Chapter 25: The Cathedral

Chapter Twenty-Five
The Cathedral

As Azik murmured to himself, he unconsciously looked toward Quentin Cohen, as if seeking a hint or sudden inspiration.

Cohen, whose eyes were sunken and deep blue, shook his head without hesitation.

“I have no impression of it at all.”

“…All right. Perhaps the roots are merely similar.”

Azik lowered his left hand and gave a self-mocking laugh.

Klein was somewhat disappointed by the result, but he could not help adding one more sentence.

“Tutor, Mr. Azik, you both know that I am very interested in exploring and restoring the history of the Fourth Epoch. If you remember anything, or obtain other information, could you write to me?”

“No problem.”

Because of today’s matter, the silver-haired Senior Associate Professor Cohen was quite pleased with Klein.

Azik nodded as well.

“Is your address still the same as before?”

“For now, yes. But we will be moving soon. When the time comes, I will write to inform you,” Klein answered respectfully.

Senior Associate Professor Cohen swung his black cane lightly.

“You truly should move to a better environment.”

At that moment, Klein glanced at the newspaper in Azik’s hand and spoke after brief consideration.

“Tutor, Mr. Azik, regarding Welch and Naya, how did the newspaper report it? I only learned a little from the police responsible for the investigation.”

Azik was about to answer when Senior Associate Professor Cohen, whose wrinkles were still not many, suddenly followed the gold chain on his black tailcoat and took out a pocket watch.

Snap!

He opened it, looked down, and tapped his cane forward.

“The meeting is about to begin. Azik, we cannot delay. Give the newspaper to Moretti.”

“All right.”

Azik handed the newspaper he had finished reading to Klein.

“We have to go upstairs. Remember to write. Cohen’s and my addresses have not changed; they are still the history department office at Khoy University. Haha.”

He turned with a laugh and left the room together with Cohen.

Klein removed his hat and saluted, watching the two gentlemen go. Only after that did he take leave of Harvin Stone, the owner of the office, and walk slowly along the corridor and out through the main entrance of the gray three-story building.

In the sunlight, he lifted his cane, unfolded the newspaper, and saw the title at the top:

Tingen Morning Post.

There truly are many different newspapers and magazines in Tingen… Morning Post, Evening Post, Honest Man, Backlund Daily, Tussock Times, Family Magazine, Story Review…

Klein casually thought back, and seven or eight names floated into his mind. Of course, some were not local but came from elsewhere, distributed by steam train.

As industrial papermaking and printing developed more and more, the price of a newspaper had already fallen to one penny, and the readership had grown steadily wider.

Klein did not read the other contents closely. He soon found the “Burglary and Murder” report in the news section.

“…According to the police department, the scene inside Mr. Welch’s home was tragic beyond description. All gold, jewelry, banknotes, and every valuable item that could be carried away were missing; not even copper pennies were left behind. There is reason to believe this was the work of a band of cruel and vicious criminals, who would not hesitate to murder any innocent person who had seen their faces—such as Mr. Welch, and such as Miss Naya.”

“This is a trampling of the Kingdom’s laws! This is a challenge to public safety! No one wishes to encounter anything like it. Of course, there is one piece of good news: the police department has already identified the murderer and arrested the chief culprit. We will provide follow-up reports as soon as possible.”

“Reporter: John Browning.”

So they handled and disguised it…

Klein walked along the tree-lined road and nodded almost imperceptibly.

He casually flipped through the newspaper while strolling and reading other news items and serialized stories.

Suddenly, every hair on his back stood upright, as if fine needles were pricking him there.

Someone is looking at me? Watching me? Monitoring me?

Thought after thought rose of their own accord, and Klein vaguely understood.

Back on Earth, he had also once felt invisible gazes and eventually discovered the source of that attention. But never had the reaction been as clear as now, nor had the “conclusion” been so definite.

The same was true of similar incidents in the original owner’s memory fragments.

Was it the transmigration? Or that strange “luck-changing ritual” that strengthened my “sixth sense”?

Klein restrained the urge to search for the watcher. Imitating novels, films, and television dramas he had seen, he gradually slowed his steps, folded the newspaper, and looked out toward the Khoy River.

Immediately afterward, he turned his head bit by bit as though admiring the scenery. Then he naturally turned around, taking in the entire surrounding area.

Aside from trees, lawns, and distant students passing by, there was no one.

But Klein was certain someone was still watching him.

This…

His heartbeat quickened. Blood surged through his body in violent thumps.

He unfolded the newspaper and used it to half-cover his face, afraid someone might notice that something was wrong with his expression.

At the same time, he tightened his grip on the cane and prepared himself to draw the gun.

One step. Two steps. Three.

Klein moved forward slowly, just as before.

The feeling of being spied upon and examined remained, but no sudden danger erupted.

With his body slightly stiff, he finished walking through the tree-lined road and reached the public carriage stop. Fortunately, a carriage had just arrived.

“Iron—Zout—no, Champagne Street.”

Klein denied his own thoughts several times in succession.

At first, he had intended to return directly home. But he feared bringing the watcher—whose purpose and nature were unknown—back to the apartment. Next, he wanted to go to Zouteland Street and seek help from the Nighthawks, or rather, his colleagues. But he also worried that the other party might be trying to beat the grass and scare the snake, forcing him to expose the place himself. In the end, he could only pick a destination at random.

“Six pence,” the fare collector answered with practiced ease.

Klein had not brought any gold pounds today. He had placed them in the usual hiding spot and taken only two soli in banknotes. Since he had spent the same amount coming here, he happened to have one soli and six pence left. He took out all the coins and handed them to the collector.

After climbing into the carriage and finding a seat, Klein felt the uneasy sensation of being watched finally vanish as the carriage door closed.

He slowly exhaled and felt his hands and feet trembling faintly.

What should I do?

What comes next?

Looking out the carriage window, Klein forced himself to think of a solution.

Since he did not know the watcher’s purpose or whether they were friend or foe, he would first treat them as hostile.

One idea after another appeared and was rejected. Having never experienced anything like this, Klein spent several full minutes before finding a line of thought.

He had to notify the Nighthawks. Only they could truly resolve this trouble.

But he could not go there directly. That would expose them, and perhaps that was precisely the other party’s goal…

Following this line of reasoning, Klein roughly devised plan after plan. His thoughts gradually became clearer.

Hoo!

He exhaled stale air, recovered basic calm, and seriously watched the scenery rushing backward outside the window.

Nothing happened before the carriage reached Champagne Street. But the moment Klein opened the door and stepped down, the uneasy feeling of being stared at and watched immediately returned.

Pretending to notice nothing, he picked up the newspaper, carried his cane, and walked slowly in the direction of Zouteland Street.

However, he did not enter that street. Instead, he circled around to Red Moon Street behind it, where there was a beautiful white square and a cathedral with a pointed spire.

Saint Selena Cathedral.

The headquarters of the Church of the Evernight Goddess in Tingen.

For a believer, coming to attend mass and pray on a rest day was not strange at all.

The cathedral had a distinctly Gothic style similar to Earth’s. Its overall color was black, and its front facade was a tall, mottled clock tower. Rising between red-and-blue lattice windows, the massive central buttress thrust into the clouds.

Klein entered the cathedral and followed the passage toward the great prayer hall. Along the way, narrow tall windows inlaid with tiny blue and red patterns let in rays of colored light: blue so deep it was nearly black, red like the moon. They set off the surroundings in extraordinary gloom.

The feeling of being watched vanished again. Klein’s expression remained normal and showed no joy. Step by step, he arrived outside the open great prayer hall.

There were no tall windows here. Deep darkness took the leading role. But behind the arched altar, on the wall facing the doors, ten or twenty holes the size of fists pierced through to the outside, allowing brilliant, pure sunlight to shine in, condensed and bright.

It was like a traveler in the night suddenly lifting his head and seeing the starry sky—seeing one brilliant point after another, so exalted, so pure, so holy.

Even Klein, who had always believed that gods could be studied and understood, could not help lowering his head.

Amid the bishop’s low, gentle sermon, he walked quietly down the aisle dividing the left and right rows of seats, found an empty place near the passage, and slowly sat down.

After leaning his cane against the back of the chair in front of him, Klein removed his top hat and set it together with the newspaper on his lap. Then he clasped his hands and pressed them against his lowered forehead.

The entire process was slow and orderly, as though he had truly come to pray.

Klein closed his eyes. In the darkness behind his lids, he quietly listened to the bishop’s voice.

“They are naked, without clothing and without food, exposed to the cold.”

“They are drenched by rain and, having no shelter, cling to the rocks.”

“They are mothers from whom children have been taken. They are orphans who have lost hope. They are the poor forced away from the righteous path.”

“The night has not abandoned them, but has given them care.”

…

Echoes overlapped. Sentence after sentence entered his ears. Klein’s vision was completely dark, and his heart felt as though it were being washed clean.

He calmly experienced all this until the bishop completed the sermon and the mass came to an end.

The bishop opened the door of the confessional beside him. One gentleman after another and one lady after another formed a line.

Klein opened his eyes, put on his top hat, picked up his cane and newspaper, and joined the line, rising in orderly fashion.

After more than twenty minutes, it was finally his turn.

He stepped inside, closed the door behind him, and once again found darkness before his eyes.

“My child, what would you like to say?” the bishop’s voice came from behind a partition made of wooden slats.

Klein took the badge of the “Special Operations Department, Seventh Group” from his pocket and passed it through the gap to the bishop.

“Someone is following me. I want to find Dunn Smith.”

As if dyed by the dimness around him, his own voice became soft as well.

The bishop accepted the badge and was silent for a few seconds.

“Turn right outside the confessional door and walk to the end. Beside it is a hidden door. Once you enter, someone will guide you.”

As he spoke, he pulled a cord inside the room, causing a bell to ring where some priest could hear it.

Klein took back the badge, removed his top hat, pressed it to his chest, and bowed slightly. Then he turned, pushed open the door, and stepped out.

After confirming that the feeling of being watched had not returned, he put on his black half-top hat again. With no extra expression on his face, he lifted his cane and turned right, walking all the way to the side of the arched altar.

On the wall facing that side, he found the hidden door. He opened it soundlessly and slipped inside.

The hidden door closed quietly behind him. A middle-aged man in a black priest’s robe appeared under the glow of the gas lamp and in Klein’s sight.

“What is it?” the middle-aged priest asked briefly.

Klein showed him the badge and repeated what he had said to the bishop.

The middle-aged priest asked no further questions. He turned and walked forward in silence.

Klein nodded, brushed a hand over his hat, and followed quietly with his black cane.

Rozanne had said that at the crossroads leading toward Chanis Gate, the left-hand path led to Saint Selena Cathedral.

Note:
The sermon is adapted from the Book of Job, Chapter 24.