Chapter Fifteen: The Level of the Relic

Even from across half the room, Shade could sense the danger emanating from the young man’s drowsy hands. It was as if the box he held was out of place in this world, carrying an aura that could wither all living things. This was an Artifact. After seeing it this once, Shade was certain he would never mistake it again.

The doctor surveyed the room and continued:

“Artifacts can be tangible objects, but they can also be events, or even simply a piece of information or a phrase. The Orthodox Church classifies Artifacts into levels, a system also recognized and accepted by the Academy. There are five levels—

Poet Level (Level 5): The information can be passed down by poets as songs or stories, but is generally regarded as mere folklore or rumors. The standard benchmark Artifact is the ‘Poet Cohen’s Manuscript.’

Scribe Level (Level 4): These Artifacts require detailed documentation and must be sealed. The information is only allowed to exist on paper and cannot be easily disseminated. The standard benchmark is the ‘Unknown’s Thesis.’

Secret Keeper Level (Level 3): Secret Keepers undergo strict training to guard the information of a particular Artifact. Unless under special circumstances, such objects must be contained and used with extreme caution. The standard benchmark is the ‘Eye of the Secret Keeper.’

Sage Level (Level 2): Only great sages may know the information and containment status of these Artifacts. If any such Artifact is found uncontained, according to protocol, the Academy and the Orthodox Church must immediately notify each other. The standard benchmark is the ‘Sage’s Stone.’

Angel Level (Level 1): Extremely dangerous. The arrival of an evil god and the loss of control over an Angel-level Artifact are generally regarded as events of equal severity. I am only a fifth-year correspondence student and will only learn the characteristics and containment methods of such Artifacts at the next level. The standard benchmark is the ‘Heart of the Fallen Angel.’”

“What is a standard benchmark Artifact?” Shade asked.

“It is a reference used when classifying Artifacts. If the danger surpasses that of the benchmark, the Artifact is immediately elevated to the next level.”

Shade nodded in understanding. Yet, since even the highest Angel level had a benchmark Artifact, it seemed to imply... He refrained from asking, likely because Dr. Schneider himself did not know.

Lowering his voice, almost holding his breath, he asked quietly: “Then, what are we facing this time...?”

“A Poet-level (Level 5) Artifact. I have already investigated—it is the ‘Life Countdown Pocket Watch.’

Yes, the item inside that box over there. Even I dare not touch it directly. When held, the watch allows its bearer to rotate it within a certain range. Pointing the watch face toward any living being and rotating it will impose a ‘life countdown’ status on that being, proportional to the rotation angle. The shorter the countdown, the more flesh and blood is required—hence why Spyro Hamilton had such a long time.”

The doctor instructed Shade to wait by the door. Stepping carefully through the blood-muddied floor, he entered the room and took the box containing the Artifact. Only after returning to Shade’s side did he open it, cautioning Shade to concentrate and not be affected by the Artifact’s power.

With a flick of his wrist, the box opened, immediately releasing a more intense scent of blood. Inside was a container filled with blood.

Pouring out the blood, the silver pocket watch fell into Dr. Schneider’s hand.

The doctor did not open the watch cover. Shade could only see that both sides of the watch were engraved with grim skulls. Around the edge of the cover was a ring of runic writing, unfamiliar but readable by Shade, confirming once again that he could comprehend all the writing of this otherworld:

“The price of life is the secret of flesh and blood.”

At that moment, Shade even tasted the metallic sting of blood in his mouth, as if he had just bitten into raw meat... He retched, though having not eaten breakfast, there was little to vomit. The doctor quickly returned the watch to its box and packed it into his portable case.

“This is the thing that killed Detective Spyro?” Shade muttered after a long moment of composure.

After all, the detective had lifted the original owner from a life of vagrancy and left him his entire inheritance. Shade was glad to avenge him.

“Yes, it’s this. Those caught in the countdown know their lifespan but cannot reveal it to anyone, or they will die instantly. Although this Artifact, born in the Fifth Age, is dangerous to ordinary people, ring sorcerers have many ways to negate its effects, so it is only classified as the lowest Poet level.

The life countdown effect is suppressed by various ‘Miracles’ and ‘Insights,’ so its danger is limited—it counts as an ordinary Poet-level Artifact. Unfortunately, Mr. Spyro Hamilton was just an ordinary man.”

Dr. Schneider shook his head regretfully.

“I began investigating this Artifact months ago. That’s why, in one evening, I could figure out your situation. But there were too many victims. Though I saved a few, I could not reach Detective Spyro Hamilton in time. It seems he died on the morning of our meeting—a real pity.”

What followed was straightforward. They searched nearby rooms. The psychologist used ring sorcery techniques to dispel the illusions caused by the Poet-level Artifact, found all the bodies and debris piles, and confirmed they had the right culprit.

When Shade refused to kill, the doctor ended the life of Bayard Morod directly from a dream state—a process that took only a second in Shade’s eyes.

Having done all this, they left together. Earlier that morning, when visiting Shade, the doctor wrote an anonymous letter, which was delivered through special channels at noon to the Valder Square in Tobesk City—the Tobesk City Police Department. Soon after, the police would discover the scene, attracting the Orthodox Church’s attention.

“This area falls under the jurisdiction of the Sun God’s church. They act swiftly, so we must leave quickly.”

The doctor joked as they climbed into the waiting carriage, but Shade had little mood to respond. Though a stranger here with no attachments, witnessing such bloodshed left him uneasy.

It deepened his understanding of this world’s cruelty and strangeness.

They returned to the city and dined at a goose restaurant in Tobesk’s eastern district. Of course, the doctor paid. Shade ate little; the images from the second floor of the sanatorium earlier would haunt him for some time.

Next, they arrived at the doctor’s psychological clinic, located on Rentgen Avenue in Tobesk’s wealthy eastern district. Though not as bustling as the Saint Delran Square city center, the neighborhood was elegant.

Bill Schneider’s clinic was flanked by an antique shop on one side and a high-end tobacco store on the other. The clinic had three floors—two for medical practice, the third for the doctor’s residence.

The clinic was large. Besides Dr. Schneider, five hired doctors worked there, along with receptionists, cleaners, and a tea attendant—a very professional establishment.

The doctor invited Shade to rest in the second-floor consultation room, reserved for important patients. Only after the servant brought tea did their conversation resume.

More than a reception room, it resembled a study. The curved walls were lined with deep brown bookshelves packed with leather-bound volumes. The grand desk stood on a red carpet, and even the pens in the holder spoke of the owner’s wealth.

The sofa and tea table were less formal than a detective agency’s office but, with homey tea sets, created a welcoming atmosphere that encouraged guests to relax and share troubles and secrets.

“How do you feel after all this?” the doctor asked naturally, reclining in a single leather chair with his right hand on the armrest and fingers touching his chin.

Shade sat on a fabric sofa—the usual seat for Dr. Schneider’s “patients.”

“I’m grateful to you.”

“For helping to resolve your hidden troubles?”

“Yes,” Shade answered, though his worries persisted.

This trip was solely to avenge Detective Spyro, which showed that Spyro’s death was tied to his detective commission and unrelated to the mission he entrusted to Shade. In other words, Shade still did not know what secrets Spyro Hamilton held.

The current theory was that Spyro had a mysterious identity beyond detective work. Due to an accident involving a detective case, he had to find someone to temporarily replace him. Most likely, that secret identity had nothing to do with the supernatural; otherwise, the detective would not have foreseen his death but been powerless to save himself.

Of course, Shade saw no need to explain this to Dr. Bill Schneider. Though their morning together had built a basic trust, Shade had not entirely let down his guard.