Klein stretches lazily, quickly dressing to end his morning catch-up sleep. Last night, while guarding the Chanis Gate, a mannequin clutching a sheet with strange symbols gave him quite a scare. As he fully wakes, his senses sharpen. His ears twitch, catching a commotion outside—Benson's voice mingling with a vaguely familiar male one.
A colleague of Benson's? A friend? Puzzled, Klein pushes open the door and sees Benson chatting with a warm smile in the living room. Across from him sits the man Klein met on the street: Adrian, of the Abraham family. The thought of this man's wealth makes Klein wonder why such a merchant is visiting their humble home.
Hearing the door, both men turn, spotting Klein frozen in the doorway.
"Hello, you must be Benson's brother, Klein. Benson's told me about you—says you're a fine young man," I say, my eyes twinkling before Klein can speak. I tap my cane lightly on the floor, the soft sound punctuating my words. "I'm visiting rather boldly today, but I had no pressing matters, and Benson and I just sealed a deal. I'd planned to celebrate with him over a meal, but I didn't want to steal too much of his rare day off. Where I come from, it's custom to share a meal after a successful deal."
Does this world have that custom too? It's a bit like the Great Foodie Empire's tradition of sealing deals over dinner… Wait, could it be like Emperor Roselle? Did the Abraham family's ancestor include a transmigrator? The name sounds biblical—too coincidental. Could there really be a "transmigrator senior" in their lineage?
Klein's mind races, oblivious to the peculiar glint in my expression.
"You're too kind, Adrian. We're friends, aren't we?" Benson chuckles, clearly fond of this generous, congenial man. "By rights, I should've joined you for that meal. If not for personal matters, you wouldn't have waited so long. Klein, tidy up. We'll eat once Melissa's back."
Klein nods, heading to the washroom. I flash a kindly smile at Benson. "No trouble at all. Idling's just idling, and chatting with a witty gentleman like you passes the time nicely. I'm a painter—trade's just a side gig. Your words today sparked some inspiration, so this visit's well worth it."
With a playful tone, I add, "You know, Benson, Backlund's no place for art. Those pompous officials would rather every painter punched a clock. Honestly, even a curly-haired baboon knows to doodle for fun when bored."
"Exactly. The rule-makers act like machines, blindly following the king's preset functions," Benson says, a grin tugging at his lips. "But rule-making isn't for machines. It's illogical, and those officials are often incompetent."
"Maybe the machines are just shoddy," I quip, shrugging helplessly. Our eyes meet, and we share a knowing laugh.
We chat idly, waiting for Benson and Klein's sister to return. About half an hour later, a "tap-tap" sounds at the door. Benson rises to open it, revealing a man in a coat holding two food boxes, standing face-to-face with Melissa. Instantly wary, Benson asks, "May I ask who you are?"
"Delivery," Mr. Z says flatly, restraining his urge to preach and keeping his words minimal. Benson glances back at me on the sofa. I stand, nodding. "Thanks for the trouble. Head back to Backlund after today's business. I'll return once my tasks here are done."
Mr. Z nods, turning to leave without hesitation. Melissa, fresh from church prayers, blinks at her brother and me, bewildered.
"Benson, who's this?" she asks. Benson smiles. "This is Mr. Adrian, our guest today. He and I finalized that deal this morning."
"Oh, I see. Congratulations, Brother," Melissa says, turning to me sincerely. "And thank you, Mr. Adrian."
I wave it off, picking up the food boxes Mr. Z delivered and setting them on the table. Klein emerges from his "divine kingdom" (the washroom), freshly tidied. Melissa sets her things down, joining Benson at the table. Seeing Klein lingering, she prods, "Hurry up, Klein, it's time to eat. We have a guest, and you slept this late!"
Sis… how are you acting like Mom at your age? Klein grumbles inwardly. As he approaches, his nose twitches, catching a familiar scent from the food boxes. Hopeful, he takes a seat.
What a wealthy, generous man, bringing "takeout" like this. Not at all like the nobles of this era… Klein silently thanks me, sitting primly, awaiting the meal.
"Adrian, Intis cuisine is something to look forward to. Many dishes were invented by Emperor Roselle himself. He didn't just create machines—his culinary innovations were plenty," Adrian teases. "Though some… er, aren't exactly palatable."
"Yeah, some are downright bizarre," Klein nods fervently. He remembers his excitement learning of Roselle's "handwritten recipes," only to be crushed when they turned out to be courtly Intis desserts like "swan puff" or "bean cake." Roselle clearly wasn't a chef and failed to uphold the Great Foodie Empire's legacy! Some dishes echoed that empire's style in name, but their descriptions baffled Klein, and reading about them in books felt like a sanity drain. He swore off those odd Intis foods.
But when he sees the food box's contents, Klein freezes.
He blurts out in perfect Mandarin, "Zongzi?"
"I'm certain we're dealing with the genuine Klein. Thankfully, my presence hasn't triggered the Law of Convergence to hasten his assimilation by the Celestial Worthy. If that were the Celestial Worthy, he wouldn't act like this. The Celestial Worthy lacks humanity—no matter how flawless the deception, it can't mimic true emotion without a flaw," I, the High-Dimensional Overseer, say to another me on a different timeline. A more human-looking me lounges on my true form's body, stroking his chin.
"Should we test him further? If it's the Celestial Worthy, he could feign an unsuspecting mortal," he counters.
"I say we reveal a fraction of the truth," the me across from Klein interjects. "It's a small piece—even if Klein is the Celestial Worthy, we can retreat safely. The risk is worth what we'll learn."
"Didn't we arrange for Audrey Hall to mention the white moon at the Tarot Club? When that happens, if it's Klein, his spirituality will flare, and he'll trust what we tell him now."
My true form settles the matter.
My lips curve upward as I say slowly to Klein, "That's right, this dish is called 'zongzi.' No, in my hometown, it's not a dish but a staple. Few recognize it, and those who know it use awkward Loen terms for it… Ah, Klein mentioned you studied history, right? No wonder you 'know' this language."
After a hearty meal, the Morettis bid me farewell. Benson's face glows with contentment, pleased by the food and my witty banter. Melissa rubs her full stomach, realizing she overdid it with the zongzi. She burps softly, saying to her brother, "Such delicious food! Wrapping the filling in rice, blending the flavors so perfectly! And it's just boiled, not complex like Desi pie, using rice no less—rice isn't cheap these days… Right, Klein?"
She pokes Klein, lost in thought. Startled, he turns. "Huh? Yeah…"
"Oh, Melissa, I just remembered—I've got something to handle at the company this afternoon. I've got to go!" Klein fumbles an excuse, rushing out. He's determined to uncover the truth about transmigrators and my identity.
"Okay…" Melissa mutters, watching Klein grab his hat and cane and dash out. "Klein's so work-obsessed, even on a rest day… But I guess that's why he landed such a good job."
She slips into a new dress, heading off to a lecture with Selena and Elizabeth. Glancing at Benson, engrossed in a grammar book, she pouts.
Klein hurries down the street, his pace quickening into a jog. Following a hunch, he crosses two streets and spots a familiar carriage parked nearby. Hesitating, he recalls Adrian might be a fellow "transmigrator." The prospect of uncovering secrets about their bizarre crossings fuels his resolve. He approaches the carriage.
"Come in," I say, lifting the carriage curtain and gesturing for Klein to sit beside me. He freezes, shaking off his prepared words. Stepping onto the carriage, he climbs in.
"I've been waiting for you, Klein."
"Ah, sorry," Klein apologizes instinctively. I falter, unsure how to respond, and silence settles. After a moment, I say with a chuckle, "No need to be nervous. This isn't a safe place to talk, though. Mr. Z, head home. Let's start over, Klein. You know why I waited."
The horses trot forward. The weight of my words overwhelms Klein's mind. Forgetting his planned questions, he latches onto a key detail:
Mr. Z!
The driver is the Aurora Order's Mr. Z, mentioned in Sirius's letter! If an Aurora Order envoy is driving, then this "hometown" fellow must be…
A terrifying thought forms. Klein's pupils shrink, instinct urging him to leap from the carriage. But I anticipated this, grabbing his gun-wielding right hand with my left, pulling him back from the curtain. A wall of spirituality snaps up inside the carriage, severing external connections and blocking sound from reaching Mr. Z. As Klein eyes me warily, I smile and extend a hand.
"Let's try this again. I'm surnamed Zhao—call me Zhao Zekai. Klein, you're a 'transmigrator,' aren't you? What was your name before?"
(End of Chapter)