Chapter Twelve: It’s Only Natural for Treasure Chests to Have Guardians

The next day, Klein went to Hoy University to cancel his interview. There, he ran into Mr. Azek, a history instructor who had often helped the original Klein.

Mr. Azek was a middle-aged gentleman of average build with a bronzed complexion. His features were gentle, clean-shaven, and just below his right ear was a small, barely noticeable black mole.

Azek’s demeanor immediately conveyed a cultured and knowledgeable scholar of history. During their casual conversation, Klein casually mentioned terms like “Solomon Empire” and “Antigonus Family,” hoping to gauge the instructor’s insights.

At this point, Klein was still unaware of Azek’s true identity and had no clear understanding of angels.

Azek answered every question Klein posed, though unfortunately, his memory was incomplete. Regarding Klein’s curiosity, Azek could only respond with vague acknowledgments like “seems familiar” or “ringing a bell.”

After a friendly chat, Azek left with another faculty member to attend a meeting. Klein doffed his hat in farewell, watching them depart before leisurely heading home alone.

Because Klein was a gentleman who always wore a top hat.

Walking home, cane in hand, basking in the sunlight, Klein unfolded a copy of the “Tingen Morning Herald.” He strolled while reading, boldly unafraid of bumping into anything.

Though, at that moment, there were no utility poles.

“Bang.”

He collided with one.

“Why would there be utility poles in this era?” Klein looked up to see no wires overhead, only two gas lamps hanging from the pole.

He rubbed his head, realizing there were no utility poles here, only street lamps.

Dodging the lamp post, Klein resumed reading.

Tingen’s newspapers were plentiful—morning editions, evening editions, and “The Honest Man’s Gazette,” among many others. The content ranged from genuine news to fabrications, making it hard to discern fact from fiction. Especially since Emperor Rossell had introduced sensationalist headlines and shock literature, the papers were often chaotic.

Klein skipped most articles and found a recent report on a home invasion murder. The official tone summarized that the victim’s emotions were currently stable, with no extreme behavior. The police’s judgment was uncontested by the victim’s condition, and the situation remained under control.

The reporter was John Browning—a name that suggested a promising future as a firearms designer.

As Klein walked along a tree-lined path, reading, he suddenly felt a sharp prickling sensation on his back, as if dozens of tiny needles were poking him. The timid Klein’s fur bristled instinctively, sensing he was being watched.

Someone was spying on him.

Feigning calm, he boarded a public horse-drawn carriage and, after some hesitation, decided to head to Champagne Street.

Upon disembarking, he pretended nothing was amiss, cane in hand, newspaper in the other, and leisurely bypassed Zotland Street to turn into Red Moon Street. Nonchalantly, he entered Saint Selena’s Church.

The great king of whistleblowers was about to confront the authorities.

“If you’ve got the guts, come on in,” he gestured challengingly.

Once inside, the watchful gaze that had followed him vanished. Klein remained composed, looking for a seat near the open prayer hall.

Scanning the room, his eyes met a pair of amber ones.

“That’s the woman I met yesterday,” Klein thought. “Perhaps she’s also a follower of the Night Goddess?”

He withdrew his gaze and found an empty seat near the aisle. Sitting down, he placed his top hat and newspaper on his lap, clasped his hands, and rested his forehead against them.

Congratulations to Top Hat and Newspaper for achieving:

“Mr. Fool’s Lap Pillow.”

Elsewhere, the person named Klein by Hoshimi looked away and withdrew her gaze. Bowing her head slightly, her eyes sparkled with an indescribable light.

Many believed Hoshimi was not very smart; in truth, she simply disliked thinking too hard. At this moment, without an external brain, her internal CPU was running at high speed.

Seris had once said the scholarly young man named Klein was the protagonist of this world. Hoshimi had read novels and understood what it meant to be the main character. Her previous bickering with Seris was merely to tease him. At least, that’s what she thought… probably.

Now that the protagonist had entered this church, there was no doubt: there had to be a treasure chest here!

Isn’t that common knowledge? The protagonist must be accompanied by a treasure chest.

Originally curious about the building’s height, she had come inside to check the map, only to be pleasantly surprised.

Her fiery gaze swept the area quickly, spotting only a few suitcases. She felt somewhat disappointed; treasure chests belonging to the protagonist could not be opened. Himeko had warned her of that many times.

So she turned her attention to a trash bin in the church corner.

True to the Night Church’s style, even the trash bin was adorned with starlight in such a sacred place. The chandelier’s light overhead draped the bin in a delicate veil.

Hoshimi was utterly convinced: “This is an interactable option.”

She planned to check out that enticing trash bin once the mass ended.

Why wasn’t she going now?

What a joke.

“Even children know that during a story event, you can’t control the protagonist’s subjective actions,” Hoshimi declared with righteous confidence.

A perfect answer indeed, worthy of a Pinocconi shareholder.

The sermon ended quickly. The bishop opened the door to the confessional chamber, and a line of gentlemen and ladies formed outside.

Klein reopened his eyes, donned his top hat, took up his cane and newspaper, stood, and joined the orderly queue. After more than twenty minutes, it was finally his turn.

Stepping inside, he closed the door behind him. Before closing it fully, he glanced back and saw the amber-eyed woman speaking with a nun.

This confirmed his suspicion that she was a follower of the Night Goddess. If she wasn’t, what else could she be discussing with a nun?

It certainly wouldn’t be the trash bin next to them.

Klein chuckled at his own thought and shut the door. Darkness enveloped him again.

“Please, madam, don’t do this,” the middle-aged nun said gently, her eyes filled with pity.

Such a young woman suffering from hysteria—what a pity.

Yet Hoshimi was earnest, seriously explaining her theory to the nun.

“Sister, look, it’s glowing. That means it’s inviting me. As a gentleman, I cannot refuse its invitation.”

“That’s just reflected light, child,” the nun replied, her tone even softer, unconsciously shifting to a more affectionate form of address.

What a good child—she even called me sister, the nun thought.

Seeing that the nun was impervious to her words, Hoshimi sighed and turned to leave. Not understanding the beauty of the trash bin was the nun’s loss, not hers. She could only sigh inwardly.

She understood that treasure chests were always guarded by monsters, and that nun was undoubtedly one of them. But Grandfather Hoshimi was kind-hearted and unwilling to strike her. After all, the nun was just another unfortunate soul blinded by society’s widespread misconceptions. Why should one unfortunate person make things harder for another?

A nun of such age still guarding a treasure chest—what a pity.