Chapter 29: “Career” and Housing Are Serious Matters

Chapter Twenty-Nine
“Career” and Housing Are Serious Matters

Klein made every effort not to show anything strange. With genuine curiosity, he asked, “What abilities does a Seer have?”

“Your question is not precise enough. It should be: what abilities does one obtain after drinking a Seer potion?”

Dunn Smith shook his head with a smile. His gray eyes and face were turned away from the red moon, hidden in shadow.

“Astrology, card divination, pendulums, spirit vision, and many similar things. Of course, drinking the potion does not mean you immediately understand and master them. The potion merely gives you the qualification and the ability to study them.

“Because it lacks direct means of fighting enemies—heh, you should be able to imagine that ritual magic requires far too much preparation and is completely unsuited to sudden encounters—a Seer is correspondingly more learned and more specialized than a Mystery Pryer when it comes to mysticism.”

That sounds very much in line with what I need too…

The lack of direct combat ability is a bit worrying, though. And the Church of the Evernight Goddess most likely does not have the later sequences. The Sanctuary probably means the Church headquarters, the Cathedral of Serenity. Still, the direct combat ability of low-sequence Beyonders may not necessarily match firearms anyway…

Klein fell silent. In his mind, the scale swung left and right: sometimes Mystery Pryer, sometimes Seer. As for Corpse Collector, he had already stopped considering it.

Seeing this, Dunn Smith smiled.

“There is no need to choose in a hurry. Tell me your answer Monday morning. Whatever you choose—or even if you decide to give up directly—we Nighthawks will not form any additional opinion of you.”

“Calm yourself, and ask your own heart.”

With that said, he removed his hat, bowed slightly, and slowly walked past Klein toward the stairway.

Klein did not speak and did not immediately give an answer. In silence, he returned the salute. In silence, he watched Dunn leave.

Although he had been longing every moment to become a Beyonder, when the chance truly appeared before him, his heart was filled with hesitation. The missing later sequences, the various dangers of Beyonders losing control, the credibility of Emperor Roselle’s diary, the illusory whispers that could drive people mad and lead them into corruption—all of it mixed together into a swamp barring his path.

He drew in a deep breath, then exhaled slowly.

“This is almost like choosing a college major with neither good grades nor bad ones…”

Klein mocked himself with a soft laugh, gathered his scattered thoughts, quietly opened the door, returned home, and lay down on the bed.

He lay there with his eyes open, silently gazing at the underside of the upper bunk, which was stained with faint crimson.

Outside the window, a drunk staggered past. In the distance, a carriage sped through the empty street. None of these small noises broke the stillness of the night. Instead, they made it seem even more remote, even deeper.

Klein’s emotions settled. He remembered things from Earth: his father, who loved exercising and always spoke in a loud voice; his mother, who suffered from chronic illness yet still liked bustling around for him; the close friends who had grown up with him, who had gone from playing soccer and basketball together to playing video games and mahjong; the girl to whom he had once confessed and failed, whose face had already grown blurred…

They were like a quiet river flowing through him. There were not many ripples, nor was there much intense sorrow, yet they silently drowned the heart.

Perhaps only after losing something did one understand how precious it had been.

When the crimson faded, fire burned along the horizon, and gold appeared, Klein had already made his choice.

…

He got up and went to the shared washroom to wash his face, making himself appear more spirited. Then, carrying a one-soli note, he went to Mrs. Wendy Slin and spent nine pence on eight pounds of rye bread, replenishing the staple food they had finished the previous evening.

“The price of bread has begun to stabilize…”

After breakfast, Benson changed clothes while offering his evaluation.

Today was Sunday. At long last, both he and Melissa had a chance to rest.

Already dressed formally, Klein sat in the chair and flipped through the outdated newspaper he had brought back the day before. With some surprise, he said, “There is a rental advertisement here: Number 3 Wendell Street, North Borough, detached house, two floors in total. Six rooms upstairs, three washrooms, two large balconies. Downstairs: one dining room, one living room, one kitchen, two washrooms, two guest rooms, and an underground storage room. Outside the house, a private front lawn of two ares and a small garden behind. May be rented for one year, two years, or three years. Weekly rent: one pound six soli. Interested parties should go to Number 16 Champagne Street and look for Mr. Gusev.”

“That is our future goal.”

Benson put on his black half-top hat and smiled.

“Rents listed in newspapers are all on the high side. The Tingen City Improved Housing Company has cheaper options that are not much worse.”

“Why not go to the Tingen Working Class Housing Improvement Association?”

Melissa held her worn gauze hat and came out from the partitioned room. She had changed into a grayish-white casual dress that had been mended several times, yet remained her most presentable piece.

She was quiet and reserved, but could not hide the vitality of youth.

Benson laughed.

“Who told you about the Tingen Working Class Housing Improvement Association? Jenny? Mrs. Rochelle? Or your good friend Selena?”

Melissa glanced aside and answered softly, “Mrs. Rochelle… I met her last night while washing up. She asked about Klein’s interview, and I told her roughly what had happened. Then she suggested trying the Tingen Working Class Housing Improvement Association.”

Seeing that Klein also looked confused, Benson shook his head with a smile.

“That is a housing association aimed at the poor—mm, more accurately, the lower classes. The houses they build and renovate are basically all of the shared-washroom type. They offer only three choices: one-room, two-room, and three-room units. Do you hope to continue living somewhere similar?

“The Tingen City Improved Housing Company has the same kind of business, but it also provides choices for the lower-middle class. To be frank, we are now a little better off than lower-middle class, but still somewhat below true middle class. It is not a problem of salary; mainly, we lack time to accumulate savings.”

Klein understood. Folding away the newspaper, taking up his hat, and rising, he said, “Then let us set off.”

“I remember the Tingen City Improved Housing Company is on Daffodil Street,” Benson said as he opened the door. “Like the Tingen Working Class Housing Improvement Association, they are called ‘five percent philanthropy.’ Do you know why?”

“I do not,” Klein answered, lifting his cane and walking at Melissa’s side.

The black-haired girl, whose smooth hair fell to her back, shook her head as well.

Benson stepped out and explained, “These housing improvement associations and companies were all established under the influence of Backlund. Their funding comes from three sources. First, they raise money from charitable foundations. Second, through applications, they obtain quality loans at only four percent annual interest from the government’s Public Works Loan Commissioners. Third, they accept commercial investment, collecting a certain amount of rent and giving investors a five percent annual return. That is why they are called ‘five percent philanthropy.’”

Thud, thud, thud. The three siblings descended the stairs and walked slowly toward Daffodil Street. They planned to confirm a new house first and only afterward visit their current landlord, Mr. Franky, lest they find themselves unable to move into the new place while being forced out of the old one.

“I heard from Selena that there are also purely charitable housing improvement companies,” Melissa said, as if thinking aloud.

Benson laughed lightly.

“There are. The Deweyville Trust, founded by Sir Deweyville’s donation, is one. He built apartments for the working class and provided dedicated property management, yet charged only extremely low rent. However, the requirements are very strict.”

“You do not sound as though you like it very much,” Klein said with keen perception and a smile.

“No, I respect Sir Deweyville very much. But I think he certainly does not know what the lives of the truly poor are like. The requirements for living in his apartments are like the hope given by a priest—far too divorced from reality. For instance, one must receive all major vaccinations; take turns cleaning the washroom; not sublet the property or use it for business; not throw rubbish around; not allow children to play in the corridors. Goddess above, does he hope to turn every person into a gentleman or lady?”

Benson answered in his usual tone.

Klein frowned in confusion.

“They sound like perfectly fine requirements. Good ones, even.”

“Mm,” Melissa agreed with a nod.

Benson turned his head and looked at them both. Then he chuckled.

“Perhaps I have protected you too well, and you have never truly seen the lives of the poor. Do you think they have the money to receive major vaccinations? Free charitable medical organizations can have lines stretching three months into the future.

“Do you think their work is stable and not temporary? If they cannot divide and sublet the rooms to collect a little money, then when unemployment comes, are they supposed to move out all over again? And many women sew clothes or paste matchboxes at home for others in order to make a living. That counts as commercial use. Should they all be driven away?

“Most poor people spend every bit of their energy simply keeping themselves alive. Do you think they have spare time to discipline their children and stop them playing in the corridors? Perhaps they can only lock them inside their rooms. And when those children reach seven or eight, they will be sent to places willing to accept child labor.”

Benson did not use many adjectives, but what he described made Klein feel a faint chill.

So this is the life of the lower classes?

Beside him, Melissa also sank into silence. Only after a long time did she say in an airy voice, “After Jenny moved to Lower Street, she stopped wanting me to visit her home…”

“I hope her father can escape the shadow of his injury and find stable work again. Though I have seen far too many drunks who numb themselves with alcohol from then on…”

Benson laughed under his breath, but his voice was heavy.

Klein did not know what to say. Melissa seemed to be in the same state. In silence, the three siblings reached Daffodil Street and found the Tingen City Improved Housing Company.

The person who received them was a kindly middle-aged man wearing no formal coat and no hat, only a white shirt and black waistcoat.

“You may call me Scarter. What sort of house do you need?”

His gaze flicked to Klein’s silver-inlaid cane, and his smile grew warmer.

Klein glanced toward Benson, who was better with words, indicating that he should answer.

Benson was very direct.

“A row house.”

Scarter flipped through the documents and files in his hands. The corners of his mouth lifted.

“There are currently five unleased properties. To be honest, we mostly serve laborers and their children with truly serious housing difficulties—six, eight, sometimes even ten or twelve people crowded into one room. We do not have many row houses. One is here on Daffodil Street, Number 2. One is in the North Borough. One is in the East Borough… Weekly rent ranges from twelve to sixteen soli. You may look at the specific introductions.”

He pushed the documents in his hands toward Benson, Klein, and Melissa.

After reading through them once, the three siblings looked at one another and, at the same time, pointed to a position on the page.

“We will look at Number 2 Daffodil Street first,” Benson said.

Klein and Melissa nodded along with him.

This neighborhood was, at least barely, an area they knew.