025 Church

Azek muttered to himself, casting a subconscious glance at Quentin Cohen, seemingly seeking a hint, an inspiration.

Cohen, with sunken eye sockets and deep blue eyes, shook his head without hesitation: "I have no recollection."

"...Very well, perhaps it's merely an association of roots," Azek remarked, lowering his left hand with a self-deprecating smile.

Though slightly disappointed by such an outcome, Klein couldn't help but add, "Mentor, Mr. Azek, as you know, I am deeply intrigued by the exploration and reconstruction of the Quaternary history. If you recall anything, or come across additional information, could you possibly write to me?"

"Of course." Due to today's events, Professor Cohen, with his silver hair, expressed considerable satisfaction towards Klein.

Azek nodded in agreement, "Is your address still the same as before?"

"For the time being, yes. However, I'll be moving soon, and I'll inform you by letter when the time comes," Klein responded respectfully.

Professor Cohen, wielding his black cane, interjected, "Indeed, it's high time for a change of environment."

At that moment, Klein glanced at the newspaper in Azek's hand and pondered before inquiring, "Mentor, Mr. Azek, regarding the matter of Welch and Naya in the newspaper, what does it say? I've only heard a bit from the police handling the investigation."

Azek was about to reply when Professor Cohen, whose relatively few wrinkles adorned his black tailcoat, suddenly reached into his pocket adorned with a gold chain and retrieved a pocket watch.

Click! He opened it, glanced at the time, then tapped his cane forward, "The meeting is about to begin, Azek. We cannot delay any longer. Please hand the newspaper to Moretti."

"Very well." Azek handed the unfolded newspaper to Klein. "We must ascend now. Remember to write. Our addresses, both mine and Cohen's, remain unchanged at the History Department of Hoy University. Ha ha." With a smile, he turned and left the room with Cohen.

Klein tipped his hat in farewell, watching the two gentlemen depart, before bidding adieu to the room's owner, Haven Stone, and strolling out of the gray three-story building's entrance.

Beneath the sunlight, he lifted his cane, unfurled the newspaper, and saw the header: "Tingan Morning Post".

There were quite a variety of newspapers and magazines in Tingan... morning papers, evening papers, The Honest Man, Beckland Daily, Tasok Gazette, family magazines, story reviews... Klein casually recalled, with seven or eight names popping into his mind. Of course, some were not local, arriving via steam train distribution.

In today's era of industrialized papermaking and printing, the price of a newspaper had dropped to a penny, and consequently, its readership had expanded.

Klein didn't delve into the other contents and quickly found the report on "Home Invasion Murder".

"...According to the police department, Mr. Welch's home was a gruesome scene, with all gold, jewels, banknotes, and any valuable and easily transportable items missing. Not even a copper penny was left behind. There is reason to believe that this was the work of a ruthless gang, who would not hesitate to kill any innocent who saw their faces, such as Mr. Welch and Miss Naya."

"This is a violation of the kingdom's laws! This is a challenge to public safety! No one wishes to encounter such events! Of course, the good news is that the police department has identified the culprits, apprehended the ringleader, and we will provide further updates as soon as possible."

"Reporter, John Browning."

They've doctored and obscured the truth... Klein walked along the tree-lined path, nodding imperceptibly.

He flipped through the newspaper, perusing other news and serialized stories as he ambled.

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

Is someone observing me? Watching me? Monitoring me?

Thoughts surged through his mind, and Klein had a moment of clarity, unlike any before.

Similar occurrences had happened during his time on Earth, but never had he experienced such a clear and definite "conclusion"!

The same events as the fragments of the original host's memory!

Is it time travel, or did that strange "transference ritual" enhance my "sixth sense"?

Suppressing the urge to seek out the observer, Klein, emulating novels, films, and TV shows he had seen, gradually halted his steps, folded the newspaper, and gazed towards the Hoy River.

Then, in a manner of observing the surroundings, he gradually turned his head, taking in everything around him.

Apart from trees, lawns, and passing students in the distance, there was no one else.

Yet, Klein was certain that someone was still watching him!

This... Klein's heartbeat accelerated, blood coursing fiercely through his veins.

He unfolded the newspaper, partially shielding his face, fearing that someone might notice his abnormal expression.

Simultaneously, he tightened his grip on the cane, preparing for a possible threat.

One step, two steps, three steps, Klein slowly proceeded, just as before.

The sensation of being spied upon persisted, but there was no sudden outbreak of danger.

Stiffly traversing the tree-lined path, he arrived at the public carriage waiting point, fortunate to find one arriving just in time.

"Iron... Zoth... No, Champagne Street," Klein negated his own thoughts consecutively.

Initially intending to go straight home, he hesitated, fearing to lead the unknown observer, good or bad, to his apartment. Then, considering going to Zotlin Street to seek assistance from the "night guards" or colleagues, but worried that it might tip off the other party and make himself vulnerable, he settled on a random location.

"Six pence," the attendant responded familiarly.

Klein had not brought any gold pounds with him today, leaving them in their usual hiding place. He only took out two sules of banknotes, having spent the same amount earlier, and now had exactly one sule and six pence left. He emptied all the coins from his pocket and handed them to the attendant.

As he boarded the carriage and found a seat, with the closing of the door, Klein felt the unsettling sensation of being watched finally dissipate!

He exhaled slowly, feeling a slight tremor in his hands and feet.

What should I do next?

What should I do after this?

Klein gazed out of the carriage window, pondering solutions.

In the absence of clear knowledge of the observer's intentions, assume malice first!

Thoughts emerged and were subsequently rejected by Klein one by one. Having never experienced anything like this before, it took him several minutes to formulate a plan.

I must inform the "night guards"; only they can truly resolve this trouble!

But I can't just go directly; that would expose me. Perhaps that's precisely the other party's intention...

Following this line of thought, Klein roughly formulated one plan after another, gradually clarifying his thoughts.

Phew!

He exhaled deeply, regaining basic composure, and earnestly observed the scenery flying past outside the carriage window.

Until the carriage arrived at Champagne Street, no unexpected incidents occurred. But as soon as Klein stepped off the carriage, the feeling of being watched returned immediately!

Pretending not to notice anything, he picked up the newspaper, lifted his cane, and leisurely headed towards Zotlin Street.

However, instead of entering that street, he circled around to the back to Red Moon Street, where there was a beautiful white square and a pointed-roof cathedral!

Saint Selena's Cathedral!

The headquarters of the Church of the Night Mother in Tingan!

For a believer to come for Mass and prayer on a rest day was nothing out of the ordinary.

The cathedral had a distinct Gothic style, mostly black in appearance. The facade featured a towering, mottled bell tower, positioned atop the grand central buttress between the red and blue checkered windows, piercing into the sky.

Klein stepped into the church, walking down the aisle toward the grand sanctuary. Along the way, narrow high windows, adorned with blue and red floral patterns, allowed streaks of color-stained light to filter in, casting the surroundings in an unusually dim hue, blue nearing black and red akin to the moon, creating an exceptionally gloomy atmosphere.

The feeling of being watched vanished once again, and Klein maintained his calm demeanor, devoid of joy, gradually arriving outside the open grand sanctuary.

Here, with no tall windows, the deep darkness took center stage. Yet, behind the arched sanctuary, on the wall directly opposite the entrance, a dozen or so fist-sized circular holes pierced through, allowing the radiant, pure sunlight to pour in, condensed and bright.

It was like pedestrians in the night, suddenly looking up to see the starry sky, witnessing each sparkling star. It was so sublime, so pure, so sacred.

Even though he had always believed that gods could be studied and understood, Klein couldn't help but lower his head.

Amidst the Bishop's low and gentle sermon, he quietly walked along the aisle separating the left and right seats, finding an unoccupied position near the passage and sat down slowly.

Resting his cane against the back of the chair in front, Klein removed his hat and placed it, along with the newspaper, on his lap. Then, clasping his hands, he pressed them against his forehead, which hung down.

The entire process was slow and orderly, as if truly coming to pray.

Klein closed his eyes, quietly listening to the Bishop's voice in the darkness:

"They were naked, without clothing or food, exposed in the cold."

"They were drenched in heavy rain, for there was no shelter, only clinging to rocks."

"They were mothers deprived of their children, they were orphans without hope, they were the poor forced off the righteous path."

"The night did not abandon them, showing them mercy."

... (Note 1)

Echoes overlapping, every word ringing in his ears, Klein's vision turned black, his soul seemingly cleansed.

He calmly experienced these, until the Bishop finished his sermon, concluding the Mass.

The Bishop opened the door to the adjacent confessional, and one by one, gentlemen and ladies lined up.

Klein opened his eyes, put on his hat, picked up his cane and newspaper, and followed suit, standing up in an orderly fashion.

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

Stepping inside, he closed the door behind him, and once again, darkness enveloped Klein.

"Child, what do you wish to confess?" the Bishop's voice came from behind the wooden panel.

Klein took out the badge of the "Special Operations Department Seventh Team" from his pocket and handed it through the gap to the Bishop.

"Someone is tracking me, I want to find Dunn Smith," his tone softened as if tainted by the darkness.

The Bishop accepted the badge, remained silent for a few seconds, then said, "At the entrance of the confessional, turn right, go to the end, and there's a hidden door on the side. Go in, and someone will guide you."

As he spoke, he pulled a rope inside the room, producing the sound of a bell ringing, alerting a priest nearby.

Klein retrieved the badge, took off his hat, pressed it to his chest, gave a slight bow, then turned and pushed open the door.

Confirming that the sensation of being watched hadn't returned, he once again donned his black half-high hat, his face devoid of any extra expression, lifted his cane, and turned right, walking all the way to the side of the arched sanctuary.

On the wall aligned with his side, he found the hidden door, silently opened it, and flashed inside.

As the hidden door closed silently, a middle-aged man in a black priest's robe appeared under the glow of a gas lamp, coming into Klein's view.

"What is it?" the middle-aged priest asked succinctly.

Klein showed the badge, repeating the words he had said to the Bishop just now.

The middle-aged priest didn't ask any more questions, turning his body silently, and walked forward in silence.

Klein nodded, adjusted his hat, and followed quietly behind.

Rochelle had mentioned that to go to "Chains Gate," one had to turn left at the intersection.