In the afternoon, Bertram’s lawyer arrived at 13 Milford Street, drafting an agreement that both Bertram and Siles signed.
The profit-sharing transfer agreement was clear and precise. This profit share had originally been gifted to Bertram by another merchant, and now Bertram transferred it to Siles.
Siles noticed the name of the food company: Grayson.
He paused, finding the name familiar, then recalled it was the new butcher shop at Logan Market. Days ago, its low meat prices had sparked a small dispute.
So, that butcher shop was under this company?
Siles felt a sense of serendipitous coincidence. Without overthinking, he signed the agreement.
The future profits of this venture were uncertain, but Siles felt like a modestly wealthy man, sparking slight excitement.
After signing, Bertram personally refunded the rent Siles had paid.
He added, “If you have time or need a place to stay, you’re welcome back anytime.”
Siles thanked him, but the mention of “housing” made him smile wryly.
He never imagined that after leaving 13 Milford Street, the next tenant in the easternmost second-floor room would be a doctor—possibly the very doctor who would draw the heretic.
If the die in his mind hadn’t stirred, Siles might have dismissed it as coincidence. But it rattled when he heard of the doctor, just as it had for Merchant Lamir.
That doctor was also a character card from the tabletop game Siles played.
Of course, character cards aside, Siles knew well that in this world, these figures were no longer mere cards but real, living people.
This plunged Siles into greater conflict.
He knew the doctor would be killed by the heretic after their encounter.
…Should Siles do something to prevent the doctor’s death? Should he report the heretic?
Distracted, Siles even wrote a concept incorrectly while preparing lessons, realizing he couldn’t avoid these matters or pretend ignorance.
He stared at the die beside the ink bottle on his desk.
It remained quiet, silent, as if its presence meant nothing. But Siles knew it signified much.
…It meant there was a secret behind his transmigration.
Siles took a deep breath, set down his quill, and resolved to visit the Church of the Past’s cathedral later.
This decision eased his mind.
He continued lesson planning and packing for the move. His efficiency was good; he’d likely complete some course content before classes began.
All of Friday, he immersed himself in preparation.
On Friday morning, he went to Logan Market to buy ingredients.
Passing Grayson’s butcher shop, he considered supporting the company. But its low prices drew a crowd, and Siles, unwilling to queue, left.
On Saturday morning, Siles woke early, dressed, ate breakfast, and took a private carriage to the Church of the Past’s Central Cathedral.
Siles arrived just past eight. A public carriage would have delayed him by two hours. Private carriages were pricier, though.
The cathedral’s first impression—at least for Siles, a visitor from another world—echoed the Historical Society’s ancient, weighty, eclectic style.
Its graceful spires, against the gradually clearing sky, formed a breathtakingly sharp arc.
It was Saturday, a rest day, so many came for morning prayers. When Siles arrived, people had dispersed, leaving an empty hall, chairs, and a massive statue at the front.
A Church of the Past cleric was wiping the statue’s base.
The cathedral’s interior wasn’t ornate but carried a comforting weightiness. This heavy, time-laden atmosphere emanated from every rustic stone brick and the slightly murky light through stained glass windows.
Entering felt like stepping into past ages—the Church of the Past, Siles thought. A name neither aggressive nor profound.
As if the church itself emerged from bygone times, weathered, calm, and composed. A fleeting glance from endless time, it might evoke awe or be ignored by the indifferent.
Siles quietly took two steps forward, gazing up at Antinam’s statue.
Antinam had wavy long hair, an ambiguous figure—neither clearly male nor female, old nor young. The lifelike statue perfectly captured the god’s aloof, noble demeanor.
Antinam’s eyes stared ahead, as if piercing history’s mists, seeing past and future. His expression held an indefinable pity—or perhaps coldness—as if always looking down on humanity.
Over centuries in the Mist Era, only this god sheltered humanity, wielding the world’s sole great power. Yet, His church treated humans and their nations leniently, like its casual name.
This, to Siles, was somewhat troubling.
Beyond the original body’s memories, the tabletop game’s setting often gave Siles a vague sense of familiarity and estrangement.
The game mentioned this god of the past and history, but in this real world, Siles struggled to view it through the game’s lens.
Text… versus real life. Siles felt caught between reality and illusion.
“Good morning, sir.”
The cleric, done wiping the statue’s base, approached quietly, his calm, friendly face tinged with slight curiosity.
Siles snapped back, paused, then said, “Good morning. I think… I may have seen that… wanted heretic recently.”
The cleric paused, his face turning serious. “Where, sir?”
“The Old City,” Siles said dryly. “Near Logan Market.”
He couldn’t say he knew the heretic would later seek a doctor moving into 13 Milford Street—would that make him a prophet?—so he said this.
The cleric gave Siles a stern look, then said, “Please follow me, sir.”
Siles took a deep breath, knowing his action was risky. But he couldn’t ignore a death he foresaw, nor could he bear to do nothing despite knowing.
He wasn’t selfless. He didn’t refuse Bertram Fain’s reward. But he wasn’t selfish either.
Siles followed the cleric through a side door in the cathedral’s nave to the back hall.
“Siles Noel,” Siles answered.
As he said his name, he keenly noticed the cleric’s slight surprise, as if the name stirred some odd ripple in his mind.
He seemed about to say something but only said lightly, “Mr. Noel.”
Siles frowned slightly, glancing at the cleric.
A man of indeterminate age, his hair was graying, but his face remained youthful, his build robust. In ordinary clerical robes, his brown eyes were calm, open, as if seasoned by time yet inclusive.
Siles asked, “How should I address you?”
“Grovner,” the cleric said humbly. “A follower of my god.”
This introduction gave Siles a subtle, elusive feeling.
But… Siles—both now and before—though never at Lamifa’s cathedral, knew Grovner was the Central Cathedral’s bishop.
…So, this was Bishop Grovner?
Siles suddenly felt his actions today were a bit too reckless… trouble.
Before he could sort it out, Grovner led him through the back hall’s corridor and summoned a young man dressed as a knight.
To the young man, he said, “Banyan, we have news of Hamlin.”
The knight, named Banyan, his deep blue eyes lighting up.
Siles, hearing the dice rattle in his mind, kept a calm face but inwardly groaned—Church Knight Commander Banyan! Another character card in place.
Siles sighed almost imperceptibly.
After handing Siles to Banyan, Grovner gave a slight smile. “Mr. Noel, please share the details with Banyan. I must pray to my god.”
Siles nodded, bidding farewell, unable to suppress an odd feeling. The bishop’s attitude seemed… overly friendly?
Unsure of Grovner’s true character, this doubt flickered briefly without causing more ripples.
Siles turned to Banyan.
Faint sunlight streamed through stained glass, the cathedral’s air always carrying slight dust. Now, that light and dust seemed to blur Banyan’s face.
The young, renowned Church Knight Commander had a handsome face. In the tabletop game, the player using his card, a young woman, often marveled at his exceptional “appearance” stat.
With deep blue eyes and bright golden hair, clad in knight’s armor, he looked even more dashing and heroic.
Looking at Siles, trusting Grovner’s word, Banyan regarded him with friendliness and expectation. “Mr. Noel, you have news about Hamlin?”
Siles nodded, about to speak, when the dice rattled in his mind, followed by a voice.
【Secret Keeper, Banyan (Church Knight Commander) requires a psychology check.】