"This type of last request... You can tell something's wrong just by hearing it."
Shade, whose hand was still tightly held by the dying detective, kept his face calm. But deep inside, he understood clearly. This man—this so-called detective—had foreseen his own death. He had taken in a homeless, dim-witted vagrant, offered him shelter, fed him, and was now leaving behind all his possessions in exchange for what seemed like a "simple" request.
A request that obviously wasn't simple at all.
Perhaps the man in front of him wasn't just a detective. And Shade—who now possessed this body—wasn't the same simple-minded person from before. Even if he had once been unaware, the person inside this body now fully understood: getting involved in something that sounded wrong from the start was rarely wise. But...
"If you refuse," the detective's voice turned hoarse yet harsh, "I promise you, once I die, you'll get nothing. Not a penny, not this house, not a single scrap of food. You'll return to the streets, no gas lamps, no fireplace, no three meals a day. You'll be back where I found you—a useless beggar."
Shade understood. He had no choice. In this unfamiliar world, he had nothing. Compared to the certainty of starving in the streets, accepting a dangerous inheritance—even a cursed one—was the better option. Neither was good. But one was clearly worse.
Besides, he'd already been dragged into this. He was here. He had heard the words. There was no stepping back now.
He knew when to surrender to reality.
"Still... is this Mr. Sparrow Hamilton's death tied to the supernatural? Is it somehow connected to the voice in my head?"
As soon as he wondered this, that familiar voice echoed in his mind:
[Related. He died because of a 'Relic'. But that has nothing to do with you.]
Calm, elegant, as always. Even in so few words, the voice seemed to be whispering poetry.
"Relic?"
It was a proper noun—spoken in that old, mysterious language the woman used. In that language, one word carried more meaning than entire sentences. "Relic" contained layers: "sealed object", "contained object", "cursed object".
He felt a chill.
"Special objects... containing extraordinary power, yet extremely dangerous."
It wasn't a comforting revelation.
"So... who are you?" he asked silently.
[I am you.]
The voice's answer was soft, like a breeze against his soul. But Shade sneered internally. He was certain: this body was male, but the voice in his mind was not. And whatever that voice was—it wasn't the body's original owner.
The bedside lamp's warm glow illuminated the wrinkled, lifeless skin of the man in bed. And Shade, calming himself, said softly:
"I understand, sir."
"Shade, I have ten minutes left." The detective's voice was fragile. "If you have questions, ask them now."
Shade nodded silently. This was his chance. Each answer was a clue to survival.
"My death... doesn't seem natural."
He deliberately slowed his speech, maintaining the persona of the simple-minded vagrant. His first question was practical: would the detective's death implicate him?
"We never discussed this before, I know you worried. Don't worry now. My death might frighten you, but it won't involve you. You just need to finish the task I mentioned. I promise, the one who killed me will not return. After all... we're just ordinary people. We're not worth their attention."
The answer was clear enough.
"Ordinary... people?" Shade hesitated.
"You don't need to know." The detective's hollow gaze grew heavy. "I barely understand it myself. ringbornes... Mystics using the four elements: [Miracle], [Enlightenment], [Blasphemy], [Whispering]... the five Orthodox Churches... the three Thaumaturgy Academies... forget I said anything. Just remember this: you know nothing."
He said it with unsettling certainty.
"I understand. I know nothing."
But Shade silently memorized the terms.
"Ringbornes" seemed to be this world's term for supernaturally empowered individuals. The four elements were likely the foundational classifications of mystical powers. The Orthodox Church and the Thaumaturgy Academies were probably the dominant factions controlling the supernatural.
This detective—this ordinary man—knew far too much.
But Shade didn't press further. He knew how to listen. Better to let the detective speak willingly.
"After you die... how am I supposed to live? I don't know even how to be a detective."
Even though time was short, Shade kept his speech slow, as if struggling to form sentences. The implanted language knowledge wasn't enough to let him speak naturally yet.
"It doesn't matter," the detective wheezed. "Just follow what I taught you. Stay here for three months. Then sell everything. Go live in the countryside... it's cheaper there. You'll survive."
His voice grew weaker.
But Shade had no memories of what the original owner had been taught. He sought help from the voice in his head—but silence answered him.
"Is there anything else I should know?"
This was his third question. He asked carefully, ensuring it sounded natural.
"Remember what I taught you... look at the memo. Do the simple commissions to keep the agency open. And... the card... in the diary..."
The detective weakly pointed to the head of the bed, finally releasing Shade's wrist.
He found the diary: brown leather, sealed with a magnetic clasp, well cared for.
He tried to hand it to Hamilton, but the latter shook his head faintly.
So he opened it himself.
Each page was marked with dates. Some pages had simple entries like "Nothing to do today, savings low." Other pages recorded client requests.
Midway through, something stiff was wedged between pages.
A card.
Shade carefully removed it. It felt as though it had been coated with a clear wax seal to protect it.
The card was thin, almost translucent under the gaslight.
The back showed an abstract pattern of sun, moon, and stars intertwined. The front depicted a woman sitting sideways on a high stool. She held a crescent moon. Her silver hair shimmered faintly, and a faint smile curved her profile.
The color scheme was limited—white, black, and cold tones.
In the upper right corner, a number: 3.
In the upper left: a small sun symbol.
A black line bisected the center of the card within a white circle.
At the bottom, under the woman's image, a line of small text read:
[When using this card, the number can be adjusted within the range of 1 to 5]
The card was old but well preserved.
He could read the words instinctively, though he couldn't explain why.
[Why can I understand everything I read, but can't speak their language?]
"This one?" he asked softly.
"A valuable card," Hamilton whispered. "From the standard 54-card deck. This one is Sun Suit, Number 3. A special issue. Rare design. Collectible. Keep it safe. Never let it get wet. Never fold it. Don't show it to anyone unless necessary. If you're desperate, take it to the Birmingham Collectors in Tobesk. They'll know its worth."
Hamilton's voice faded.
"That card... is my most valuable possession."
Shade nodded silently.
A collectible, then. Something akin to commemorative coins or stamps. He carefully replaced the card inside the diary.
"Is there anything else?"Shade asked, more softly now.
Hamilton looked at him.
"Shade..."
For the first time, his eyes softened.
"I know I was never a good person. I'm sorry for involving you in all this. After three months, leave Tobesk. The capital isn't safe for you."
He coughed weakly.
"But... if you understand... you'll see I did the right thing. Taking you out of that life."
His breathing grew shallow.
"Your brain isn't good. Don't trust people easily, especially anyone asking you to pay a price."
His voice cracked.
"I've arranged a grave at the Tobesk public cemetery. The corpse handlers will come soon. You don't need to follow them. Stay here. Live as I taught you. Three months."
He looked at Shade, no longer as a master, but almost like a father:
"And Shade.... I'm sorry.
Good luck."
And then, Sparrow Hamilton let go of Shade's hand.
And he spoke no more.