Since he was sleeping in a strange place. Shade woke up unusually early the next morning. He reached for the pocket watch beside the bed—it was 6:30. Thinking he might find a newspaper waiting downstairs, he decided to check. He knew that people in Tobesk generally had the habit of subscribing to morning papers.
The former detective, Sparrow Hamilton, could be considered middle class, and his line of work would have required keeping up with the news. So, it was entirely possible that Shade had inherited the subscription along with the house.
Wearing slippers, he descended to the first-floor foyer, casting a curious glance at the sealed door leading to the ground floor. He thought idly that if he found time, he could pry off some of those wooden boards and look inside.
He lit the gas lamp in the foyer, but disappointingly, there was no newspaper slipped through the delivery slot onto the mat at the door.
Shaking his head, he turned to head back upstairs to change before going out for breakfast. But just as his slippers touched the first step, he heard a bell chime.
There was a simple bell system attached to the apartment door: a rope outside, when pulled, triggered a gear mechanism that rang the bell inside.
"Newspaper delivery?" He frowned. "No... why would they ring? Could it be time to pay for the next month's subscription?"
Anxiously, he considered his dwindling money. But realistically, whoever was outside wouldn't know him. It was unlikely anyone had come to collect money. More likely, someone was looking for the owner.
"Maybe a client?"
Or, worse, the landlord.
Without a peephole to check, Shade could only approach the door and, using the common language now mysteriously clear in his mind, asked cautiously:
"Who is it?"
A familiar voice answered:
"Is this the Hamilton Detective Agency? I'm Bill Schneider. Remember me? The psychiatrist—you took my card yesterday at the newspaper office opposite the Lark Club."
In the foggy morning, one of the few people who even knew his name had come to visit.
Shade stood frozen behind the door, unsure whether to open it. But his hesitation lasted only seconds—Dr. Schneider, perceptive as ever, spoke calmly from outside:
"Mr. Hamilton, there's no need to hesitate. Yes, it's unusual to visit at this hour, but I mean no harm. Time is short, that's all. Please—look at this first."
Something slid through the newspaper slot.
"Remember what I said yesterday? Higher education, correspondence learning. Detective, you have a special talent."
Shade crouched down and picked up the piece of paper. Adjusting the gas lamp slightly to improve the light, he looked at the sheet in his hand—and blinked, thinking he was still half-asleep.
It was about the size of an A4 page, styled like parchment, its borders outlined in silver. At the top was a school badge: a book locked in chains. Below it, block text filled the page.
It was a recruitment brochure.
For an institution called St. Byrence Comprehensive College.
But not for ordinary students. It was a school that took correspondence adult students.
The eleven departments of the college were listed clearly. Tuition fees, enrollment times, academic structure, conditions, and even the referral process were detailed—all in plain, formal language.
At first glance, it seemed like a normal school.
Except—
"Why isn't there a school address?"
Shade finally asked aloud, startled he wasn't questioning whether the man outside was insane for delivering college brochures at dawn.
From outside, Dr. Schneider chuckled.
"You're very observant," he said. "Now, at least let me inside to explain? I might even be able to help you... with the other voice in your head."
The voice in Shade's head did not react at being mentioned. After a moment's hesitation, he opened the door.
Dr. Schneider stood outside, holding a briefcase. Dressed in a brown coat and silk cap, thick black boots on his feet, he looked just as elegant as yesterday. His neat mustache and clear blue eyes gave him an approachable, trustworthy air.
"Don't forget your milk."
He pointed to the milk crate beside the door, his accent that of a native Tobesk citizen.
"The milkman left just before I arrived."
"Ah... Thank you. Please, come in."
Shade nodded awkwardly, unlocking the milk crate while Schneider stepped inside. After retrieving the milk bottle, Shade led the psychiatrist upstairs to the second-floor apartment.
Schneider paused briefly, noting the sealed first floor, but said nothing.
Once upstairs in Room 1, Shade excused himself to change clothes, then boiled water for tea. There was no food in the apartment, but he did at least have black tea—important for serving a guest. He wouldn't have wanted to offer plain water.
When everything was ready, they sat down across from each other in the living room.
The old fabric sofa set—two long sofas and two short ones arranged around a wooden coffee table—was worn but functional. It had clearly been used for clients before.
Schneider spoke first, accepting the tea with a polite nod.
"No need for introductions. I need you to trust me."
He sipped the tea, smiling.
"First, about the brochure. But before that, let me describe your current condition."
"Wait." Shade interrupted. "Are my symptoms... related to the school?"
He was already guessing the answer. This "St. Byrence Comprehensive College" was likely the equivalent of a magical academy.
"Of course they are," Schneider replied. "Listen carefully, Mr. Shade Hamilton. Tell me—can you hear another voice in your head?"
Despite trying to control his expression, Shade knew the doctor saw through him. Schneider's smile confirmed it.
"That voice," the doctor continued gently, "does it sometimes say strange things? Does it help you, guide you, whisper when you least expect it? But without any real malice?"
Shade hesitated... then nodded.
"And these symptoms began within the last seventy-two hours, correct?"
"Twenty-four hours, to be precise," Shade admitted.
"Even better," Schneider smiled. "That means we still have plenty of time. You're lucky. Very lucky. An awakening lasts seventy-two hours, so I've got time to explain."
He leaned forward slightly.
"Now listen carefully. Your symptoms resemble schizophrenia... but they're not."
Pointing to himself, his blue eyes calm, Schneider spoke slowly:
"For certain people, having an 'other voice' in your mind is a sign of something else—a gift. A dangerous gift. Or, perhaps, a curse. If properly guided, it's the early manifestation of a talent. If left unchecked..."
"It fades?" Shade guessed. "And I go back to being ordinary?"
Schneider shook his head.
"No. Worse."
His voice lowered slightly.
"I won't lie to you. Not now. What you're experiencing is the early sign of a rare talent—'ringborne'. You can think of it as a profession. A special one. One that grants you... mystical powers. I hope you understand what I mean."
He watched Shade closely. In this era, most people rejected anything related to "witchcraft" or the supernatural. But Schneider knew—his investigation had told him—that Shade was different. Just days ago, Shade had been a man with a broken mind, and now, due to talent awakening, he was restored. His mindset wasn't that of an ordinary citizen.
And indeed, Shade didn't panic. He nodded slowly. He thought about pretending to be shocked—it was what a normal person might do—but his mind felt strangely calm. Too calm. Perhaps the stress of yesterday had dulled his reactions.
"So... the voice in my head is like... a system? A manifestation of some power structure?" he asked thoughtfully. "Some people see things... I hear things. Different talents?"
Schneider smiled.
"Exactly. 'I am you and you are me.' Every ringborne is like this. If you successfully become one, that voice will stay with you for life. It's part of you—another perspective. It will help you see this noisy, chaotic world for what it truly is: a world of secrets, of dangers, of knowledge that can twist reality itself. Words carry power. Information carries danger. Beyond the safe little world ordinary people live in, we can't approach these things without the protection of our souls."
He paused, giving Shade time to think.
"But listen carefully. The window for awakening as a ringborne is short. From the first whisper to the last, it's usually less than seventy-two hours. Not everyone even realizes what's happening. Some mistake the voice for ear trouble, or hallucinations, and miss their chance entirely."
He met Shade's gaze.
"That's why talent recruitment is so difficult—for both the three great colleges and the churches. People like you are rare, Mr. Hamilton. And that's why I said... we're lucky."