefit from Justice and the Hanged Man. In reverse, this would improve his situation in reality and grant him more resources, forming a positive cycle.

Of course, he could also seek out an organization like the Psychology Alchemists, which Dunn had mentioned and which was suppressed and hunted by the major churches. But becoming one of them would likewise mean losing freedom, and perhaps living in constant fear. More importantly, he had no idea where to find them. Even if he extracted the corresponding intelligence from the Hanged Man, rash contact might cost him his life.

Becoming civilian staff still left a buffer and a chance to withdraw.

Hide little in the wilderness, hide better in the city, hide best in the court. The identity of a Nighthawk might be the best protective color.

In the future, if he rose high within the tribunal, who could imagine that he was a heretic, the hidden mastermind behind a secret organization?

…

Dawn shone, and crimson withdrew.

Looking at the golden light on the horizon, Klein made up his mind.

Today, he would go find Dunn Smith and become a civilian staff member of the Nighthawks.

“You did not sleep?”

At that moment, Melissa got up again and pushed open the door. She looked with surprise at her brother, who was stretching without the slightest care for his image.

“I was thinking about some things.”

Klein smiled, feeling light all over.

Melissa pondered for a moment and said, “When I encounter a problem, I list the bad and good parts one by one. After listing them, I compare them, and then I can get a ‘hint’ about what I should do.”

“A good habit. I do the same.” Klein smiled back.

Melissa’s expression relaxed. She said no more, took a large sheet of yellowed paper and her washing things, and went to the shared washroom.

After breakfast and after his sister left, Klein did not hurry out. In a good mood, he caught up on some sleep, because as far as he knew, almost every tavern stayed closed in the morning.

At two in the afternoon, he used a small brush and a handkerchief to smooth out the wrinkles of his top hat, remove the dirt, and restore it to neatness. Then he went out in formal attire, looking as though he were heading to an interview.

Besik Street was rather far. Afraid of missing the Nighthawks’ “office hours,” Klein did not walk there. Instead, he waited at the corner of Iron Cross Street for a public carriage.

In the Loen Kingdom, public carriages were divided into two types: trackless and tracked. The former were drawn by two horses and, counting seats on the roof, could carry around twenty people. They followed only general routes, had no fixed stops, operated flexibly, and stopped when called unless full.

The latter were operated by the Tram Carriage Company. First, devices similar to iron rails were laid along major streets. The horses walked inside the tracks, and the wheels turned upon them, making movement easier and less laborious. Thus, they could pull larger double-deck carriages that carried nearly fifty passengers. The only problem was that the routes and stops were fixed. Many places could not be reached, making them rather rigid.

After ten or so minutes, the sound of wheels striking rails approached from far away. A double-deck carriage stopped at the Iron Cross Street station.

“To Besik Street,” Klein told the driver.

“You will have to transfer at Champagne Street. From there, it is only about a ten-minute walk to Besik Street,” the driver explained.

“Then Champagne Street,” Klein agreed with a nod.

“Over four kilometers. Four pence.” A fair-faced young man beside the driver held out his hand.

He was the staff member responsible for collecting fares.

“All right.”

Klein took four copper pence from his pocket and handed them over.

He stepped into the carriage and found that there were not many passengers. Even on the first level there were still several empty seats.

“I only have three pence left. I will have to walk back…”

Klein pressed his hat and sat down steadily.

On this level, most of the gentlemen and ladies sat upright in formal clothing. Some wore work clothes, and some leisurely read newspapers, but almost no one spoke. It was quite quiet.

Klein closed his eyes to conserve his energy, paying little attention to the passengers coming and going beside him.

Stop after stop after stop, he finally heard the words “Champagne Street.”

After alighting, he asked along the way and soon reached Besik Street, where he saw a tavern painted with the sign of a brownish-yellow hound.

Klein stretched out his right hand and pushed hard. The heavy door slowly opened, and with it came surging noise and a restless wave of heat.

Although it was still afternoon, there were already many customers in the tavern. Some were temporary laborers searching for opportunities and waiting to be hired. Others were simply idle men using alcohol to numb themselves.

The interior was rather dim. At its center stood two large iron cages. Their lower thirds extended into the ground, leaving no gaps. People stood around them holding wooden beer cups, sometimes discussing loudly, sometimes cursing and laughing.

Klein glanced curiously and discovered two dogs inside. One was black and white, resembling a husky from Earth. The other was entirely black, its coat glossy, its body strong and fierce.

“Want to place a bet? Doug has won eight rounds in a row!” A short man in a brown soft hat came over and pointed to the black dog.

Place a bet?

Klein was first startled, then understood.

“Dog fighting?”

Back at Khoy University, those noble students and the children of wealthy families had always asked with both contempt and curiosity whether crude workers and unemployed ruffians liked to participate in boxing and gambling in taverns. Apart from boxing and cards, did their gambling also include cruel, bloody activities such as cockfighting and dog fighting?

The short man snorted.

“Sir, we are civilized people. We would never do anything so improper.”

At that, he muttered under his breath, “And a law banning those things came out last year anyway…”

“Then what are you betting on?” Klein grew curious for a moment.

“On who is the better ‘hunter.’”

The short man had only just finished when a commotion rose in the middle of the tavern.

He glanced back and waved excitedly.

“This round has started. You cannot place a bet now. Wait for the next one.”

Hearing this, Klein stood on tiptoe, craned his neck, and looked over. He saw two burly men dragging over a sack each. They came to the iron cages, opened the “prison doors,” and poured the contents inside.

They were gray, disgusting animals.

Klein looked carefully and realized they were rats. Dozens upon dozens—perhaps even over a hundred rats.

Because the lower part of the iron cages sank into the ground and left no openings, the rats scurried everywhere but could not escape.

At that moment, as the cage doors shut, the chains on the two dogs were removed.

Woof!

The black dog pounced forward and bit a rat to death in one snap.

The black-and-white dog first looked utterly dumbfounded. Then, excited, it began playing with the rats.

Around them, people either raised beer cups and stared intently, or shouted at the top of their lungs:

“Bite it dead! Kill it!”

“Doug! Doug!”

…A dog catching rats. What the hell…

Klein understood at last, and the corner of his mouth twitched uncontrollably.

The gambling here was actually on which dog would catch more rats.

Perhaps one could even bet on the exact number.

No wonder someone had been buying live rats around Iron Cross Street all this time.

Distinctive. Truly distinctive.

Klein shook his head in amusement and retreated. Circling around the cluster of drinkers at the edge, he arrived at the bar counter.

“New face?” The bartender looked up at him while polishing a cup. “Rye beer, one penny a cup. Enmat beer, two pence. Southville beer, four pence. Or would you like a glass of pure malt Langqi?”

“I am looking for Mr. Wright,” Klein said directly.

The bartender whistled and shouted to the side, “Old man, someone is looking for you.”

“Mm… Who is it…”

A muffled voice emerged, and behind the bar an elderly man stood up, drunk and bleary-eyed.

He rubbed his eyes and looked at Klein.

“Young man, you are looking for me?”

“Mr. Wright, I would like to hire a mercenary team for a mission,” Klein answered according to Dunn’s instructions.

“A mercenary team? Are you living inside an adventure story? There has not been anything like that for ages!” the bartender interrupted with a laugh.

Wright was silent for several seconds.

“Who told you to come here?”

“Dunn. Dunn Smith,” Klein answered honestly.

Wright immediately chuckled.

“I understand. In fact… mercenary teams still exist. They have merely changed form and taken a name more suited to modern society. Go to the second floor of 36 Zouteland Street. You will find one there.”

“Thank you.”

Klein thanked him sincerely, turned, and squeezed out of the tavern.

Just before he left, the drinkers gathered around the cages suddenly fell silent. Only murmurs remained.

“Doug actually lost…”

“Lost…”

Klein shook his head with a smile, left quickly, and asked his way to nearby Zouteland Street.

“Thirty. Thirty-two. Thirty-four… Here.”

Counting the door numbers, he entered the stairwell.

Around the bend and up the steps, he saw a vertical sign and the present-day name of the so-called mercenary team:

Blackthorn Security Company.