Lord of the Mysteries Chapter 4 - Divination

Retreating to his seat, he heard the tolling of the distant cathedral bells once more. After they sounded seven times, Zhou Mingrui rose to his feet. He moved toward the cupboard to retrieve his attire.

Dressed in a black waistcoat paired with a matching suit, trousers hugging his legs, and sporting a halved top hat, Zhou Mingrui felt as if he had stepped into a play depicting the Victorian era. The subtle scholarly aura he projected only heightened the feeling.

He shook his head with a self-deprecating smirk and muttered quietly, “I’m not heading to a job interview. My only task is to procure ingredients for my luck enhancement ritual...”

Klein’s preoccupation with the impending interview had become reflexive. Whenever his focus slipped, he found himself instinctively wearing his only presentable set of clothes.

With a steadying breath, Zhou Mingrui shed the waistcoat and suit, opting instead for a brownish-yellow coat. He swapped his headgear for a felt hat with a rounded brim in a similar shade.

Once fully dressed, he walked over to his bed and lifted a square cushion. He reached into a hidden gap beneath, fumbling around until he felt an inner lining.

When he pulled his right hand back, he held a stack of bills. There were about eight notes, their surfaces a faded, dusky green.

This represented everything Benson had managed to save, including their living expenses for the next three days. Among them were two five-soli notes, while the rest were single-soli denominations.

Within the Loen Kingdom’s monetary system, the soli was the second-tier currency, originating from ancient silver coinage. One soli was equivalent to twelve copper pence, and it came in notes of one and five.

At the pinnacle of the system stood the gold pound. Though issued as paper notes, they were backed by gold and held a fixed value. One gold pound held the worth of twenty soli, available in denominations of one, five, and ten pounds.

Zhou Mingrui fanned out a note and caught the faint, distinct scent of printer’s ink.

It was the unmistakable smell of wealth.

Perhaps due to Klein’s lingering memories or an innate craving for financial security, Zhou Mingrui felt an immediate, profound affection for these bills.

Zhou Mingrui studied them for nearly a minute before plucking out two single-soli notes. He rolled the remaining money back up and tucked it into the cushion’s secret compartment.

After smoothing out the fabric to hide the opening, he neatly folded the two notes he had kept and slipped them into the left pocket of his brownish-yellow jacket, carefully separating them from the few pence rattling in his trouser pocket.

Finally, he took a key, placed it in his right pocket, grabbed a dark brownish paper bag, and hurried toward the door.

His shuffling footsteps decelerated from a brisk pace until he came to a complete halt.

Zhou Mingrui stood near the door, a frown creasing his brow, though he couldn't pinpoint when it had appeared.

After a moment of deliberation, he turned back, returned to his desk, and pulled open the drawer to retrieve his gleaming brass revolver.

It was the only defensive measure that came to mind—the only piece of equipment with true stopping power.

Even though he had never fired a weapon before, simply brandishing such a revolver would surely intimidate any assailant.

He traced the cold metal of the gun before tucking it into his pocket alongside the money. He kept the bills clutched in his palm, his fingers pressing against the grip of the revolver to ensure it stayed perfectly hidden.

Feeling slightly more secure, he suddenly realized a new source of anxiety despite his broad knowledge.

Overwhelmed by this thought, Zhou Mingrui quickly devised a solution. He pulled out the revolver, popped the cylinder, and rotated the empty chamber—a remnant of the ‘suicide’—to align with the hammer before snapping it shut.

In this way, if a misfire occurred, he would simply click on an ‘empty chamber.’

Stashing the revolver back in his pocket, Zhou Mingrui kept his hand firmly on it.

He adjusted his hat with his right hand, opened the door, and stepped out.

The corridor remained gloomy during the day, with only a sliver of sunlight filtering in from the window at the far end. Zhou Mingrui descended the stairs quickly, exiting the apartment and stepping into the brilliance and heat of the sun.

Though it was nearly July, placing them in the height of summer, Tingen’s location in the northern reaches of the Loen Kingdom gave it a distinct climate. Annual temperatures rarely breached 30°C, and mornings remained brisk. Despite the presence of sewers, the streets were often strewn with junk and stagnant, foul water—a common sight in poorer districts, according to Klein’s memories, driven by the sheer density of people struggling to survive.

“Try our succulent roasted fish!”

“Hot, fresh oyster soup! Drink a bowl to stay energized all day!”

“Port-fresh fish, only five pence each!”

“Muffins and eel soup—a perfect pairing!”

“Conch! Fresh conch!”

“Fresh vegetables from the suburban farms! Cheap and crisp!”

Street hawkers selling produce and hot food bellowed at the hurried pedestrians. Some passersby paused to haggle, while others waved them off irritably, still searching for a day’s work.

Zhou Mingrui inhaled a mix of noxious and savory scents. Clenching the revolver in his left hand, he gripped his money tighter and pressed down on his hat with his right, navigating the crowded thoroughfare with a slight hunch.

Public spaces were natural breeding grounds for thieves. The street was filled with impoverished citizens picking up odd jobs, to say nothing of the starving children pushed into servitude by adults.

He pressed on until the crowds thinned back to a normal density. Standing tall, he lifted his head to scan the street.

A wandering accordion player was busking, the music shifting from melodic to feverish.

Beside him, several children clad in rags swayed to the rhythm, their faces sallow from malnutrition. They danced with improvised steps, their expressions radiant with a joy that made them look as bright as princes or angels.

A woman with a hollow look passed by; her skirt was stained, her complexion dull.

Her eyes lacked focus, yet a faint glint sparked when she glimpsed the children, as if she had caught a fleeting reflection of herself from thirty years ago.

Zhou Mingrui moved past her, turned into another street, and came to a stop at Smyrin’s Bakery.

The owner, Wendy Smyrin, was a woman in her seventies with snow-white hair and an ever-present, genial smile. She had been selling bread and pastries there since the earliest days in Klein’s memory.

Zhou Mingrui swallowed hard and offered a polite smile.

“Mrs. Smyrin, eight pounds of rye bread, please.”

“Oh, dear Klein, where is Benson? Is he still away?” Wendy asked with a soft smile.

“A few more days,” Zhou Mingrui answered vaguely.

Wendy sighed as she gathered the rye bread. “He’s such a hardworking young man. He’ll make a fine husband someday.”

Her lips curved into a playful grin as she added, “Everything is looking up now. You’ve graduated! A history major from Khoy University. You’ll be earning good money before long. You shouldn't settle for your current apartment. At the very minimum, you should have your own bathroom.”

“Mrs. Smyrin, you look particularly vibrant today,” Zhou Mingrui managed with a dry smile.

If Klein successfully cleared his interview and landed a lecturing position at Tingen University, his family’s socioeconomic status would indeed undergo a massive shift!

In his stolen memories, he had often fantasized about renting a suburban bungalow—five or six rooms, two bathrooms, a sprawling balcony, and full dining and living areas, complete with underground storage.

This wasn't merely a flight of fancy. A probationary lecturer at Tingen University earned two gold pounds weekly, rising to three pounds and ten soli after tenure. Considering his brother Benson worked for years to earn only one pound and ten soli weekly—while factory workers struggled to make even a single pound—the potential income was staggering. Renting such a house cost about nineteen soli to one pound and eighteen soli.

“It’s like the difference between earning three thousand yuan and fifteen thousand yuan a month...” Zhou Mingrui mused to himself.

However, that dream hung entirely on passing the interviews at Tingen or Backlund University.

Options were scarce. Without connections, public service was out of reach, and history majors faced limited job markets. Private consulting for aristocrats or industrial titans was hardly reliable.

Given that Klein’s knowledge was fragmented and incomplete, Zhou Mingrui felt a pang of guilt at how much Mrs. Smyrin expected of him.

“Nonsense, I’ve always been this young,” Wendy replied with a chuckle.

As she spoke, she bagged the sixteen half-pound loaves into his brown paper sack. Extending her hand, she said, “Nine pence.”

“Nine pence? Only two days ago it was eleven pence,” Zhou Mingrui noted instinctively.

“You have the protestors who marched for the repeal of the Grain Act to thank,” Wendy said with a shrug.

Zhou Mingrui nodded, though his grasp of the Grain Act’s details from Klein’s memory was hazy. He recalled only that it sought to shield domestic agriculture by halting grain imports from nations like Feynapotter, Masin, and Lenburg when prices dipped too low.

Avoiding further conversation—and fearing he might accidentally reveal the revolver—Zhou Mingrui carefully pulled out his notes and handed one to Mrs. Smyrin.

He received three copper pence in change. Stashing the coins in his pocket, he took his bag of bread and headed for the ‘Lettuce and Meat’ market across the street, determined to secure the ingredients for the mutton and pea stew his sister had requested.

A municipal square sat at the crossing of Iron Cross and Daffodil streets. Tents were scattered everywhere, and clowns in bizarre, colorful outfits handed out fliers.

“A circus performance tomorrow night?” Zhou Mingrui murmured as he caught a glimpse of a flyer held by another passerby.

With that in mind, he drifted closer to the commotion.

Just as he prepared to query a clown whose face was painted in shades of red and yellow, a hoarse, feminine voice reached him from the side.

“Would you care for a divination?”

Zhou Mingrui instinctively turned. A woman in a pointed hat and a sweeping black dress stood before a small tent.

Her face was similarly painted in red and yellow, and her grayish-blue eyes seemed impossibly deep.

“No,” Zhou Mingrui declined, shaking his head. He didn’t have money to waste on fortune-telling.

The woman laughed. “My tarot readings are remarkably precise.”

“Tarot...” Zhou Mingrui froze.

The word was identical to the tarot he knew on Earth—the ancient divination deck used to interpret omens.

He suddenly remembered the history of tarot in this world. It wasn't an ancient tradition or a gift from the gods; it was created 170 years ago by Roselle Gusta, a consul of the Intis Republic.

This Mr. Roselle had invented the steam engine, pioneered modern sailing, overthrown the monarch, and earned the blessing of the God of Craftsmanship before becoming the first consul. Later, he declared himself ‘Emperor Caesar,’ forging a powerful empire that forced the world to its knees.

It was under Roselle’s reign that the Church of Craftsmanship saw its first public revelation, renaming their deity the God of Steam and Machinery. Roselle hadn't just created tarot; he had popularized the card games that felt eerily familiar to Zhou Mingrui, like Upgrade and Texas Poker.

He had even discovered the sea route to the Southern Continent, sparking the colonial era. Yet, he was betrayed in his twilight years, assassinated by a coalition of the Church of the Eternal Blazing Sun and the old nobility, meeting his end in the White Maple Palace.

The sudden flood of historical facts left him momentarily stunned.

Intrigued to see how closely the cards resembled the ones from his home, he looked at the woman and said, “If the... price is reasonable, why not?”

The woman beamed. “Sir, since you are my first client today, the reading is on the house.”