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The room was silent, save for the ticking of a distant old looking mechanical wall clock.
Zhou Mingrui—no, Klein Moretti laid on the bottom half of the shared bunk bed, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling. Specks of crimson moonlight peeked through the curtain, illuminating the previously blood stained desk.
He had excused himself early, offering a quiet excuse about not feeling well. He felt his sister's eyes narrow in suspicion, stabbing at his back as he walked away.
He brought up his index and thumb to his temples, gently rubbing circles to help ease his anxiety and tension. The bed beneath him, the name “Klein Moretti.” It didn’t feel real, not even now. He wasn’t sure it ever would. Was he still himself? Still Zhou Mingrui? Even now, fragments of the original Klein Moretti’s past drifted through his thoughts like dust in a sunbeam, fleeting, weightless and impossible to catch, merging with his own. Probably not .. He lampooned.
His mind was no longer that of Zhou Mingrui, nor was it that of Klein Moretti.
What was intended to be a ritual of fortune, ended up into one of misfortune, with Zhou Mingrui being transmigrated into the body of a dead man. Their memories had collided, forging a new identity, one that felt both foreign and familiar. No... no, I’m Zhou Mingrui. I may have Klein’s memories, but I’m still me.
He shook his head, dismissing his thoughts, as he began pondering how he ended up here. It was undoubtedly tied to the luck ritual. Yet, when he had attempted to recreate it, he found himself thrusted into a magnificent and ancient palace, seemingly belonging to giants, surrounded by boundless grayish white fog, unknowingly pulling two others alongside him. As Klein recalled this, he couldn’t help but let out a self-deprecating comment, “Ah, yes… The first thing I do in this world—pretend to be some all-powerful existence…” He mumbled.
Klein pushed the thoughts aside. Though the ritual had failed to bring him back, it revealed valuable and interesting information about this world. It was nothing like Earth, appearing more like a steampunk fantasy realm. His curiosity was piqued by those so called Beyonders and their abilities. It seemed highly likely a high-ranking Beyonder was responsible for bringing him here, likely through the luck ritual. He quickly devised a plan: he would consume Beyonder potions while searching for a way back home, advancing until he achieved the power to find and take care of the one who sent him here.
Sparks of resolve stirred within him, but it was no match for the weight of exhaustion that dragged him down. With a deep sigh, Klein pulled the blanket closer, shutting his eyes and allowing exhaustion to wash over his body. He let himself slip away, the alluring pull of sleep too strong to resist.
And he dreamt.
He dreamt of towering buildings glowing under the soft shimmers of city lights, their reflections dancing in puddles left by the evening rain. The streets were alive but calm, bathed in the quiet hum of late-night traffic, the distant chatter of pedestrians, the faint buzz of neon signs written in familiar characters. Lanterns swayed gently in the night breeze, casting warm halos of red and gold onto the pavement.
He dreamt of the enticing scent of grilled skewers and freshly steamed buns.
He dreamt of the soft glow of a dimly lit dining room, familiar faces gently smiling at him from across a cluttered table. Home-cooked dishes sat steaming in the centre: Mapo tofu, egg rolls, rich fresh from the pot. Warmth blossomed in his chest as the sounds of laughter, the clatter of chopsticks and friendly banter echoed in his ears. A rough but familiar hand grabbed his, and pulled him onto a worn out chair. For a moment, wonder filled his eyes, then gave way to a soft, almost trembling but gentle smile. The amber glow of the evening sunlight spilled across his face, turning his eyes a glimmering gold. A bashful grin broke through the haze of longing, faint blush dusting his cheeks. He lifted his chopsticks and melted into the comforting rhythm of familiar voices.
Klein sat still on the empty sofa of his recently bought apartment, absentmindedly twirling a gold coin between his fingers, its rigid edges smooth beneath his touch. He tossed the coin lightly in the air, watching sunlight reflecting off before catching and pocketing it. His fingers brushed the pound notes in his pocket, and Klein couldn’t help but lampoon the pitiful amount.
He lifted his gaze, eyes wandering around the apartment—one that he had bought for 25 pounds, enough to cover half a year's rent. After everything that unfolded in Tingen, with Megose and Ince Zangwill, Klein had made his way to Backlund, the Land of Hope, the City of Cities, seeking to advance farther and avenge both himself and Captain.
With his original identity of Klein Moretti presumed dead, Klein had shed it completely, adapting a new persona, “Sherlock Moriarty.”
With no source of income and a savings account that was rapidly depleting, Klein had taken up the role of a private detective. It wasn’t merely just for the money but also because it was the easiest way to make ends meet, providing him a network of connections that could prove to be useful both in the present and future.
It’s fortunate Emperor Roselle didn't plagiarise Sherlock Holmes, or else I’d be explaining myself out of a deep hole… Klein lampooned inwardly, a wry smile crossing his face.
He reclined against the couch, eyes drifting toward the open window. Outside, the wind whispered through the leaves, birds flitted past the window, and faraway voices rose and fell. It did little to lift the mood. Left alone with his thoughts again, he found them—as always, circling back to the Megose incident. The world had moved on, indifferent, but Klein hadn’t forgotten. He hadn’t been in this world for long—barely a month. Yet the Nighthawk’s, and his siblings had left a mark and long lasting impressions on him. Their influences lingered, shaping bits of his choices. Once again, he had lost his home.
“Heh… I didn’t even have time to say goodbye…”
Klein let out a bitter chuckle.
His thoughts wandered to the ones that were responsible—Lavenus and Ince Zangwill, the two names echoed like curses. Anger surged through his veins, hot and unrelenting, tightening in his chest as his fists curled. Lanevus may have sparked the chain of events, but it was Ince Zangwill who hid behind the curtains and pulled the strings, orchestrating his and Captain’s deaths. Rage coiled beneath his skin slithering throughout his body like a snake. The corner of his lips twitched, Klein used his abilities as a Clown to soothe the twitching of his lips and stiffness in his limbs. He took in a deep and long breath to cool down.
Once his anger subsided, Klein refocused. He leaned forward, mentally laying out his plans and objectives for Backlund. His priorities in Backlund were clear: Continue raising his Beyonder Sequence and track down the shadows cast by Lanevus and Ince Zangwill.
Klein wasn’t stupid. He knew full well that Ince Zangwill was a Sequence 4 demigod. On the one hand, as things currently stood, a mere Sequence 8, like himself, had no chance at standing up against him. Taking him on now would be equivalent to suicide. On the other hand, Lavenus was a more realistic target, only a Sequence 8, Swindler, even if Lavenus had some sort of Mystical Item, with his low Sequence, Klein didn’t worry too much. Even so, remaining cautious was vital. Afterall, Ince Zangwill wielded 0-08, a Grade 0 Sealed Artefact with terrifying abilities, just thinking about it made Klein shudder. If 0-08 were to lock onto him. If “It” were to realise he had lived, Ince Zangwill might target Melissa and Benson. He couldn’t allow that to happen, no matter what.
With his plans drawn and thoughts concluded, Klein let out a long, quiet sigh. He needed some air. Dusting off imaginary dust from his clothes, Klein stood and headed outside. The sun was covered by great grey clouds, with Backlund’s air pollution giving the late morning streets of Cherwood Borough a dense and dull feeling. The air here in Backlund really isn’t as fresh as Tingen’s, he mused inwardly.
He wandered, letting his legs take him wherever they pleased. And somewhere, between one corner and another, memories began creeping in. A soft smile crept onto his face. He remembered the small things: To cards shared under dim lights in the Blackthorn Security Company, fieldwork that felt more like play. To laughter around the dining table with Melissa and Benson, the casual bickering over Benson’s receding hairline.
Klein chuckled quietly, the sound light and fleeting, slipping into the fog of the street. A few people turned to stare curiously but he ignored them. The smile that followed didn’t last, it dimmed at the edges as a bittersweet memory rose to the surface, one of a promise never kept. They were meant to go see a circus show together. He still remembered Melissa’s surprisingly excitement about it. Now all he could see was their blank, distinct expressions as he stood before them dressed in a clown’s attire and makeup. Not as their brother, just a stranger in painted skin, offering a flower. He sighed and offered himself a half-hearted smile. Somewhere within, the potion pulse, digesting just a little bit more—almost mockingly.
Above the boundless grey fog, in a palace vast enough to house giants, silence lingered like mist, curling between shadows and stillness.
At the centre of the divine palace, beneath the cover of twinkling stars and endless grey mist, there was a long mottled bronze table surrounded by 22 high back chairs. The Fool, Klein, rested on the seat of honour, his posture composed and gaze casted downwards, as if surveying the world below. The Tarot Club meeting had ended moments ago, yet it felt as if the members had never existed, ghosts swallowed by the fog, leaving no trace behind. He had a leg draped over the other as he rested his weight on one hand, fingers drumming a mindless rhythm on the armrest of the regal throne.
His lips pressed into a thin line, his gaze lowered, adrift in thoughts that came too easily these days. He caught himself again, wandering. He’s been zoning out more often than not. He gave a dry laugh, unsure whether to label it as depression or not.
His thoughts lingered on the events of the recent Tarot Club meeting—particularly Emperor Roselle’s diary entries and The Hermit, Cattleya’s, question. A quiet sigh slipped through his lips as two familiar characters surfaced in his mind.
故乡, gùxiāng.
“When combined together, they mean home, the homeland for one’s soul…”
He murmured the sentence again, his eyes stung faintly, the world going soft at its edges. A dull ache bloomed in his chest, followed by a torrent of emotions that surged like a tsunami. Longing. Sorrow. Anger. A tender kind of yearning, laced with helplessness.
Longing—oh, how much he longed for home. It crept between his ribs, slithered through his chest, and curled itself around his mind like a serpent, before sinking its teeth into his heart. The yearning was sharp and cold, twisting around his lungs, choking his breath. Klein clutched at his chest, as though trying to dig out the pain by hand. Each breath came sharply at first, scratching at his throat. He breathed slowly and deep. Taking a long inhale. Then another. With each inhale and exhale, Klein slowly felt the tension loosen in his limbs, untangling the knots in his body.
Lampooning to himself, Klein murmured under his breath, “Looks like I’ll have to trouble Miss Justice for another treatment…” He sighed, more in resignation than of stress.
Now that he’d calmed down, Klein turned his mind towards Emperor Roselle. That guy was truly something else. Eccentric, full of knowledge yet often lacking wisdom, as his junior, Klein decided not to criticise him too much. He had read countless diary entries, yet this was the first time he got a genuine glimpse of the Emperor’s feelings towards home. The content of previous entries had him assuming that the Emperor hadn’t had the desire to return home. It was the first time seeing his longing for home. As someone who had also been torn from their home, Klein understood it all too well. There really is no place like home…
To his surprise, a quiet relief settled in Klein’s chest. It didn’t erase the pain, but it softened its edges. There was comfort, as strange as it was. A strange kind of solace, knowing another soul, across space and time, had lived through the same life as his. Knowing it was real---his life, his reality wasn’t an illusion, gave Klein a rare, fleeting calm.
Klein Moretti and Roselle Gustav bore the same burden, carried the same truth. Two unsuspecting souls dragged through worlds, both burdened with memories they couldn’t share, homes they couldn’t return to.
Not wishing to linger on such matters any longer, Klein straightened, letting his hand fall from his cheek as he uncrossed his legs. Raising unhurriedly, Klein paused for a moment before descending through the grey fog, leaving the mysterious place above the grey fog and returning to the real world.
One step.
Two steps.
Three steps.
Each retreating footfall echoed in Klein’s mind louder than the last. His third step faltered as disbelief dawned in his widening eyes, breath catching in his throat as cold dread laced down his spine. A hush falling over his mind, like the moment before a scream.
Before him stood a door of light, shimmering, tainted by a bluish-black brilliance. It was formed by countless overlapping spheres of light, each harbouring writhing maggots that squirmed in pulsing unease.
It was the same grotesque vision he had glimpsed at when peering at himself through Enzo, a Beyonder of the Fate Pathway.
But it wasn’t the door of light that made his skin crawl.
Dangling above it were countless thin black threads that spilled down from nothingness. At their ends hung translucent cocoons—suspended like offerings, or prisoners held in stasis, almost as if waiting for something… or someone.
Something in Klein twisted.
Cocoons…
These cocoon-like structures hung above the door of spherical light like grotesque stars in a mockery of the night sky, swaying gently in a stillness that felt oppressive and suffocating. Their presence was imposing, wrong in all the ways that gnawed at the mind. They wove around different souls—souls whose appearances that Klein recognised all too well. Ones that did not belong to this world.
Through his peripheral vision, Klein noticed three cocoons that differed from the rest. They were open, void of any content, empty husks left behind by those within, like butterflies freed from silk prisons. Klein’s mind briefly linked the notion that two of the vacant cocoons could be linked with himself and Emperor Roselle. As for the third, it remained blank. The question had already dissolved before it could take form, his mind too occupied to entertain speculation.
He narrowed his focus to the souls encased within the cocoons. There were some of African and Latin descent, others of Asian and Caucasians.
Some wore jackets he might’ve seen on a train. Others held phones as if expecting a message. They looked just like people one would pass by when walking down streets. They gave off the impression of the living yet, their eyes remained eerily shut.
For a fleeting second, Klein felt as if he had returned to Earth—back home again, surrounded by everything he’d lost. A speck of warmth bloomed in his chest. But that warmth was a lie. The illusion shattered instantly, dissolving like a dream at dawn before he could grasp it. The weight of reality settling in its place.
He went still, mind shattering, spiralling into instability. And suddenly his thoughts were no longer his own, scattered and slipping beyond his grasp.
Klein collapsed, legs giving way under the sheer pressure building in his skull and chest, the echo of impact lost in the roar flooding in his ears. A sickening dread crept beneath his skin like oil, thick and unshakable. Sorrow bloomed like rot in its wake, heavy and putrid.
He clutched at his shirt just above his heart, feeling the fabric crumple like dry leaves beneath his trembling fingers as they dug into the fabric like a lifeline. His other hand gripped his hair, trembling, nails scraping against his scalp as if trying to rip the pain out by force. His skull throbbed beneath his palm, a rhythmic pulse of nausea and static. It was like peeling back a mask only to find there was nothing beneath. The horror wasn’t just in what he saw, but in the knowledge sinking deep in his marrow; he didn’t know what was real and what was fake anymore.
His chest ached, a cold ache, not like a wound, but like his very essence was fracturing. The pain wasn’t sharp—it was hollow. An empty, echoing kind of pain that bloomed in the cavity of his chest and spilled outwards in waves. As if something was trying to tear him apart from the inside—like his soul had been wretched loose and stuffed into a too-small shell.
His breath hitched, catching sharp in his throat. The world flickered, dimming into a haze of grey—colourless and soundless. His ribs felt like hollow twigs ready to snap, each inhale slicing through him like glass shards. Something in his throat curled upward. A cry. A gasp. He didn’t know. He only knew he couldn’t get it out.
Klein’s mouth opened in a silent scream, but no sound escaped, just an empty gape, like a puppet with no voice.
His eyes were wild—unfocused, blown wide in panic.
Was it all a lie?
My life…
Everything I held dear…
Were they just figments!?
My friends…
My parents…
Oh my parents…
A dream?
Was Earth just a dream I’ve been forced to wake up from..?
The thought made bile rise in his throat. The silence above the grey fog felt suddenly louder than any scream. The stillness was unbearable.
No.
No, he couldn’t think like this. He wouldn’t.
Klein shut his eyes tight, forcing his spiralling thoughts to the farthest corners of his mind.
Bury them. Ignore them. Forget them. Just for now.
There was only one question that truly mattered at the moment, one that pulsed through every corner of his heart with painful clarity:
Can I ever go back home?
He didn’t know.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
Klein’s heartbeat thrashed against his palm like a trapped bird, frantic and afraid. It pounded loudly, drowning everything else. It filled his ears, his throat, deep into his skull. Klein sat frozen, his fingers digging tighter into his shirt, the fabric twisting and wrinkling as if it might tear.
A wild urge clawed at his brain—to dig his hands inside and tear his heart out, just to make it stop.
The hand tangled in his hair slid downward, nails scraping against his skin. Red lines bloomed under his fingertips as he dragged them down his face. Sharp and stinging.
He pressed his nails against his arms and face, the sensation unbearable.
Such a reaction was foreign to him. Wrong. Despite all the horrors he had witnessed, despite the blood on his hands and the knowledge festering in his mind, Klein still recoiled from self-harm. No matter how far he’d fallen into this world of madness, something inside him resisted the idea of bringing harm to himself. Perhaps to cling and maintain his humanity.
As the thought took root, a sickening sensation overtook Klein.
His skin began to bubble and melt, his cheeks sagging as if the very flesh was slipping from his bones. His flesh trembled, as small twitching flesh tendrils beneath the surface lashed out. Granules erupted along his face—brittle and unnatural, like sand crusted in rot, oozing fat, squirming maggots. Pale things drenched in sticky, crimson blood that dragged trails of slime across his jaw.
A tight pressure coiled in his throat. He gagged—then coughed. He felt those same writhing maggots, slick with mucus and chunks of torn flesh, spilling from his mouth, landing in wet, repulsive splatters.
Klein quickly recognised the tell-tale signs of losing control. He forced himself to loosen his iron grip on his arms, fingers trembling as they fell away. Drawing in a shaky breath, Klein stirred up the powers of the mysterious place above the grey fog to deal with the drawbacks. The flesh tendrils retreated back into his skin as the spilling of squirming maggots stopped. The frenzy dulled, horror fading into the background. Slowly, Klein steadied himself.
Having regained some measure of calm, Klein slowly rose to his feet. His movements were slow, almost mechanical, as he absently brushed off the dust and remnants of squirming maggots that clung to his crumpled and wrinkled clothes.
Once finished, he lifted his gaze to stare at the cocoons once more. They hung silently, swaying as before. His face was devoid of emotion, blank, unreadable, like still water that hid the turmoil within.
Time seemed to pass him by, but he remained rooted in place, staring with eyes that didn’t blink, expression neither shifting nor betraying the chaos churning within him.
Evening sunlight spilled over the world like honey, turning the streets to molten gold. Dust motes danced lazily in the warm light, and the air buzzed with the low hum of the settling day.
An arm draped around his shoulders, tugging him closer with playful insistence. The owner was chattering animatedly—distant, blurred at the edges, like a song half-remembered; about something, probably nonsense. He rolled his eyes, but the corner of his lips curled upwards all the same. With a grunt of exaggerated annoyance, he shrugged the arm off.
“Yeah, yeah, get off me,” he said, firing back a dry remark.
“Hey! Come on, Mingrui! Don’t be like that”
He let out a breath that might have been a laugh or sigh. His eyes flicker to the golden light.
Soft rays of sunlight spilled through the wide windows, casting a warm haze over the bustling restaurant. Laughter and the clatter of plates and chopsticks echoed gently, layered with the distant hum of cars passing by outside.
He sat at a rectangular table surrounded by familiar faces, their voices blurring into one another, fragments of conversation drifting by like leaves in the wind.
His gaze lingered on his chopsticks, idly shifting his food around without focus. The light danced faintly on the glossy tabletop. His eyes looked glassy, far away, as though staring through the moment.
“Rui–-...”
“Zhou—-..”
“Mingrui!”
The sudden sharpness of his name cut through the gentle haze. He blinked, startled, and lifted his head, glancing around. The room felt just a little too bright, the colours a little too vivid. A few nearby diners had turned their heads to look toward the sound. His cheeks flushed with faint embarrassment as he cleared his throat.
“Sorry, what were we talking about again?”
Concerned expressions surrounded him. One of them tilted their head, frowning slightly.
“You okay? You seem kind of… out of it.”
He smiled sheepishly, waving his hand in dismissal. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just zoned out for a bit.”
The silence that followed stretched a bit too long before someone finally nodded, almost reluctantly. “Alright… if you say so.”
He reached into his pocket, fingers brushing against lint and receipts before finally curling around cool metal. The keys clinked softly in his hands, the sound oddly crisp against the still air. He slid one into the lock, twisted the knob, and nudged the door open with familiar ease.
A warm light poured into the narrow hallway as he stepped inside. The scent of something savoury greeted him, soft and comforting, like a half-forgotten memory. Closing the door behind him, he slipped off his shoes and placed them neatly to the side. His voice rang out throughout the house, clear and casual.
“Māma, bàba, I’m home!
From the kitchen, a middle-aged woman turned from the stove, apron tied neatly around her waist. She looked over with a gentle smile. “Mingrui! You’re home quite early today,” she said, wiping her hands on a towel as she came closer.
He stepped forward to hug her, the embrace lingering just a second longer than usual. “There wasn’t as much work today. I got off early.”
In the dining room, another voice joined in, steady and warm.
“Hmm, that’s good. You’ve been coming home too late these days. It’s good to rest.”
The voice belonged to a middle-aged man seated at the round table, a newspaper in hand. He didn’t look up, but the corners of his mouth were lifted in contentment.
He moved towards the table and began setting down dishes alongside his mother, the clatter of porcelain echoing faintly. He sat down with a sigh, half-smiling.
“Well it’s not like I’m the one choosing.”
His mother placed the last of the food on the table and joined them. Chopsticks clicked, food was passed, and conversation drifted easily between bites, their smiles brighter than real life.
Sunlight spilled in through the window, casting its golden glow over everything. It made the room feel warmer than it should have.
The night was calm, the sky dusted with stars. Crickets sang their lullaby, distant and muffled like sound underwater. Moonlight spilled in through the curtains of a modest bedroom, painting silver streaks across the floor.
In the heart of the room lay a child, sleeping peacefully on a neatly made bed. Standing at his side was a young couple, smiling tenderly.
The woman knelt down, brushing a few strands of hair from the child’s forehead before pressing a gentle kiss there. Beside her, the man ran a hand through the boy’s hair, movement precise and deliberate. The man chuckled quietly before gently pulling the blanket up, his hand resting briefly on the child’s head. They smiled, but something about their faces was distinct. Faded. Like old photographs.
The woman’s fingers brushed against the child’s cheek. Then she pulled away, before slowly standing up.
Together, they made their way to the door, casting one last loving glance back.
The light clicked off, and the room was bathed in silver moonlight once more.
“Goodnight,” they whispered. But it sounded more like a goodbye…
Klein woke with a jolt, a sharp awareness settling over him as he sensed the familiar but unwelcome sensation of someone invading his dream. There was a brief ache in his chest, a quiet sorrow, followed quickly by irritation at yet another interrupted rest.
He dealt with the matter swiftly and without fanfare.
Once it was over, he exhaled slowly, fingers pressing against his temples as lampooned.
“Do I ever get a full night’s sleep anymore…?”
His voice was dry, laced with both annoyance and weary resignation. He gave a small shake of his head, unable to stop his thoughts from drifting back to the dream.
Home.
A sore spot, even now for him. He hadn’t fully recovered from the last time.
A frustrated groan escaped him as he let himself fall back against the mattress. One arm rose lazily to cover his eyes, the back of his hand pressing against his face, shielding his eyes from the world.
A self-deprecating laugh tumbled out of him—quiet, bitter, and frayed at the edges, teetering somewhere between sorrow and madness.
“Ha…”
Then silence.
His smile faded, replaced by a deep frown. Without thinking, he whispered to the empty room.
“I want to go home…”